The moon hung like a silver medallion over the grand expanse of Miracheneous Academy, casting its ethereal glow upon the ancient domes and cybernetic spires that stretched toward the heavens. A hush had fallen over the academy, save for the occasional rustling of nocturnal creatures and the distant murmur of night patrols.
Inside his dimly lit chamber, Aleeman Hakiman, the wolf of Abjannas, sat hunched over his polished mahogany desk, eyes narrowing at the mountainous stack of books before him.
The tomes were thick, their pages brimming with dense scriptures of political warfare, strategy, and diplomacy—texts revered by rulers and tacticians alike. The grand chronicles of Mehmed II, Sultan Alibek's war manuscripts, and the encrypted records of the Orphanius campaign lay open before him, their intricate scripts staring mockingly back at him.
His fingers traced the aged parchment, absorbing every line of wisdom, yet… nothing seemed to penetrate his mind.
It was like trying to sieve sand with bare hands.
Aleeman sighed, ruffling his tousled dark locks, leaning back against his chair.
He glanced at the world map pinned to his wall, his eyes falling upon the name that had burned itself into his very soul—Orphanius.
The unconquered city. The heart of Halmosian. The land that held the key to dominion.
His father, Orhan Bey, had once spoken of it with a mix of reverence and frustration:
"Whoever conquers Orphanius shall not only rule Halmosian, but shall command the fate of the multiverse itself. Its walls stand impenetrable, its people fiercely loyal. Many have tried—none have succeeded."
And yet…
Aleeman wanted it. Needed it. Hungered for it.
The vision of riding through Orphanius' golden gates, his banner soaring high against the sun-drenched sky, sent a thrilling shiver down his spine. He could almost hear the chants of his warriors, feel the weight of the yataghan at his waist, smell the smoke of fallen empires in the air.
He clenched his fists.
Focus, you fool. Study first, conquer later.
Shaking his head, he forced his gaze back to the books—only for his concentration to crumble into dust once again.
His mind, like a wayward stallion, refused to be tamed.
His eyes began drooping, the weight of exhaustion clawing at him like a restless beast.
"No. No sleeping. Study."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaled deeply, and prepared to dive back into his texts—
—when suddenly, a sound drifted through his window.
A sharp, rhythmic swish. The sound of steel slicing through the night air.
Aleeman's brow furrowed.
Instinct kicked in. He rose from his chair, moved to his window with the silence of a prowling predator, and peered outside.
His gaze landed upon the open training field, bathed in moonlight's silver embrace. And there—moving like a wraith of fire and shadow—was her.
Her raven-black hair cascaded down her bare shoulders, untamed yet graceful, like the flowing mane of a celestial beast. She was half-dressed—clad only in tight crimson trousers and a black chest wrap that bound her torso, revealing the sculpted contours of her midsection, a polished riverstone of flesh adorned with the infamous gemstone at her navel.
But it was not her attire that commanded his gaze.
It was her movements.
Like the serpentine rivers of the East, she moved in unbroken fluidity, her dao carving luminous arcs through the night, reflecting the moon's glow like a blade dipped in liquid silver.
She was poetry in motion—each step calculated, yet effortless; each stroke powerful, yet delicate.
Aleeman stood frozen, mesmerised.
"By the heavens…"
His heart gave a single, traitorous thump.
He should look away. He knew he should. But his body refused to obey.
Her dao spun in a seamless whirl, shifting from an offensive stance to a defensive one, her breath perfectly controlled, her focus unwavering.
And for the briefest moment—just as she pivoted—her eyes lifted, as though sensing something.
Aleeman's instincts roared.
Move. Now.
In the blink of an eye, he swiftly ducked back into his room, pressing himself against the wall like a guilty trespasser.
His pulse pounded against his ribs, an unfamiliar heat creeping up his neck.
He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaled through his nostrils, and muttered beneath his breath:
"I saw nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his temples with his fingers and forced himself back to his desk.
His eyes drifted to his books.
The Art of War? No, too complicated.
Diplomatic Tactics? Ugh, maybe later.
His gaze flickered back to the world map, then to the open window where the rhythmic swish of steel against air continued.
He groaned, slamming the book shut.
Now, not only could he not focus on his studies, but his mind had decided to brand itself with the image of a certain Gemstone Bellied Troublemaker, dancing with steel beneath the moon.
Aleeman dropped his forehead onto the desk with a soft thud.
"At this rate, I'll never conquer Orphanius…"
Beneath the sombre glow of lanterns, the Ji-Gong Palace stood in an eerie silence, its ancient corridors woven with whispers of forgotten history and the weight of imperial pride. The breeze carried the scent of aged wood and jasmine incense, a stark contrast to the looming tension that had seeped into the very foundations of the palace.
Inside one of the grandest quarters, the chamber of Liu Zhenbao exuded the essence of both tradition and modernity, a marriage of the old and the futuristic.
The walls bore intricate carvings of celestial dragons, gilded in gold, while holographic panels displayed live reports of Ji-Gong's military operations, their neon-blue glow flickering against the ornate lattice windows. An automated incense burner released waves of fragrant mist, carrying the lingering aroma of sandalwood and sage.
In the centre of the room, an elevated wooden platform held his low-set bed, draped in dark silk embroidered with phoenix motifs, the symbol of his imperial lineage. By the side, a weapon rack stood proud, displaying his personal arsenal of dao blades, each forged in the sacred fires of Ji-Gong's ancestral foundries.
The dim lighting from cybernetic lanterns cast an ambient glow, illuminating Liu Zhenbao's tense expression as he reclined against a cushioned armchair, sipping a fine liquor from a jade cup.
His mind was a battlefield.
Wei Yang Hong.
His so-called brother. Or rather, the curse-ridden disgrace who now bore the name Shi Zhao Mei.
A part of him raged at the thought, his blood boiling with shame. Yet, another part of him—one he refused to acknowledge—felt a strange pull, a curiosity he dared not name.
Just then—
A knock at the door.
Liu Zhenbao's brow furrowed.
"At this hour?"
His fingers tightened around the jade cup, his instincts prickling with unease.
Was it an assassin? A spy? Or worse—one of the Emperor's hounds come to deliver more ill news?
He rose from his chair with measured grace, adjusting his midnight-blue robe, and approached the door.
As it slid open with a soft hiss, the sight that greeted him was unexpected.
Standing before him, draped in her battle-worn yet elegant robes of deep crimson and obsidian, was General Xuè Lián—the woman known as Ji-Gong's fiercest blade, the Twin Crimson Blades – Xuefang & Luoyan resting at her hips like silent reapers.
Her long, jet-black hair was tied into a half-knot, stray strands falling across her sharp, unreadable expression.
Liu Zhenbao exhaled, crossing his arms.
"Xuè Lián? You arrive unannounced at an ungodly hour. Is there an invasion I should be concerned about?"
Xuè Lián stepped inside without waiting for permission, her footsteps as quiet as a wraith's.
"I need to speak with you. Urgently."
Liu Zhenbao arched a brow.
"Urgent? You sound like an imperial edict. What is it?"
She turned to him, her crimson eyes reflecting the flickering lantern glow, her tone low and measured.
"It's about Wei Yang Hong… and Aleeman Hakiman."
At the mention of those names, Liu Zhenbao's calm exterior cracked.
His fists curled, his lips twisting into a sneer, a fire of contempt igniting in his gaze.
"Ah, yes. The disgrace and his foreign protector—the wolf of Abjannas."
He let out a dry, humourless chuckle, pouring himself another drink.
"I assume the Emperor has finally decided to end that embarrassment?"
He took a slow sip, then added with a venomous smirk:
"Good. He should. Because of him, our clan teeters on the brink of ruin. Because of his cursed existence, our name is being dragged through the mud. And now, with the Wolf of Abjannas at his side?!"
His grip tightened around the jade cup, a crack forming along its surface.
"A prince who became a woman—who now plays warrior under the banner of a foreign commander? Tell me, Xuè Lián, does this not sound like the opening chapter of a tragedy?!"
Xuè Lián's jaw tightened, her composure unwavering.
"That foreign commander let you live, did he not?"
Silence.
Liu Zhenbao's expression faltered, his grip slackening.
His mind reeled back to that moment—the night when Aleeman held him hostage, dragging him through the imperial halls of Ji-Gong, only to release him unharmed.
He could have killed him.
Yet, he didn't.
Instead, Aleeman had merely smirked, his eyes glinting with a silent challenge, before vanishing into the night.
Liu Zhenbao scoffed, regaining his composure.
"A fool's mercy. Nothing more."
Xuè Lián's gaze hardened.
"And what if I told you that Wei Yang Hong… has feelings for you?"
Liu Zhenbao froze.
For a moment, his mind went utterly blank.
Then, in the most sarcastic, mocking, and utterly disbelieving tone, he burst into laughter.
"Feelings?!"
He doubled over, gripping his stomach, his laughter echoing off the lacquered walls.
"Oh, heavens above, that is rich! The fallen prince—who now parades as a woman—harbours feelings for me?!"
He wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye, shaking his head.
"Xuè Lián, I admire your ability to deliver comedy with a straight face."
But as he glanced at her again, his laughter stopped abruptly.
She was not amused.
Her jaw clenched, her fingers twitching toward her blades, her calm expression barely restraining an oncoming storm.
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
A terrifying smile ghosted her lips.
"I see…" she murmured.
Liu Zhenbao swallowed.
His instincts screamed danger.
"Now, now, General—surely you wouldn't draw steel against me?" he said, taking a slow step back.
She said nothing.
But her fingers brushed against the hilts of her Twin Crimson Blades – Xuefang & Luoyan.
Liu Zhenbao felt sweat bead at the back of his neck.
"Alright, alright! I won't mock it any further!" he raised his hands in surrender, flashing a nervous grin.
Xuè Lián exhaled, releasing her grip.
"Good."
She turned to leave, pausing only to say:
"Whether you believe it or not, the truth remains unchanged. Your brother—now sister—still holds a place for you in her heart. What you choose to do with that knowledge… is up to you."
With that, she disappeared into the corridors, leaving Liu Zhenbao standing in stunned silence.
For the first time that night, he had no sarcastic retort.
The morning sun bathed the academy in golden hues, casting long shadows across the vast auditorium where the echoes of past battles still lingered. The once-ravaged walls—battered by the tempestuous duel between Aleeman and Shi Zhao Mei—had been repaired, their cracks and gaping wounds plastered over, now pristine and unblemished.
Standing before them, arms folded, eyes scrutinising the craftsmanship, was Aleeman Hakiman.
He traced his fingers along the smooth surface, his expression unreadable, as if searching for the remnants of the chaos he and Shi Zhao Mei had carved into this place.
Then, with a soft scoff, he murmured under his breath:
"Repaired in a day? Either they possess divine hands or they've truly mastered the art of sweeping disasters under a rug."
A sudden voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
At the centre of the auditorium, atop an elevated marble platform, stood Professor Galadriel—the enigmatic scholar of combat and arcane warfare.
Before her, a sea of students stood gathered, anticipation crackling in the air like a brewing storm.
Her piercing emerald gaze swept across them, her robes flowing like liquid midnight as she addressed the crowd.
"Today, we shall embark upon yet another trial. A test to measure your strength, your wit, and your ability to survive in the face of an enemy unlike any you have fought before."
A ripple of murmurs swept through the students.
Among them stood John Wei-Tang, his usual arrogant smirk twisting his lips, flanked by his lackeys—Robert Jison and George Ringtone.
On the other side, Celeste Marlowe and her entourage—Genevieve Whitmore, Cassandra Vaudette, and Isolde Renfield—stood poised, their expressions flickering between curiosity and mild apprehension.
Meanwhile, Hua-Jing, Mei-Xi-Li, Mika Yamana, Elizabeth Feng, Finn, and Wang Ji-Pang listened intently, their expressions ranging from focused to intrigued.
But the most intriguing reaction of all?
Shi Zhao Mei.
She stood tall yet composed, her arms folded as she arched a single delicate brow, eyes brimming with curiosity.
"Another challenge? Interesting."
Professor Galadriel lifted her hand, and with a single flick of her fingers—a deafening metallic stomp echoed through the auditorium.
The very ground trembled beneath their feet as the source of the noise revealed itself.
Emerging from the shadowed archways was a towering automaton—a construct of polished brass and steel, powered by an intricate web of gears and glowing etheric runes.
Its massive frame pulsed with raw energy, its eyes burning with an eerie cyan luminescence.
In one hand, it wielded a colossal axe, its edge gleaming like liquid fire. In the other, it brandished a spiked iron ball attached to a heavy chain, the sheer weight of it causing the air to groan with every motion.
A hush fell over the crowd.
John Wei-Tang's smirk twitched.
Celeste's usual haughty demeanour faltered.
Wang Ji-Pang whistled under his breath.
Even Finn, ever the unshaken sharpshooter, muttered:
"Well… that's one way to start the morning."
Professor Galadriel's voice cut through the tension.
"Each of you will enter the battle arena one by one. The rules are simple—defeat the Arcane Titan, or be defeated."
The murmurs exploded into a cacophony of concern and excitement.
Professor Galadriel's gaze flickered to the roster in her hand.
"First up… Robert Jison."
A nervous chuckle left Robert's lips as he swaggered forward, attempting to mask his fear behind a feigned bravado.
"Tch! It's just a hunk of metal. I'll smash it into scrap!"
With a snap of Galadriel's fingers, a transparent combat barrier formed around the arena—a shimmering cage of pulsating energy, ensuring the fight remained contained.
The moment the barrier locked into place, the Arcane Titan surged forward with the force of an earthquake, its axe swinging in a deadly arc.
Robert barely had time to summon his ability, his hands igniting in a flickering blaze of infernal energy.
With a yell, he lunged forward, flames erupting from his palms as he aimed to strike the Titan's metallic frame.
His attack barely left a scorch mark.
A horrifying realisation dawned upon him.
The Titan's core absorbed the heat, its runic circuits glowing brighter—feeding off his flames.
"Oh, sh—"
Before he could react, the Titan swung its spiked ball, striking him across the chest with the force of a battering ram.
A sickening crack echoed as Robert was flung like a ragdoll, smashing into the arena walls.
Blood trickled from his lips, his limbs twitching as the combat barrier flickered off.
Silence.
Then—
"HAHAHAHAHA!"
The first to laugh was none other than John Wei-Tang, his voice dripping with amusement.
"Oh, Robert! I thought you were going to 'smash it into scrap'!"
Even Celeste Marlowe let out a snicker, covering her mouth delicately as if watching an amusing theatre play.
Robert, coughing, glared at them.
"Shut… up."
Galadriel's voice rang out again.
"George Ringtone. You're next."
George paled.
"C-Can I pass?"
Professor Galadriel simply arched a brow.
"You may. But remember, the trials are a reflection of your strength. If you refuse, you concede your weakness."
With a deep breath, George gritted his teeth and stepped forward.
The cage formed once more, locking him in.
The Titan's head turned, its cyan eyes fixating on its new prey.
George unsheathed a pair of electro-blades, the crackling energy coursing through the steel.
"Alright, you oversized tin can. Let's dance!"
The Titan let out a mechanical growl, raising its axe—the battle resumed. As Gregore use his ultimate power at the moment which causes explosion as automata becomes destroy and he gets slam by the cage as he got bruises all over it.
The arena thrummed with energy, the transparent combat barrier shimmering with pulsating etheric waves, containing the metallic behemoth within its unyielding confines. The fallen forms of Robert Jison and George Ringtone lay outside the barrier, battered, bruised, and humiliated, their previous arrogance reduced to nothing more than a pitiful lesson in overestimation.
And yet, standing at the forefront, poised as though he had already claimed victory, was John Wei-Tang.
His trademark smirk twisted across his lips, a glint of misplaced confidence dancing in his eyes. With an exaggerated sigh, he rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck from side to side before flicking his coat behind him with a flourish.
"Hmph. So, this is the so-called Arcane Titan? How tragic that I must waste my time with such an unrefined lump of scrap."
The murmurs in the crowd grew louder.
Celeste Marlowe, standing amongst her entourage, arched a delicate brow, while Genevieve Whitmore and Cassandra Vaudette exchanged amused glances.
"He's acting as if he's already won," Mika Yamana muttered under her breath.
Finn scoffed, leaning lazily against his rifle.
"The bigger the mouth, the harder the fall."
Aleeman, watching from the sidelines, remained silent, his keen eyes analysing John's stance—an obvious show of bravado masking an ego too large for its own good.
At the very centre of the arena, the Arcane Titan loomed, its cyan-lit eyes fixating on its next adversary, its heavy axe resting against its colossal shoulder, awaiting the signal to commence battle.
Professor Galadriel's voice rang out, cutting through the murmurs like a dagger through silk.
"John Wei-Tang. Your trial begins now."
With a mere snap of her fingers, the Titan lurched forward, its metal joints grinding as steam hissed from its core, signalling the start of the fight.
John merely chuckled, his arms still crossed, his posture untouched by tension.
With a flick of his wrist, a shimmering golden spear materialised in his grasp, crackling with an ethereal fire that pulsed in tandem with his heartbeat.
"Allow me to educate you all," he declared dramatically, his voice carrying across the auditorium.
"A true warrior does not rely on brute force alone, but on precision, intellect, and the ability to predict their opponent's every move."
He tilted his chin up, as if awaiting applause.
The only sound that followed was the ear-splitting roar of the Arcane Titan, as it swung its colossal axe straight at his head.