The transition from earthbound forest to airborne majesty took no longer than the blink of an eye. One moment Lucien stood amidst the whispering shadows of Mayavan, mana-saturated air brushing against his skin, the scent of leaves and old magic still thick around him. The next, the world seemed to fall away.
He floated.
The ground was gone. Trees, mountains, and rivers—all vanished. In their place: sky. Endless, untouched sky.
Above him stretched the wide heavens. Below him, clouds curled like sleeping beasts, bathed in golden sunlight. And there, floating high above the world like a forgotten deity's island—was Nalanda Academy.
It wasn't just a school.
It was a fortress of sky.
A floating island ringed with vast stormclouds that churned but never thundered. Mist clung to its edges like a curtain of secrets. Mountains jutted from its belly, waterfalls cascading into nothingness. Towering spires dotted its landscape, each glowing faintly with restrained power. Trees bloomed with leaves of silver and gold. Floating lanterns marked ancient paths between the structures that seemed built not by mortal hands, but shaped from the dreams of titans.
No one could fly here. No beast could reach it. No ship dared sail close. Only those invited—those with the mark of the gate—could pass the threshold.
Lucien was one of them.
He took a step forward. Beneath him, a translucent bridge formed—one made of swirling mana and ancient runes that pulsed underfoot. Each step echoed not with sound, but with memory. His coat flared behind him, the weight of Iksha-Astra hidden beneath like a silent vow.
The bridge was long.
It spanned a chasm of air so vast that the world below looked like a fading mural. Wind whipped around him, not cold, but reverent—as though the sky itself recognized the weight he carried.
Lucien walked.
In the distance, massive gates stood tall—carved from obsidian crystal and bound with silver veins. They shimmered under the morning sun, reflecting not just light, but history.
Nalanda Academy.
Founded before the era of kings. Built during the Age of Titans. Untouched by war. Unmoved by politics. It did not belong to any one nation, yet all nations bowed to its influence. It wasn't merely a place of learning—it was a crucible. One that forged the world's strongest warriors, mages, scholars, and legends.
Every year, nine continents sent their brightest—the prodigies, the heirs, the blessed and the cursed. They came here to train, to battle, to grow.
But they also came to be judged.
Because above all else, Nalanda was a test.
There were no kings here. No dukes or lords. Titles were left at the gate. Bloodlines meant nothing.
Only potential mattered.
Lucien remembered the words his brother once told him:
> "Inside Nalanda, even the son of a fisherman can crush the child of an emperor."
He smiled faintly at that. Here, masks would fall. True power would rise.
Behind the veil of mist that ringed the Academy, unseen yet ever-present, lurked the Nine Demigods.
They weren't rulers. They didn't teach. They rarely spoke.
But they watched.
Each a peak of power. Each beyond the realm of SSS+ ranks. Legends in their own right—beings said to have carved rivers with a thought, slain celestial beasts in single duels, and rewritten the laws of mana itself.
Lucien didn't know their names.
But he knew one truth: his great-grandfather was one of them.
That wasn't a comfort. It was a challenge.
He took another step. The gates drew closer.
As he walked, other figures appeared—students arriving from different gates, different lands. Each shimmered into existence across different bridges—some walking with arrogance, others with reverence.
One had a crown-shaped tattoo glowing faintly on her brow. Another carried a spellbook made of living bark. A boy with draconic scales glared at everyone like prey. A girl with six arms spun daggers in each hand as she walked, her steps leaving trails of frost.
Lucien noted them all.
The competition.
All gifted. All chosen.
But none had Iksha-Astra.
None had died in fire and ice and silence.
None had devoured a creature like Shakal.
He wasn't here to survive.
He was here to dominate.
The wind shifted. A pulse echoed across the sky—ancient, low, almost like a heartbeat.
The gates began to open.
No guards. No welcomes. No fanfare.
Just power—raw, unfiltered—rushing out in a wave as the Academy revealed its heart.
Lucien stepped through the threshold.
His eyes flared crimson for a heartbeat.
And inside, Nalanda opened to him.
Fields of magic. Towers for training. Floating arenas that clashed mid-air. Libraries that roared with knowledge. Forges that birthed living weapons. Classrooms run by voices older than nations.
And in the sky, watching all—nine shadows.
He paused, hand brushing the hilt-shaped impression beneath his shirt.
"The game begins here," he whispered.
Then he walked forward, into legend.