The Academy was still trembling from the shock of yesterday's battle.
Clusters of disciples filled the courtyards, corridors, and mess halls, their voices rising like ripples in a storm. Even those who hadn't been in the arena could recite the events as though they'd witnessed them firsthand. The story had spread too far and too fast.
"Rank One didn't just win," someone said, eyes wide as if they still couldn't believe it. "He walked through them—every single one."
"No injuries, no wasted movements," another added. "Nine of the best inner disciples, and they couldn't even make him break a sweat."
"It wasn't a fight," a third voice cut in grimly. "It was a lesson… a warning."
The whispers carried the same tone—half awe, half fear. The gap between Rank 1 and the rest of the top ten wasn't just wide; it was unbridgeable, like the distance between heaven and earth.
Some disciples clenched their fists, spurred by ambition. Others lowered their eyes, feeling their pride shrink under the weight of that display. For all the bravado the Ranking Tournament had stirred, this was a cruel reminder: genius at the peak was something otherworldly.
And yet, the one at the top had made it look like a warm-up exercise.
---
Meanwhile…
Far from the noise of the courtyard, Shade sat cross-legged in the dim light of her apartment. The air was still faintly scented with old parchment—the lingering trace of the Academy Library where she had found it: the technique that had pulled at her like a whisper only she could hear.
She could still remember that moment.
The library's shelves stretched endlessly, scrolls and manuals layered like the veins of a massive, sleeping beast. She had passed over dozens of techniques—flashy, forceful, arrogant—until her fingers stopped on one slim, weathered scroll tucked in a forgotten corner. No ornament, no gilded seal.
Yet when her hand brushed the surface, something inside her stilled. Not excitement. Not yearning. Resonance.
The words within were sharp and concise, a path that didn't demand brute force or reckless expenditure, but precision—control honed to the width of a hair's breadth. Every description felt like it had been written for her alone.
---
Now, days later, she was deep in its rhythm.
Her body moved in fluid arcs, each strike a controlled extension of will rather than muscle. The breath in her lungs was measured, her steps silent even on creaking floorboards. She repeated the same sequence over and over—hundreds of times—until thought itself was stripped away, leaving only motion and instinct.
Sweat ran along her jawline. Her muscles burned with a quiet ache, but her expression remained unreadable, eyes fixed on the invisible image of perfection she was chasing.
Finally, she stopped. The air in the room was thick with heat from her own exertion.
A faint chime echoed in her mind.
> [Skill Mastery: Entry Level Achieved.]
She opened her eyes. Her breathing was steady, her heartbeat calm.
Entry Level was nothing worth celebrating. It was only the first stone in a long, perilous climb. But in a place like this—where hesitation could be fatal—every step forward mattered.
And Shade never moved without a reason.