The training hall was a world of cold stone and disciplined silence, but for An Qin, it was a pressure cooker, a new battlefield where he was instantly surrounded. He stood with his wooden sword, his small frame still a child's, but his gaze, fixed on the elder master at the head of the class, held the focus of a man. The eyes of every student in the hall were on him—a new face, the son of the Queen—but he felt the gazes of his twin half-siblings most acutely. Li Qin and Yue Qin, a unified front of cold contempt, watched from the back.
The master, a gaunt man named Elder Sun, whose very presence exuded a powerful, cultivated aura, began the lesson without a word of welcome. "The Imperial Academy is not a place for many," he announced, his voice like the grinding of stone. "In each year, only a handful of the royal bloodline are selected to pass through these gates. The path is long and arduous. Two years of basic training to learn the fundamentals. Two years of intermediate training to refine your skills. And three years of advanced training to reach true mastery. Only a few have ever completed the full seven years. But to graduate is not an option; it is your duty."
An Qin listened intently, a detached part of his mind recalling the specifics. He knew the path well. It was a rigorous, unforgiving curriculum, designed to weed out the weak and forge the elite. And he knew the legend that loomed over them all. The fastest to ever graduate was the current King, Jian Qin, who had completed the entire program in an astonishing four years, a feat of genius and power that had not been replicated since. It was a benchmark that made his own journey, and that of every student, a constant test of their worth.
Elder Sun began the first lesson, a simple form of the Imperial Swordmanship. The other students, mostly An Qin's age, fumbled through the basic stances. But An Qin, who had spent years in quiet practice under the watchful eyes of private tutors, moved with a fluid grace that was a world away from their clumsy motions. His small body flowed through the movements, his wooden sword a natural extension of his arm, its tip striking with the speed and precision of a viper's bite. His qi, a small but steady flame, circulated smoothly through his meridians with each turn and thrust.
A few students stopped to stare, their whispers reaching him. "Look at him. He's a natural." "They say the Queen's children are blessed..."
From the back of the hall, the quiet murmur of approval turned to an audible sneer. Li Qin stepped forward, his eyes burning with a jealous fire. The sight of the little prince, the one he had tormented for years, displaying such effortless skill was an unbearable insult to his pride. His twin sister, Yue Qin, simply watched, a cold, calculating look in her eyes as she weighed this new threat.
The lesson continued, but the tension was now a physical presence. After the basic forms, Elder Sun called for a demonstration. "Who among you, a senior, will show the first-years the true power of our sword?"
The master's words were a direct invitation for a display of dominance, and Li Qin took it. He stepped onto the training circle with a smirk. "I will," he declared, his voice full of practiced arrogance. The other seniors cheered, a few of them glancing mockingly at the first-years. Li Qin's gaze swept over them all before settling on An Qin. "I will demonstrate with... the youngest prince. Perhaps a reminder of his place will be a good first lesson for them all."
A gasp rippled through the students. To challenge a first-year was unheard of, a public display of petty cruelty. Elder Sun's stern face remained impassive, but he nodded. "Very well. Begin."
Li Qin moved first, his wooden sword a blur of raw power. His style was all aggression, a series of heavy, hammering strikes meant to overwhelm his opponent with brute force. He moved with the confidence of a senior, his every motion a testament to his years of training and a clear attempt to intimidate An Qin. But An Qin, his adult mind a clear, calm lake in the storm, saw every move before it happened. He was not worried about Li Qin's raw strength. He had been taught to fight with his mind, not his body.
Li Qin's wooden sword came down in a sweeping arc, a strike meant to shatter bone. An Qin did not meet it head-on. He sidestepped with an almost imperceptible shift of his feet, his body moving like a willow in the wind. He used the momentum of Li Qin's own attack, allowing his sword to pass by harmlessly before he pivoted, his own wooden blade flicking out in a sharp, precise jab to Li Qin's wrist. Li Qin recoiled, surprised.
The senior warrior's face hardened with fury. He came at An Qin again, faster this time, his strikes a whirlwind of power. But An Qin was a master of his own art, a student of the Yinyang Swordsmanship, a style taught to only the most disciplined members of the royal family. It was a technique that valued deflection over force, using an opponent's strength against them. An Qin danced around him, a small, evasive shadow. He blocked strikes not by meeting them head-on, but by deflecting their force with a light touch, his own wooden sword tapping against Li Qin's, turning a powerful blow into a glancing graze. He didn't try to win with power; he won with precision.
The sparring match lasted only a minute, but it felt like an eternity. Li Qin, his face red with a mixture of rage and frustration, lunged forward with one last, desperate blow. An Qin, seeing the opening, did not sidestep this time. With a flick of his wrist, he executed a perfect disarm. His wooden sword struck Li Qin's hand, forcing the senior to drop his weapon with a loud clatter against the stone floor. An Qin's blade came to rest an inch from Li Qin's throat, a silent, definitive statement.
The hall fell into a stunned silence. Li Qin stared at the little boy before him, his arrogant smile gone, replaced by a mixture of shock and utter disbelief. He had been defeated, publicly, and by a first-year no less. Elder Sun's impassive face finally broke into a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
An Qin stepped back, his face a perfect mask of neutrality. He bowed respectfully to his master, then to Li Qin, acknowledging the end of the match. The game had just changed. He was no longer a pawn. He was a player, and he had just made his first, unforgettable move.