The grand lecture hall emptied like a broken dam, but the currents were clear. The students of the Talent and Elite classes moved toward the gleaming heart of the campus, their footsteps light and their voices full of expectation. Alex Silvester and Wang Hou, however, were forced to trek toward the South District—the "Shattered Ward" of Victoria University.
As they moved through the corridors, the crowd parted before Alex. It wasn't the parting of the Red Sea for a leader; it was the reflexive shying away of people avoiding a leper. The whispers followed him like a foul scent.
"There he is. The 'relic' Sujata Roy actually defended. I still can't wrap my head around it. Is she blind, or just too kind for her own good?"
"He probably used some low-level psychological trick. You know how those 'noble' types are—they see a stray dog with a broken leg and think they can save it."
"Look at him, trying to walk like he belongs here. He's probably already dreaming about a toad eating swan meat just because she handed him a dusty book."
A burst of cruel, jagged laughter erupted behind them. Alex didn't stop. He didn't even tighten his grip on his bag. To him, these voices were no different than the wind whistling through a graveyard—hollow and meaningless.
While the Talent Class headed to Glory Square—a hundred-acre expanse of pristine bluestone and hero-monuments—Alex and Wang Hou arrived at the South District Combat Gym. It was a grim, three-story monolith of stained concrete and peeling paint. Mottled red bricks peeked through the exterior like raw sores.
This was the "Ordinary Wing," where the air didn't smell of ozone or high-grade incense, but of stale sweat, industrial linoleum, and the metallic tang of blood.
The Arena of the Forgotten
They climbed to the third floor, entering the designated space for Ordinary Class 9. The room was vast but spartan. Eight training platforms, their surfaces scuffed and stained, stood like altars in the center of the hall. Faded slogans were painted on the walls in peeling red letters: "FISTS AND KICKS HAVE NO EYES; YOUR LIFE IS YOUR OWN BURDEN."
Standing by the central platform was their homeroom teacher, Instructor Marcus Thorne. Wang Hou leaned in and whispered, "They say Thorne used to be a Tier-5 Vanguard for the Talent Class. He took a cursed hit during a Rift-suppression mission. His mana core shattered, his Realm plummeted, and the school shoved him down here to rot with the 'ordinary' kids."
Thorne looked younger than his white-streaked hair suggested. His eyes were hard, like flint. When they fell on Alex's washed-out T-shirt, they lingered for a fraction of a second—not with mockery, but with a strange, weary recognition.
"Alex Silvester. Wang Hou. You're late," Thorne said. His voice was like grinding stones. "Go. Change. Now."
They retreated to the locker room, where they were issued the standard-grade training gear: dusty gray short-sleeved tunics and heavy shorts with frayed cuffs. The fabric was coarse and smelled of cheap detergent—a far cry from the mana-conductive silks worn by James White.
When they returned, the class had formed a semicircle. Thorne held a digital roster, his voice echoing in the hollow gym as he took attendance.
"Leo Miller."
"Here!" A boy the size of a small refrigerator stepped forward. He had Awakened the C-Rank [ Hercules ] class. Even without mana, his muscles looked like they were carved from granite. In an ordinary class, he was the undisputed king.
"Lance Sharp."
"Present." The tall, thin roommate with the yellow hair smirked. His C-Rank [ Lightning Sword ] allowed him to coat a blade in a faint, staticky glow. It wasn't much, but it was enough to kill a man.
"Gavin Cole."
The introverted boy with glasses nodded. His [ Long-Range Shot ] gave him the hawk-like vision necessary for the archery range.
"Fiona Reed."
A girl with a short, practical bob stepped up. Her [ Flame Bolt ] was slow—requiring a five-second incantation—but once it hit, it packed the punch of a hand grenade.
"Wang Hou."
"Here."
"Alex Silvester."
"Here."
Thorne closed the roster. "Today is your first Practical Combat Class. I don't care about your test scores. I don't care about your 'potential.' In this room, everything is decided by the weight of your strike. The rules are simple: Winner stays on the platform. Loser hits the floor. Stop when I tell you to stop—and not a second before."
He looked at Alex, his expression unreadable. "In this world, strength is the only language that doesn't lie. Draw your lots."
Predator and Prey
Alex reached into the wooden jar and pulled out a stick: Number 1.
From across the circle, Leo Miller let out a deep, booming chuckle as he held up Number 2.
The "Hercules" walked toward Alex, looming over him. Leo was half a head taller and broad enough to block out the overhead lights. He looked down at Alex's lean, compact frame with the amused gaze of a butcher looking at a lamb.
"So, you're the 'Warrior' everyone's talking about?" Leo asked, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. He turned to the other students, gesturing broadly. "Do you guys see this? No spiritual aura. No elemental resonance. Just a pile of meat that thinks it can throw a punch. My dad told me about Martial Artists—they're the guys who dig the ditches so the real Professionals don't get mud on their boots."
The class erupted into snickering. Fiona Reed crossed her arms, watching with cold indifference, while Lance Sharp leaned against a pillar, a mocking grin on his face.
"Seriously, Alex," Leo continued, stepping into Alex's personal space. "In a few years, I'll be a Tier-3 Heavy Vanguard. You? You'll be lucky to get a job at the shipyard moving crates. Why even bother coming to the stage?"
Thorne remained silent, his arms crossed, watching Alex with the intensity of a hawk. He wanted to see if the boy would break under the words before the first blow was even struck.
Leo reached out, his massive, ham-fisted hand landing on Alex's shoulder. It was a "friendly" pat, but it carried the crushing weight of a C-Rank Hercules, intended to buckle Alex's knees and humiliate him before the match began.
"Look, I'll be nice," Leo whispered, leaning down. "When we get up there, I'll go easy. Just take a dive after the first exchange. If I break you, the school won't even pay for the bandages. A Martial Artist's life isn't worth the paperwork."
"Brother Leo, don't kill him!" someone yelled from the bleachers. "We need someone to clean the mats after class!"
Alex Silvester stood perfectly still. The "Hercules" strength was pressing down on his shoulder, but Alex felt like a mountain rooted in the earth. His Rank 20 Mud Embryo foundation didn't even quiver.
He looked up at Leo, his eyes as calm and dark as a deep well.
"Are you done patting?" Alex asked. His tone was conversational, almost bored.
Leo's smile faltered. He increased the pressure, his knuckles turning white as he tried to force Alex to flinch. Alex didn't move an inch.
"If you're done," Alex said, stepping out from under the hand with a fluid, heavy grace that left Leo's arm hanging awkwardly in the air. "Get on the stage. I'm in a hurry."
The gym went silent. The "trash" was giving orders to the King of Class 9.
Leo's face turned a mottled purple. "You little... fine. I'll make sure you don't walk out of here."
Alex didn't look back. He climbed the stairs to the platform, the old wood creaking under a weight that seemed far greater than his size suggested. He wasn't thinking about Leo Miller. He was thinking about the Fist of Law-Breaking resting in his bag.
He needed to see if a Hercules could withstand a single, honest punch.