Tyrion’s breath came in sharp gasps as he sprinted through the dark, twisting cave. Behind him, the low growls of monsters grew louder. His arms and legs ached, and his torn clothes dragged in the dirt. He barely dodged a claw swipe that would’ve cut him deep.

  How did I end up here? he thought, panic rising. How did my life turn out like this?

  His mind flashed back.

  “I was admitted to the academy because I’m from the Icehart clan,” Tyrion remembered, bitter and frustrated. “My family is the strongest in the North. My father is the strongest Superhuman on the continent. My mother is a powerful magician. My brother and sister are top-tier fighters. But I... I was nothing. No magic. No aura. Just a weakling.”

  The academy ignored me. Teachers never paid attention to me. The nobles sneered behind my back.

  One day, during his first month, Tyrion had tried to help a fellow student being bullied. The bullies didn’t stop with that student. They started targeting him.

  Even his childhood friend—Elara—from one of the strongest noble families, the Valcrest, who was a prodigy in martial arts and later became one of the top three fighters in the academy, started avoiding him. She stopped helping, stopped talking. It hurt Tyrion more than any punch.

  Months of silent endurance under the bullies’ shadow passed, until finally the midterm exam arrived — and with it, an unexpected twist: Tyrion was paired with Kiran Valemont, one of the academy’s top three strongest students, for a crucial team battle.”

  The training arena buzzed with anticipation. Today’s challenge was a 5 vs 5 team match, pitting junior students against a team of seniors. Victory here would bring honor and recognition; defeat meant embarrassment.

  Tyrion’s heart pounded as he stood among his team—Kiran Valemont included—who had been cold and distant since the match was announced.

  The seniors were notorious for their strength and ruthless tactics, masters in both martial arts and magic. They smirked as they looked down on the inexperienced juniors.

  “Ready to lose, weaklings?” sneered one of the senior team’s fighters.

  Tyrion’s stomach twisted. The pressure was immense. He was the weakest link—everyone knew it.

  But he had a plan.

  As the fight began, the seniors charged aggressively. They aimed to crush Tyrion’s team quickly.

  Kiran immediately jumped into the fray, his martial arts precise and deadly. Tyrion stayed back, observing carefully, eyes scanning every movement.

  He noticed patterns: the seniors favored direct attacks, relying on brute force and flashy magic.

  Tyrion whispered instructions to his teammates, positioning them strategically to exploit the seniors’ predictable moves.

  “Draw them toward the eastern flank,” he said quietly. “Use the terrain — the uneven ground will slow their heavy magic users.”

  Kiran raised an eyebrow but followed the plan.

  Slowly, Tyrion’s team baited the seniors into the trap.

  One by one, the juniors avoided the seniors’ strongest strikes and launched coordinated counterattacks from surprising angles.

  Kiran found himself impressed as Tyrion predicted every senior move, allowing the juniors to outmaneuver and isolate opponents.

  “Focus on their leader,” Tyrion said calmly. “If he falls, their morale will break.”

  With perfect timing, Kiran lunged at the senior leader, striking with a powerful blow, while others pinned down the rest.

  The seniors staggered, caught off-guard by the juniors’ cunning.

  As the final senior fell, the arena erupted in shocked applause.

  Kiran looked at Tyrion with newfound respect.

  “Not bad,” he muttered.

  Tyrion, exhausted but triumphant, smiled weakly.

  That day, Kiran realized Tyrion was more than just weak blood—he was a genius strategist.

  From then on, Kiran stood by Tyrion’s side, the first true friend he’d ever had in the academy. He respected Tyrion’s sharp mind and skill, even if Tyrion had no magic or aura.

  The first time Kiran stepped in was right after their midterm victory.

  Tyrion was walking back to the dorms when a group of nobles blocked his path.

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  “Well, well. Look who thinks he’s some genius now,” one of them sneered.

  Before Tyrion could even respond, a punch came flying at him. He staggered, barely keeping his footing. Another boy was already grabbing his collar.

  “Didn’t like the way you looked at me today, Icehart. Time for a reminder of your place.”

  But before things got worse, a calm voice cut through the air.

  “Let go of him.”

  The bullies froze. Tyrion turned his head and saw him—Kiran Valemont, standing just a few steps away.

  Kiran was tall, sharp-eyed, and didn’t talk much. He came from the once-great Valemont clan—once dukes, now forgotten. But even without a title, everyone knew he was strong. Real strong.

  “You want a fight?” Kiran said, stepping forward. “Try me.”

  The nobles backed off, grumbling, but they left. They weren’t stupid enough to pick a fight with someone in the academy’s top ranks.

  After they were gone, Kiran looked at Tyrion for a second, then just said, “You’re not weak. They just haven't seen it yet.”

  That was it. No grand speech. No fake sympathy. Just honest words.

  From that day, the bullying stopped—because no one wanted to mess with Kiran.

  A few months passed, and then came the academy break.

  “You’re coming to Valemont Estate with me, right?” Kiran asked casually while packing.

  Tyrion hesitated. “No… I’m staying.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to go home. Not like this… not when I’m still useless. I can’t face my family like this.”

  Kiran stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But be careful.”

  Tyrion smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine.”

  He wasn’t.

  The moment Kiran left, the bullies returned.

  “You think you’re safe just ‘cause you hang around Kiran?” one of them whispered in his ear.

  For the next seven days, they made his life hell. They caught him alone, beat him, starved him, humiliated him. He couldn’t tell anyone. No one would care.

  On the last day, he was barely conscious. Bloody, broken, and unable to even speak.

  “They’ll ask questions,” one of the nobles said, wiping blood off his hands.

  “So what?” another replied. “We’ll say he went into the SS+ dungeon by himself. We tried to stop him, but he ignored us.”

  And just like that, they dragged his body to the edge of a restricted portal and pushed him in.

  Back in the present, Tyrion slipped on a wet rock, crashing into the cold cave wall. He groaned, forcing himself back on his feet.

  So this is where they threw me. A death trap. No aura. No magic. And monsters everywhere.

  And yet… he wasn’t done.

  Not yet.

  His foot slipped, and he barely caught himself on a jagged rock. He paused, panting hard. That’s when he felt it.

  A pulse.

  Not a sound, not a scent — but a presence. A weight in the air that made the hairs on his neck stand. Heavy, suffocating… yet calm. It wasn’t like the monsters chasing him. It wasn’t wild or bloodthirsty. It was… controlled. Refined. Ancient.

  It felt like… his father.

  No—stronger than his father.

  His eyes darted around, searching. A narrow path off to the side, barely visible behind some twisted roots and stone, caught his attention.

  That aura is coming from there…

  His instincts screamed run the other way. Every bit of training he had, every memory of danger said this was no place for someone like him.

  And yet… his feet moved forward.

  Tyrion pushed past the roots and squeezed through the tight opening.

  What he saw made his breath catch.

  A wide chamber stretched out before him, lit faintly by glowing stones embedded in the walls. At the center of it all, sitting perfectly still on a raised stone platform, was a man.

  Long silver hair flowed down his back. His eyes were closed. His skin is pale, almost ethereal. He wore robes unlike anything Tyrion had ever seen—black with blood-red cloud patterns, and an air of ancient pride clinging to them.

  He didn’t move. But the pressure around him made it feel like the world had stopped spinning.

  Tyrion’s knees gave out. He dropped to the floor, heart pounding.

  What… What is this…? Who is this…?

  The man slowly opened his eyes.

  Cold, deep, and sharp like blades of ice, they locked onto Tyrion with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

  “…You are not from here,” the man said, voice calm yet thunderous in Tyrion’s ears. “And yet, you came.”

  Tyrion swallowed hard, forcing the words out of his dry mouth.

  “I… I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just… running. Hiding.”

  The man said nothing for a long moment. Then, he stood. His presence filled the room like a tidal wave.

  “You carry hatred,” he said. “But it is quiet. Deep. And controlled.”

  Tyrion’s head spun. His body shook, half from exhaustion, half from fear.

  “Who… who are you?”

  The man smiled for the first time. A strange, sad smile.

  “I am Cheon Woo-Kan,” he said, slowly. “In my world, they called me… the Heavenly Demon Lord.”

  Tyrion’s heart stopped.

  The man took a step forward.

  “Now tell me, child. What is your name?”

  With the last of his strength, Tyrion straightened up.

  “…Tyrion Icehart.”

  And in that moment—when the strongest martial artist in two worlds and a broken boy on the brink of death stood face to face—fate itself began to move.