Kelly crawled away.

  His palms scraped against the stone floor as he dragged himself backward, ribs screaming with every shallow breath. His eyes never left Harry. Not even for a blink. He moved like an injured animal, desperate to put distance between himself and whatever stood before him.

  Harry’s eyes stopped glowing. The light faded, but the room did not return to normal.

  But the fear stayed.

  It clung to the air, thick and sour, settling into the bones of everyone watching. No one spoke. No one laughed. Even the bravest among them avoided Harry’s gaze, pretending to busy themselves with their bedding, their robes, the wall. Anything but him.

  From that day on, the students knew. Harry was not just another martial artist. He was special and above them all.

  Kelly was taken away that night. Two older students supported him under the arms, his feet barely touching the ground. He groaned with each step, his face drained of color, sweat slick on his brow. His boys followed behind, silent, heads lowered.

  After that, they stayed away. When Kelly walked into a hall and spotted Harry nearby, he turned around. When his boys started roughing up a weaker student and saw Harry approaching, they stopped mid-action and stepped aside. Words died on their tongues. Hands unclenched.

  “Why does it seem like Kelly is afraid of this new boy?” a student whispered one afternoon, watching Kelly retreat down a corridor.

  No one answered. The question lingered, unanswered and heavy.

  Soon, the level two training began. The bell rang early that morning, deeper and longer than the ones from level one. The students gathered in the open training ground, rows forming instinctively. The yellow robes clung stiffly to their bodies, still new, still bright. Some adjusted their sleeves nervously.

  Others rolled their shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. Harry stood among them, calm on the surface. His hands rested at his sides. Beneath the plastic covering, the God Hand remained quiet.

  Master Fen stepped forward. Silence fell. “I welcome the newest students once again,” he said.

  His voice carried easily, steady and cold. His eyes scanned the lines slowly, deliberately, as if counting them. The new students stood straighter under his gaze. Their yellow robes caught the light, shining almost too brightly against the stone walls.

  “Here,” Master Fen continued, “you need ten badges to progress forward. Until you get all ten, you would remain here.” A few students swallowed.

  “Each task will get you one badge.” He paused. The air tightened. “I need not remind you,” he said calmly, “to take your lessons seriously. As always. Because here, death is part of the deal.”

  A ripple went through the line. Throats bobbed. Hands tightened into fists. Master Fen turned toward a large board set beside him. Thick cloths covered it, layered one over another. He reached out and pulled the first cloth away.

  A drawing was revealed. A massive lion stood there, its body thick and muscular. Seven heads sprouted from its neck, each snarling, teeth bared.

  “This,” Master Fen said, “is the seven-headed lion.” A murmur broke out before anyone could stop it. “It may have seven heads,” he continued, unbothered, “but it only sees with one pair of eyes.”

  The students leaned forward unconsciously. “To defeat it,” Master Fen said, “you must blind it first.” Whispers rippled through the crowd.

  A student raised his hand cautiously. “How do we blind it?” Master Fen smiled faintly. “It is simple. Cut off the seeing head, and the eyes will be off.”

  The student slowly lowered his hand, his face tight with uncertainty. “But,” Master Fen added. The word landed like a stone.

  “If you cut the wrong head, the beast becomes seven times stronger.” The murmurs turned sharp. “And in that state,” he went on, “no one in your level would be able to defeat it.”

  Fear crept openly now. Some students glanced at the exits. Others stared at the drawing, imagining claws, teeth, and blood. Harry stepped forward. “How do we know the right head?” he asked.

  Master Fen chuckled softly. “That is for you to figure out.” A collective sigh escaped the group.

  Master Fen moved to the second cloth and pulled it away. Another diagram appeared. A tall figure stood half-human, half-shadow. Its limbs twisted unnaturally, its eyes hollow.

  “This,” Master Fen said, “is a monstrous man.” The students leaned in again, dread tightening their chests. “He is capable of changing into seven different animals,” Fen continued. “You can only kill it in one form.”

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  Uneasy murmurs followed. “Just like the first,” Fen said, “if you strike it in its wrong form, it becomes seven times more powerful.”

  A student cursed under his breath. “And once again,” Master Fen added, his tone almost amused, “to detect its true form, that is a task for you to figure out.”

  Fear spread openly now. The tasks were no longer sounding difficult. They sounded impossible.

  Still, no one spoke out. They had no choice. Master Fen reached for the final cloth. “Lastly,” he said. He pulled it down. A bird filled the board.

  Its wings were wide, feathers jagged like blades. Its beak was long and sharp, stained dark. Its eyes were empty pits. “This is a bird,” Master Fen said calmly. “It feeds on human flesh and soul.”

  A few students exhaled in relief. “This will be simple to kill,” one student whispered.

  Master Fen chuckled. “I do not think so,” he said. “None have been able to kill this creature since the inception of this academy.”

  The relief vanished.

  “Not me,” Fen added, “not even the supreme masters.” Confusion replaced fear. “Why is so?” a student asked. “It looks simple.” Master Fen nodded. “Yes. But here is the catch. You cannot kill it while it is in the air.”

  The students frowned. “You can only kill it on the ground,” he continued, “and yet, it always flies in the air.”

  Silence fell.

  Fen’s eyes swept over them. “How then do you kill it?” Something vibrated inside Harry’s head. The answer came to him without effort, without thought. It felt old. Familiar.

  “You lure it to the ground,” Harry said, his voice clear, “then strike.”

  Master Fen froze. Slowly, he turned to face Harry. For a moment, the entire training ground held its breath. “You are right,” Master Fen said at last.

  The students turned to stare at Harry. “However,” Fen continued, “no one has been able to lure it down.” He folded his arms behind his back. “But once again,” he said, “it is your turn to figure it out.” The tension did not ease. It sharpened.

  The session ended. Then they began training. They started learning archery. Master Fen steadied every hand. “The first secret of hitting your target is to believe you can hit the target. Visualize hitting it before it does.” The students nodded their heads. Everyone of they began to draw their bow, and release it. For two days, they practiced the bow. They never got perfect at it except the West Lake students. But they got good enough to aim and shoot. Some got just better than other.

  The first day, Harry watched the others carefully. Some students trembled as they drew the string, their hands shaking. A few even released arrows too soon, the missiles veering wide and crashing into the dirt with a harsh crack. One boy groaned as he watched his arrow skid past the target, hitting the wooden post instead. Harry’s eyes narrowed, not in judgment, but in observation. He noticed the weight of the bow, the pull of the string, the subtle sway in each student’s stance. In his mind, he replayed each movement, calibrating, adjusting, visualizing how he would do it himself.

  When it was his turn, Harry stepped forward. The bow in his hand felt natural, almost an extension of his own body. He drew back, felt the tension in the string, and exhaled. The arrow flew, and for a split second, time seemed to slow. It struck the center ring with a quiet thwack, sharp and decisive. A few students muttered under their breath, impressed. Even Master Fen’s eyes flickered briefly with acknowledgment.

  But among them were the Westlakes. The arrows hits the targets stress free. The master nodded. “I never expected less. You were born with it.”

  By the second day, the difference between Harry and most of the students became more apparent. Some arrows flew wild, clipped the edges of targets, or bounced off completely. Others struck closer, but lacked consistency. Harry’s shots, however, were steady, methodical. Each release was a mirror of the previous one, and each one hit closer to perfection. The whispers among the students grew, some impressed, some envious. “Who is this Astania kid?” one muttered. Another Astanian chuckled. “He is just a lucky bastard.”

  “He’s good.too good to be a bastard. Maybe he is friends with the Westlakes.”

  “Your archery training ends now,” Master Fen announced. Tomorrow, you will learn the spear,” Master Fen said, his voice carrying across the training yard. Some students sighed with relief. Others frowned, anxious about the new weapon.

  The next morning, they picked up the long spears. At first, the weight seemed unwieldy, awkward against their arms and shoulders. Master Fen moved from student to student, adjusting grips, showing how to pivot, how to thrust without losing balance. Harry studied carefully, watching how each motion could flow naturally, how the spear’s tip could guide the body.

  By mid-afternoon, Harry was already practicing spinning maneuvers, thrusts, and feints that even some older students struggled to master. He imagined the movement, then executed it; precise, fluid, controlled. A few students began to notice, whispering among themselves. “He’s fast. Too fast.”

  After the spear, came the sword. Heavy, gleaming blades that cut through the air with deadly intent. Harry adjusted quickly, mimicking the motions Master Fen demonstrated. He combined what he had learned in archery and spear practice: the precision, the timing, the balance. In every strike, there was intent, there was purpose. Even the senior students paused to watch him, murmuring in disbelief. “The bastard is a fast learner.”

  By the end of the week, the group gathered again, exhausted but alert. Master Fen’s eyes scanned the line of students, sharp, calculating. “You are all ready for this hunting journey. Here you would be divided into ten groups. Each of the groups will be in ten different forests.”

  The students shifted uneasily. A forest was not just a place; it was a test of survival, cunning, and instinct. Many whispered anxiously to one another, their nerves taut. Master Fen began pairing them, carefully, observing reactions and tensions. Harry was placed in a group with twelve others. Two were from Astania, familiar faces, cautious, and resentful. Two were among the new yellow belts who had joined recently. The rest were a mixture, some eager, some hesitant, all uncertain of the challenges ahead.

  “You may choose your hunting leaders tonight. Tomorrow you will begin your journey. Remember, survival is not sure for any of you,” Master Fen said. His voice carried an edge that silenced all whispers. With that, he walked away, leaving the students to process their assignments.

  Harry’s group huddled together, forming a circle under the fading sunlight. Tension hung in the air thicker than the dust from the training yard.

  “I believe I am the strongest and most skillful person among you. I should be the leader,” a Westlake prince said, his voice carrying authority, but also arrogance. Some of the students who knew him flinched. “No, you do not have the charisma of a leader,” one said quietly, but firmly.

  Collins, for that was his name, chuckled darkly. He moved forward with a predator’s confidence. “How dare you challenge me, heir and future King of Westlake. Do you want to die?” His hand shot out, gripping the boy by the neck. The student gasped, struggling.

  Harry watched, muscles tensing. At first he didn’t move. But the moment stretched, charged with threat. Harry’s patience snapped like a taut string. Like always, he couldn’t stand the scene of someone getting bullied. “Drop him,” he growled, his voice low but full of command.

  Collins’ grip loosened instantly, almost as if Harry’s words carried a weight beyond simple authority. He turned to Harry, eyes narrowing, lips curling into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well! Well! Well! Is this not the Astania bastard?” His voice dripped mockery. Some students laughed, half out of nervousness, half out of disdain.

  One of the younger students, smaller and braver than most, stepped forward. “Harry would be a better leader than you would ever be,” he said. “He is skillful, yet compassionate.”

  Collins snapped, anger flashing in his eyes. “What is this? Would you prefer a low-born bastard to a legitimate and crown Prince?” The tension among the students escalated instantly, murmurs running through the group like wildfire.

  A boy named Cole stepped between them, his hand raised as a peacemaker. “There is no need fighting over this. We should vote. If you want Collins to lead us, raise your hand.” Half the students raised their hands. Collins’ grin widened triumphantly.

  “If you want Harry to lead us, raise your hand.” The rest raised their hands.

  Cole exhaled sharply, frustration clear in his expression. “We are back where we started,” he muttered. The deadlock hung like a storm cloud, dark and brooding.

  Collins shook his head, his temper flaring. “Why don’t we settle it through an archery battle? A person with better skill leads.” His tone was mocking, meant to belittle, to provoke.

  Another student hesitated, shaking his head nervously. “That would be unfair to Harry. You are from Westlake, and Westlake is known for hunting. You gut-breath arrows.” His words carried both fear and envy.

  “Then you just admit that I am good at hunting than him. I should lead,” Collins responded.

  Harry clenched his fists, his pride swelling, igniting a stubborn flame in his chest. Every insult, every doubt cast toward him, only sharpened his focus. “No,” he said, his voice low and steady, “I will give it a try.”