The next day began peacefully.
Jin woke at dawn. He meditated. Circulated Essence. Moved through twenty-seven sword forms. His wooden sword—the one he had carved from a branch behind the dormitory—rested in his lap.
He had taken care crafting it.
Stripped the bark. Smoothed it with sand. Balanced the weight. Aligned the grain.
It wasn't beautiful. But it was his.
The body was adapting quickly—too quickly, even. By now, it had already internalized muscle memory from his past life. Jin didn't need to teach it. Only remind it.
Sheath. Draw. Strike.
A single breath. A blur. The wooden blade snapped forward, stopping inches from a training dummy's neck.
Then back again.
Sheath. Draw. Strike.
Again and again. Until even the mist bowed around his movements.
He wasn't cultivating for power.
He was cultivating control.
---
Of course, peace never lasted.
By noon, the courtyard buzzed with murmurs.
"Did you hear? Drayce beat four upperclassmen yesterday."
"I heard he broke one guy's collarbone with a palm strike!"
"Pfft. Just lucky. They were probably caught off-guard."
"Yeah. And he's still a Flicker-tier with no secondary skill. What's he gonna do—blink us to death?"
The Merit Season was approaching fast.
Everyone was desperate.
And to them, Rael Drayce looked like an easy payday.
---
Jin stood calmly in the middle of the sparring platform, finishing another round of practice.
Sheath.
Draw.
Strike.
Then—
The wind shifted.
Someone approached. Loudly. Dramatically.
Silk robes. Glowing rings. A sword floating beside him as if tethered by ego alone.
Jin didn't even turn around.
His first victim had arrived.
The boy's voice rang out like a rooster attempting opera.
"In accordance with the Merit System, I—Luchan Sol, of House Sol—challenge you to a duel!"
Jin turned.
He blinked slowly.
And then looked back to his imaginary sheath.
---
By now, a crowd had gathered.
Upperclassmen. First-years. Even a few instructors, pretending to "casually observe" while holding clipboards.
Luchan stood on the opposite side of the platform, fire in his eyes. His hair glimmered with an alchemical polish. His boots were brighter than most student badges.
Jin, in contrast, wore standard academy clothes—patched. Loose. Slightly faded. His weapon was a stick.
The silence broke.
"You looking down on me, brat!?" Luchan shouted.
Jin tilted his head. "No."
He raised the wooden blade.
"This just seems enough to beat you."
Gasps rippled through the audience.
Boos erupted.
"Take him down, boss!"
"Show him what happens when you disrespect House Sol!"
"Put him in his place!"
Jin didn't blink.
Why would an eagle argue with chickens?
---
The duel began.
Luchan roared forward, blade gleaming with imbued Starstream.
Jin stepped sideways. Calm. Elegant. Like a leaf caught in a breeze.
"Sloppy footwork," he said aloud.
Luchan snarled and activated a low-tier Flame Edge spell—only to find Jin already in front of him.
The wooden sword tapped once—lightly—on Luchan's wrist. The noble's hand twitched.
Another strike, fast and clean, to the side of his knee.
Then one final blow to the temple.
Thud.
Luchan fell in a heap.
Unconscious. Undignified.
---
Silence.
Then laughter—from Jin.
Low at first. Then full and clear.
He laughed like someone who'd been told the sky was red, and no one believed otherwise.
"You all thought… this could beat me?"
His eyes swept across the crowd—mocking, calm, detached.
"You're pathetic."
Some students shifted uncomfortably.
But pride's poison had already taken root.
Another boy—taller, bulkier—stepped forward.
A massive frame. Clenched fists. Rank 5.
"I'll shut that smug face for good."
Jin turned slowly.
He raised his stick.
"I accept."
---
The boy lay in the infirmary.
Wrapped in gauze. Groaning.
Eyes unfocused. Drool forming at the corner of his mouth.
He had no idea what happened.
"Where am I?"
---
And so it continued.
Three more duels became five more. Five became ten.
They came in pairs. Groups. Waves.
Students burned through their starting 1,000 merits trying to earn a shortcut to glory.
Jin didn't flinch.
He moved with elegance.
No wasted energy. No unnecessary strikes.
Every motion refined from experience. Every step measured by memory.
He didn't win with power.
He won with technique.
Timing.
Knowledge.
He used the gaps in their stances. Exploited the weaknesses in their posture. Predicted spells based on eye twitch, breath rhythm, and finger movement.
He was a monster in human skin—
—but all he had was a stick.
---
By sunset, the infirmary overflowed.
Nurses had set up folding cots in the hallway. Instructors took shifts cataloging injuries.
"Left elbow—shattered."
"Dislocated shoulder."
"Essence feedback trauma."
"Severe concussion."
"...Mental instability?"
And still, they came.
They came because they couldn't believe it.
They came because their pride demanded it.
And when they fell, they left something behind:
Fear.
---
By the end of the day, a new tradition had been born.
It started as a joke.
"Whoever beats Rael Drayce gets 1,000,000 merits and is instantly promoted to Rank 15."
It was printed and posted.
Half-sarcasm. Half-warning.
Then four instructors signed it.
And suddenly—it was law.
---
Now they feared him.
But more than that—they wondered.
How?
How could someone ranked Flicker-tier—someone who'd never awakened a secondary skill—do this?
Was he faking his rank?
Was he a prodigy in hiding?
Or… had he always been like this?
Had Rael Drayce simply decided to stop pretending?
The idea terrified them.
Because if he had truly hidden his strength, if he had faked his weakness in every class, avoided detection by every scanner, masked his presence from the instructors—
Then he was something far beyond a student.
He was a storm wearing a school uniform.
---
By nightfall, the name spread.
"Demon Drayce."
"The Stick Saint."
"The Merit Slayer."
One name. Fifty fights. Fifty wins. By the end of the day, fifty students were sent to the infirmary due to a wooden stick.
One weapon.
Wooden. Hand-carved. Unenhanced.
But when he moved, it felt like divine retribution.
---
In his dorm, Jin sat calmly.
He wasn't pleased.
He wasn't angry.
He was just… breathing.
Another day survived. Another threat neutralized.
They would learn.
Fear was a better teacher than friendship.
Respect earned by blood was harder to erase.
And he was just getting started.