A year had passed since the construction of the Archangel Sanctum. That single, boring grey building, hidden deep in the forest, had become the beating heart of a burgeoning, secret revolution. The Order of the Archangel had swelled to nearly fifty members, excluding Daemon himself, a network of intelligent commoners and disenfranchised nobles who operated under the flawless guise of specialized "lab assistants" for the Academy's newest research facility. It was in the Sanctum's shielded walls and the repurposed gym that the true lessons took place.
The curriculum was intensely rigorous and entirely focused on capability over tradition. Members learned martial arts and received advanced instruction in magic theory, but the core foundation came directly from Daemon's unorthodox curriculum: complex lessons in mathematics, quantum physics, chemistry, and biology—knowledge that allowed them to understand and manipulate the world at a fundamental level that transcended simple Aetheric channeling.
Daemon introduced them to a brutal, pragmatic fighting philosophy from his previous life: the art of jumping. . This was a style used by those who were outmatched and desperate, a fighting technique where two, preferably three, people engaged a single, superior opponent simultaneously. The method was simple: leave no breathing space for the opponent, maintain constant, unpredictable pressure, and overwhelm them through sheer numerical volume and coordination. It was the perfect technique to frustrate, destabilize, and ultimately neutralize any of the Empire's proud, duel-focused solo fighters.
Despite being a secret organization, certain traits had become synonymous with the Order's membership—subtle signals that denoted their cohesion and pride. Cleanliness was paramount: members were always seen in well-maintained, near-uniform attire, their hair neatly styled, their accessories discreet. They were scrupulously courteous—opening doors, saying "please," "sorry," and "thank you" when the occasion called for it. But this was not sycophantic submission; they were not people who clung to the nobles or performed every bidding. Instead, they stood tall and proud, their courtesy underlaid with an unnerving confidence. Unconsciously, they had also started moving together, small groups of two or three often found traversing the Academy grounds, a subtle manifestation of their "jumping" doctrine.
The inevitable confrontation came at the Academy mess hall. A young, minor noble named Torrin, known for his lazy Lightning Affinity and overblown sense of entitlement, was walking past Earl—a member of the Order and a Beast Tamer, a magical specialization traditionally unsuited for direct combat. Earl had mistakenly brushed the noble's arm. In response, Torrin simply sneered, deliberately turning his hand and pouring the bowl of scalding hot soup he was holding directly onto Earl's chest.
Other members of the Order, including Jonas and Mikael, froze—a testament to their rigid training that dictated they only move when the command structure authorized it. Earl, however, did not panic. He simply looked down at the staining, smoking commoner tunic, then slowly back up at the grinning noble. The Beast Tamer, the person least suited for direct combat, then issued a challenge that shocked the surrounding crowd:
"You have insulted the cloth I wear and the person I am. I challenge you to a duel, noble. Now."
The duel was set, immediately drawing a massive crowd of commoners eager to witness the commoner's inevitable humiliation, and nobles ready to cheer the brute application of power. Earl's opponent, Torrin, stood across the designated dueling circle, his face a mask of arrogant amusement.
"A Beast Tamer challenges me? This will be over before you can run away, peasant," Torrin taunted, his hand crackling with faint Lightning Magic.
Earl, discarding his ruined tunic, wore only thin trousers, revealing a physique hardened by the Sanctum gym. He moved into a low, fluid stance utterly unfamiliar to the Academy—the Brazilian martial art of Capoeira. It was constant, serpentine motion, keeping his center of gravity low and his body always in flux.
Torrin struck first, launching a bolt of crude, but powerful, lightning directly at Earl's chest. The attack was fast, linear, and predictable.
Earl did not block. Instead, he executed a perfect Aú sem Mão—a no-handed cartwheel—his body spiraling just inches above the ground. The lightning bolt scorched the earth where he had been a moment before.
"Stand still and fight, coward!" Torrin bellowed, his annoyance growing. He threw a second, broader discharge of lightning, attempting to cover more ground.
Earl countered with a breathtaking Negativa—a low duck and sweep, his trailing leg cutting a crescent shape inches from the ground—simultaneously dodging the blast and closing the distance. His Beast Tamer affinity subtly enhanced his flexibility and proprioception, allowing for impossible twists and speed in his low maneuvers.
Torrin panicked, relying on his Aetheric training. He channeled a massive charge, his hands glowing blindingly blue, intending to create a localized lightning cage.
This was the opening Earl needed. Before the charge could stabilize, Earl exploded upward from his low crouch with a devastating Rabo de Arraia—the "Stingray's Tail"—a powerful, inverted axe-kick performed mid-air. His foot slammed with focused force into the side of Torrin's knee.
The impact was shocking. Torrin's concentration shattered, the built-up lightning dissipating harmlessly into the air with a useless hiss. His knee buckled instantly under the unexpected, bone-jarring blow.
Torrin cried out, collapsing onto one knee. He looked up, his face a mixture of pain and disbelief, attempting to raise his wand for a close-range shock attack.
Earl immediately followed up. He executed a flawless Banda de Costas—a tripping sweep performed from a low, reverse position—his foot catching Torrin's other ankle. The noble's legs were violently yanked out from under him, and the powerful Lightning Mage crashed face-first into the dusty dueling ground.
The crowd erupted. The humiliation was absolute. The noble, whose entire identity rested on his Aetheric power and social status, had been physically beaten and swept to the dirt by a commoner using a strange, dancing fighting style, without the commoner casting a single offensive spell.
Torrin scrambled away, his expensive robe soiled and his confidence shattered. He retreated with his contingent of furious, confused friends. Earl remained standing in the circle, his Capoeira stance fluid and ready, his chest marked by the soup stain, but his victory definitive and public. The roar from the commoners was deafening, validating the Order's strength and proving that even a Beast Tamer, when armed with Daemon's unconventional training, could humiliate the elite. The message was clear: the time of noble supremacy was ending, and the Order of the Archangel was the force that would replace it.