Selection, Promotion Tournament
A soft thud echoed in the training hall as Xie Xie hit the ground, more from the disruption of his balance and the precise tap to his shoulder than from any real force. He rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling with a groan that was only half-feigned.
"The competition is over. Yao Xuan wins."
Wu Zhangkong's voice cut through the air, cold and definitive as a winter gust. His eyes, like chips of Arctic ice, swept over the assembled students, and the slight rustle of their uniforms seemed deafening in the ensuing silence.
Scrambling to his feet, Xie Xie brushed off his clothes and shot a look at Yao Xuan, who stood composed and unruffled. "Yao Xuan, you clearly said you could control your strength!" he complained, though there was no real heat in his words, more a performance for their audience.
"Enough." Wu Zhangkong's single word froze Xie Xie in place. "Stop your nonsense and stand properly."
The class assembled before him, a line of young souls under the gaze of a glacier. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken criticism. Yao Xuan could feel the tension radiating from his classmates—a mixture of shame, anxiety, and a flicker of defiance.
"The competition is over," Wu Zhangkong began, his voice low but carrying to every corner of the hall. "Do you know what kind of impression you have left me with?"
He paused, letting the question hang in the air, a sharp blade waiting to fall. None of the students dared to utter a word.
"Except for Yao Xuan," he continued, the name delivered not as praise but as a measuring stick, "I only have five words to describe the rest of you: hopeless." The word landed with the weight of a final judgment. "No wonder you were assigned to Class 5."
A collective flinch went through the line. Shoulders slumped, and eyes dropped to the polished floor. Yao Xuan remained still, his expression neutral, but internally, he observed the teacher's method—the deliberate application of pressure to forge something stronger from the weakness.
"However," Wu Zhangkong's tone shifted minutely, introducing a thread of relentless purpose, "rest assured. Even the most rotten wood can be carved into a useful tool in my hands. Currently, from your battles, I have identified your most fundamental flaw: your physical condition is abysmal."
He walked slowly along the line, his gaze dissecting each student. "Perhaps you believe physical strength is useful now but becomes irrelevant for a high-level Soul Master. You are wrong. Dangerously wrong. I tell you with absolute responsibility that a powerful body is the very foundation upon which a powerful Soul Master is built."
He stopped, turning to face them fully. "Especially in this era of mechas. An ordinary person, even without soul power, can pilot a mech. But compared to soul power, a formidable physique is the true cornerstone of a mech pilot. Only an excellent body can withstand the immense G-forces and sustain the mental focus required for high-intensity mechanized combat."
"Given your universally deficient physical abilities," he announced, his voice leaving no room for debate, "starting tomorrow, our class will undergo specialized physical training. Every morning, you will train your bodies to their limits. Every afternoon, I will drill theory into your minds. This morning's class is dismissed. Go back and reflect on every mistake you made today."
The students began to disperse, their murmurs a low hum of relief and apprehension. As Yao Xuan turned to leave with Tang Wulin and Xie Xie, Wu Zhangkong's voice halted them.
"Yao Xuan, Xie Xie, Tang Wulin. The three of you, come with me."
Without looking back, he led the way out of the hall. The three boys exchanged glances—a mix of curiosity and wariness—before falling into step behind their formidable teacher.
Five minutes later, they were seated in Wu Zhangkong's spartan office. It was a small, utilitarian space, containing only a stark metal desk, a single chair, and a bookcase filled with thick, leather-bound volumes. The air smelled of old paper and clean, cold metal. Wu Zhangkong remained standing, his presence making the room feel even smaller.
"The three of you are the best performers in our class," he stated, his gaze lingering on each of them. "Especially you, Yao Xuan. Your martial soul and the application of your soul skills are... unorthodox and potent."
He folded his arms. "The reason I called you here is simple. The three of you have been selected to represent Class 5 in the annual Promotion Tournament."
He went on to explain, his words precise and efficient. "It is a grand event for Donghai Academy. The rules are straightforward: the lowest-ranked class in each grade challenges the class directly above them. Class 5 challenges Class 4. If you win, our class designation changes. We become Class 4. Furthermore, the winning class can continue to challenge upward until they are defeated."
"Should you manage to defeat Class 1 of our grade," he continued, a faint, almost imperceptible sharpness entering his eyes, "you earn the right to challenge classes from higher grades, up to the sixth. Victory brings not only glory but substantial cultivation resources. This is a battle for honor, and more importantly, for your own future."
"For the Promotion Tournament, the challenging class must field at least three participants. For Class 5, those participants are you three."
"We understand, Teacher Wu! We will definitely do our best!" Tang Wulin said immediately, his fists clenched with determination. Xie Xie nodded, a competitive glint in his eyes.
"Good." Wu Zhangkong's gaze settled on Yao Xuan, as if measuring his potential against a much higher standard. "Originally, my goal was simply to change our class name to Class 1, Grade 1. But with Yao Xuan's presence, that goal is no longer ambitious enough. Your task is to, at a minimum, defeat Class 1, Grade 3."
"The tournament is in three months. Therefore, starting tomorrow, in addition to your regular classes, the three of you will report to me every night for special training. Dismissed, Tang Wulin, Xie Xie. Yao Xuan, you remain. I need a word with you alone."
Once the door clicked shut, leaving the two of them in the quiet office, the atmosphere grew more focused. Wu Zhangkong leaned back against his desk, his icy eyes piercing.
"Yao Xuan, your performance today was exceptional. Now, I will ask you a question, and I expect a truthful answer." He paused for emphasis. "What, exactly, is your martial soul?"
Yao Xuan met his gaze steadily. 'He sensed it. The power of the Ancestral Dragon is too profound to be completely concealed, especially in combat. A half-truth is the best defense.'
"I don't know for certain either, Teacher Wu," he replied, his tone thoughtful. "The Spirit Hall examiner told me it was a Lizard Dragon, but I know that isn't correct. I can feel it. I'm not entirely sure what it is. I was hoping someone as knowledgeable as you might be able to tell me."
"Release your martial soul. Let me observe it carefully," Wu Zhangkong commanded.
"Yes, Teacher Wu."
With a thought, Yao Xuan summoned his soul power. The air in the small office grew heavy, thrumming with latent authority. The Ancestral Dragon Soul Spirit materialized behind him, its form more vivid and tangible in the confined space. Its scales shimmered with a light that seemed to predate the sun, and its eyes held a depth that spoke of forgotten epochs. The pressure was not aggressive, but innate—a weight of lineage and supreme hierarchy.
Wu Zhangkong studied it intently, his brows gradually furrowing. He circled Yao Xuan slowly, his keen eyes missing no detail—the structure of the claws, the pattern of the scales, the ethereal, coiling presence of the spirit itself.
After a long silence, he stopped and shook his head slightly, a rare admission of uncertainty crossing his features. "This... I have not seen a martial soul of this nature recorded before. The presence it exudes is unique." He looked directly at Yao Xuan. "This weekend, I will consult some... knowledgeable acquaintances. We will determine the nature of your martial soul then."
"Thank you, Teacher Wu." Yao Xuan bowed slightly, inwardly calm. 'No one in this world can name the Ancestral Dragon. This plays to my advantage. Let them search; their confusion only adds to the mystery.'
"It is my duty." Wu Zhangkong waved a hand dismissively. "Another matter. The hammer you used today. Was that a forging hammer?"
"Yes. I have been studying forging," Yao Xuan confirmed.
"A Soul Master of your talent, studying forging?" Wu Zhangkong's eyebrow rose a fraction, a clear note of disapproval in his voice. "Why would you divert your focus?"
"Teacher Wu," Yao Xuan explained, his voice calm and reasoned. "Soul Masters require vast resources for cultivation. I learn forging to support myself and fund my growth. Furthermore, my long-term goal is to become a Battle Armor Master. The resource consumption for that path is astronomical. I believe mastering forging is not a diversion, but a necessary foundation."
Wu Zhangkong was silent for a moment, then gave a slow, measured nod. "A pragmatic view. I did not expect one so young to already understand the value of a second profession. However, for most Soul Masters aiming for mechanized combat, the preferred secondary paths are mecha design, construction, or repair. Forging is a more... traditional choice."
"It is the path I have chosen," Yao Xuan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
"Very well. I will not interfere with your choice." Wu Zhangkong straightened up. "You are dismissed. Remember, special training begins tomorrow night. Do not be late."
"Understood."
As Yao Xuan left the office and stepped into the corridor, the cooler air felt refreshing. He replayed the conversation in his mind, analyzing Wu Zhangkong's intentions and his own responses. The Promotion Tournament presented a clear opportunity—not just for resources, but for combat experience and the Evolution Points that came with it.
His fingers strayed to the scale necklace resting against his chest beneath his uniform. It was warm, a constant, gentle reminder of a bond that transcended distance.
'Na'er,' he thought, the name a quiet anchor in his mind. 'Every step I take here is a step toward being strong enough to stand beside you.'
He walked on, his path clear, the weight of his legacy and his promises fueling his determination. The challenges ahead were merely stepping stones on his ascent.