The closer they got to the imperial capital, the better the roads became and the more prosperous the towns along the way grew. But Wharton had little mind to enjoy the sights. More than halfway through the journey, the fatigue accumulated in his body was beginning to show. Sitting in a jolting carriage for eight or nine hours every day, sleeping in communal quarters at night, and eating coarse food were a heavy burden for a six-year-old.
He did his best to hide it, but Barker noticed.
During their midday rest on the forty-second day, Barker called Wharton aside and handed him a small leather pouch.
"Take it."
Wharton opened it. Inside were several pieces of dark red jerky with a fine texture, giving off faint energy fluctuations.
"Magical beast jerky, from a rank-three fire-element Flamehoof Deer," Barker said. "I don't have much left. Take this and eat a small piece every day. Your constitution is special, and ordinary food can't keep up with what you burn."
Wharton looked up at him.
"Your father told me everything," Barker said quietly. "A Dragonblood Warrior, right? At first, I wondered how Hogg could bear to let such a young child travel so far alone. Then I saw you secretly training every morning and evening, and the fluctuations of your vital energy and blood were different from those of ordinary people. I guessed from that."
Wharton tightened his grip on the pouch. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Thank your father." Barker waved a hand. "He paid extra for protection and asked me to look after you. This jerky is my own little contribution-an investment, you might say. If you become a big shot someday, I can brag that I knew you."
It was bluntly put, but not offensive.
Wharton accepted the jerky. After dinner that day, he ate a small piece. It was tough and took a long time to chew, but after he swallowed it, a warm current spread from his stomach through all his limbs and bones. The hunger he felt at the cellular level eased somewhat.
A notification appeared on the panel:
[High-energy food consumed] [Bloodline activity increased slightly] [Fatigue recovery speed +15%]
It worked.
From then on, Wharton ate a small piece each day, and his physical condition improved noticeably. He remembered the favor.
On the fifty-first day, the caravan finally reached Chiyan City.
The walls were visible from far away. Built from massive dark red stones, they towered into the clouds, with banners flying along the top and watchtowers at regular intervals. The gates stood wide open, and a constant stream of people, carriages, and horses passed in and out, yet everything was orderly. The soldiers guarding the city were well equipped and sharp-eyed, checking documents quickly and efficiently.
"The O'Brien imperial capital, the warriors' holy land of the Yulan Continent." Pride colored Barker's voice. "I've spent twenty years on trade routes, and the sight still amazes me every time."
After they entered the city, a wall of noise hit them. The streets were wide enough for eight carriages to travel side by side. Grand buildings lined both sides, mostly built of stone and carved with weapons, fierce beasts, or battle scenes. A very high proportion of the pedestrians were warriors, and spirited young men and women in academy uniforms were a common sight.
The air held a taut sense of energy-not magic, but a field formed by the convergence of countless powerful sources of vital energy and blood. Wharton drew a deep breath, and the Dragonblood bloodline within him stirred slightly, as though answering the city's call.
The caravan unloaded its goods at the trading company's compound. After Barker finished the handover, he took Wharton to stay at a nearby inn.
"Rest today. Tomorrow I'll take you to register at the academy," he said. "The enrollment procedures have to be handled in advance. It'll be trouble if we're late."
The room at the inn was simple but clean, with a bed to himself. Wharton took a bath-his first proper hot bath in over a month-changed into clean clothes, then took his dirty clothes to the well in the courtyard and scrubbed them.
Aunt Martha was washing clothes too. She smiled when she saw him. "Well, our little warrior has learned to wash his own clothes."
"It's something I should learn," Wharton said.
That evening, Barker treated him to dinner in the inn's main hall, ordering two dishes, one meat and one vegetable, and making an exception to order a pot of fruit wine.
"Consider this a send-off." Barker raised his cup. "Once you enter the academy tomorrow, you'll have to rely on yourself."
Wharton used water in place of wine and clinked cups with him.
"A few last words of advice." Barker set down his cup. "There are a lot of geniuses at O'Brien Academy, and the competition is fierce. You're young and from out of town, so you're bound to get bullied at first. Put up with it if you can, but if you can't, you still have to choose the right way to deal with it. The academy forbids private fights, but it has a formal challenge system. If someone really picks a fight, challenge them openly on the training grounds."
"I understand."
"And spend your money carefully. Expenses at the academy are high. Training equipment, medicinal herbs, instruction classes-they all cost money. What your brother gave you can last two years if you budget carefully. After that, you'll have to find a way to earn your own: take academy assignments, hunt outside, or try for a scholarship."
Wharton nodded. He had considered all of that.
"Lastly," Barker said, looking at him, "stay alive. The warrior's path is paved with blood. The academy has casualty figures every year. Getting stronger is important, but you have to stay alive to do it."
It was practical advice. Wharton said solemnly, "I'll remember."
Back in his room after dinner, Wharton was in no hurry to sleep. He opened his luggage and took everything out to put it in order. The corners of his copy of the Dragonblood Secret Codex were a little worn, but it was intact; the folds in Linley's letter had grown deeper, but the writing was clear; not one of the gold coins Hogg had given him was missing; and a little of the jerky Hiri had made remained, which he wrapped carefully.
Then he sat by the window and looked out at Chiyan City at night.
Lights glittered like stars, spreading from beneath his feet to the edge of his vision. In the distance, he could just make out an especially bright area. Barker had said that was where O'Brien Academy stood.
Tomorrow he would enter it. A brand-new world, brand-new rules, brand-new challenges.
He closed his eyes and sank his consciousness into the panel. More than three years of accumulated data lay there quietly:
[Overall basic physical fitness: Meets standard (rank-two warrior standard)] [Dragonblood Warrior Guidance Technique: 3.2% mastery] [Fire-element magical power: 3.5 standard units (unreleased)] [Theoretical knowledge reserves: Sufficient] [Current goal: Pass the O'Brien Academy entrance assessment]
Everything was ready.
Outside the window came the sound of the night watchman striking his clapper. It was the third watch.
Wharton lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Suddenly, he remembered the morning he had left Wushan Town and the sight of Hogg standing in the doorway. He remembered Hiri's reddened eyes. He remembered the line in Linley's letter: "When we've both grown stronger, we'll find the family's saber together."
He closed his eyes.
Early the next morning, Barker took Wharton to O'Brien Academy.
The academy lay in the western part of the city and occupied an enormous area. Its walls were even higher than the inner city walls. The main entrance consisted of two enormous iron gates, embossed with battle scenes. Four simple characters were carved above them: warriors' holy land.
A line had already formed at the entrance, mostly teenagers accompanied by their parents. There were few as young as Wharton, and he drew quite a few looks.
Barker presented the documents, and the guard checked them before letting them through. Beyond the gate was a broad square paved with bluestone slabs, worn smooth underfoot. Facing the square stood a magnificent seven-story stone main building, with weapons or armor displayed along the outer corridors on every floor.
"That's the main training building," Barker explained. "The entrance assessment is held there. You'll have to go in by yourself. I can only take you this far."
Wharton shouldered his luggage. "Thank you for looking after me all the way here, Uncle Barker."
"You're welcome." Barker patted his shoulder. "Do well on the exam and bring honor to our Fenlai Kingdom."
Wharton nodded, turned, and walked toward the main building.
More and more people were gathering in the square; there were probably over a hundred candidates. Walking among them, Wharton was like a blade of grass in a forest. He could feel the looks directed at him-curious, appraising, and occasionally disdainful.
"He's taking the exam at that age?"
"Which clan is he from? I've never seen him."
"He's probably just here to make up the numbers."
The whispers were quiet, but Wharton could hear them. He ignored them and joined the line at the registration desk in front of the main building.
The line moved slowly. When Wharton's turn came, the man handling registration was an instructor around thirty, with a buzz cut and a scar on his face. He wore the academy's standard black training uniform.
"Name, age, place of origin." The instructor did not even look up.
"Wharton Baruch, six years old, Wushan Town, Fenlai Kingdom."
Only then did the instructor look up and size him up. "Who recommended you?"
"Barker of the Grayhoof Trading Company. Here are the documents." Wharton handed over the recommendation letter Barker had prepared.
The instructor glanced at it and took it. "Go over there for your basic tests." He pointed to a row of booths nearby. "Come back for your assessment token when you're done."
The basic tests were simple: height and weight, eyesight and hearing, joint flexibility, and a simple strength test. Wharton completed each one according to the standard, neither standing out nor making mistakes. The record keeper marked the form, then handed him a wooden token engraved with the number seventy-three.
"Candidate number seventy-three. The assessment has three parts: physical fitness, practical combat, and talent evaluation. Physical fitness is in the morning, practical combat in the afternoon, and talent evaluation comes last." The record keeper spoke in a businesslike tone. "Now report to training ground number three."
Training ground number three was behind the main building, an open-air area covered in fine sand. Fifty or sixty candidates had already gathered, lining up by number. The examiner was a lean, wiry middle-aged man with eyes like a hawk's.
"First event: a weighted cross-country run." The examiner's voice rang out. "See that red line? Start here and run ten laps around the training ground, eight hundred meters per lap. You may walk along the way, but you may not stop. The last hundred will be eliminated."
Some people drew sharp breaths. Eight kilometers was already strenuous for teenagers, and nearly impossible for a six-year-old.
Wharton said nothing and merely adjusted his breathing. A concise notification appeared on the panel:
[Weighted cross-country run: Eight kilometers] [Current physical fitness estimate: Completion possible] [Recommendation: Maintain a steady pace and breathing rhythm]
The examiner blew his whistle.
The crowd rushed out. Wharton did not race for the front. He followed behind, keeping his own pace. The first two laps were easy. By the third, some people began to slow down, and by the fifth, some had already fallen behind. Wharton stayed in the middle of the pack, breathing steadily.
On the sixth lap, his legs began to ache. He remembered Hogg's words: "A warrior's path is measured with the body. Not a single step can be skipped."
On the seventh lap, his throat grew dry. He adjusted his breathing in small breaths.
By the eighth lap, a third fewer people around him could keep up. Wharton passed several people and moved farther forward.
On the ninth lap, he reached his limit. His lungs burned, and his legs felt filled with lead. He gritted his teeth, and the guidance technique began operating automatically-not the complete movements, but the breathing rhythm. With each breath, the faint current of warmth in his bloodline was stirred, easing his fatigue.
The final lap. The examiner shouted from the finish line, "Sprint! The last hundred will be eliminated!"
Those who could still run accelerated desperately. Wharton picked up speed too, but kept himself under control. In the final hundred meters, he passed three people and charged across the finish line.
He staggered and nearly fell, but steadied himself. His chest heaved, and sweat poured down.
The examiner glanced at him and wrote something in his notebook.
After a half-hour rest came the second event: a strength test. It was not weightlifting, but striking a strength-testing stele. The candidates took turns hitting the padded target on the stone stele with all their strength, and a magical device beside it displayed the result.
Wharton was near the back of the line and watched the people ahead. The numbers ranged from several dozen to several hundred. The highest was a burly teenager who scored 320, drawing a chorus of amazed exclamations.
When his turn came, quiet laughter arose around him.
"Can this little guy even score fifty?"
Wharton ignored them. He walked up to the stele and, rather than strike immediately, first took his stance. It was not a casual punch, but a standard application of force refined over three years of training: feet gripping the ground, waist turning, shoulder driving forward, fist shooting out.
Bang!
The sound was not loud. The number on the stele flickered, then stopped at 107.
The laughter stopped.
A score of 107 was not high, but considering his age and build, it meant his technique for applying force was excellent. The examiner gave him another look and recorded the result.
The third event was endurance: hanging from a horizontal bar to see how long they could last.
Wharton gripped the bar and hung suspended. The minutes and seconds passed. His hands began to tremble, and the muscles in his forearms felt as though they were about to tear. He closed his eyes and imagined himself practicing the Energy Gathering Stance in the backyard in Wushan Town: twenty minutes, thirty-five minutes, breaking through his limits again and again.
People kept dropping around him. He still hung on.
When the examiner finally called a stop, only twenty-odd people remained hanging. Wharton released the bar and landed, his hands shaking badly, but he did not fall.
The morning assessment was over. Half of the hundred-plus candidates had been eliminated. The number on Wharton's wooden token was crossed out and replaced with a new one: thirty-nine.
Lunch was in the academy cafeteria. It was free but simple: black bread, stew, and water. Wharton ate slowly, recovering his strength. Around him, candidates gathered in groups of three or five, discussing the morning's results. He sat alone, and no one came to talk to him.
That was fine too. It was peaceful.
The afternoon practical combat assessment took place at a different venue, an indoor training hall. The floor was covered with mats. The examiner was a female warrior in her thirties, with short hair and a piercing gaze.
"Practical combat isn't a brawl," she began. "It tests combat awareness, reactions, and basic skills. You'll pair up and fight with wooden training swords, stopping at a touch. I'll score you based on your performance."
The pairings were random. Wharton was matched with a twelve-year-old boy who stood two heads taller than him and had solid muscles.
The boy grinned. "Don't worry, little brother. I'll go easy on you."
Wharton said nothing and picked up a wooden sword. It was longer than the short saber he usually practiced with, but its weight was suitable.
The whistle blew.
As expected, the boy underestimated him and casually swung his sword down. Wharton did not meet it head-on. He sidestepped and thrust his wooden sword toward the boy's ribs in the same motion-a very basic thrust, but well timed.
Smack.
The sword tip tapped the boy's ribs. He froze, clearly not expecting to be hit.
"Lucky shot." His smile faded, and he grew serious.
Over the next few exchanges, Wharton failed to land another hit. The gaps in age, strength, and experience were too great. He could use skill and anticipation to hold his own, but creating an effective attack was difficult. The boy gradually figured out his approach and pressed his attack.
Wharton began retreating and blocking, looking for an opening. The wooden swords cracked against each other, and the impacts made his arms go numb.
The panel displayed a calm message in the corner of his consciousness:
[Practical combat analysis: Opponent has a clear strength advantage, moderate skill, and a habit of attacking forcefully from the right] [Recommendation: Lure the enemy in and make him lose balance]
Wharton deliberately exposed an opening, making his footing appear unsteady as he retreated. Sure enough, the boy rushed to attack, chopping down with all his strength. Wharton did not block head-on. As he turned aside, his wooden sword slid along the boy's blade, and its hilt slammed into his wrist.
The boy cried out in pain and dropped his sword.
The tip of Wharton's sword stopped three inches from his throat.
Silence.
The boy's eyes widened, and his face flushed red. The examiner blew her whistle. "Stop! Wharton wins."
Discussion broke out around them. Wharton lowered his sword and nodded to the boy. The boy picked up his sword, muttered something, and turned away.
Wharton fought two more matches after that, winning one and losing one. His opponent in the match he lost was a fourteen-year-old girl with refined swordsmanship who gave him no opportunities at all. Wharton lost decisively, but he learned something as well.
When the practical combat assessment ended, another group was eliminated. Wharton's new number was twenty-one.
At dusk came the final event: talent evaluation.
It took place in a quiet room on the top floor of the main building. The candidates entered individually. Three examiners sat inside: the hawk-eyed examiner from the morning, the female warrior from the afternoon, and an old man with a white beard wearing a mage's robe. That surprised Wharton. Why was there a mage at a warrior academy?
"Wharton Baruch, six years old." The hawk-eyed examiner read from the records. "Above average in physical fitness, excellent technique in the strength test, and good practical combat performance."
The three examiners exchanged looks. The hawk-eyed examiner wrote quickly on the paper, then looked up. "Talent evaluation: exceptional. Wharton Baruch, you've passed the assessment."
There were no cheers, no congratulations, just a calm statement.
Wharton withdrew his hand. "Thank you."
"Come tomorrow morning to complete the enrollment procedures and receive your class and dormitory assignments." The hawk-eyed examiner handed him a sheet of paper. "This is a temporary pass. You can stay at the academy guesthouse tonight, free of charge."
Wharton accepted it, thanked him, and left.
By the time he emerged from the main building, the sky was dark. The square was brightly lit, with a few candidates and parents still scattered about. Wharton stood on the steps and took a deep breath.