Graduation

At O'Brien Academy's graduation arena, twelve-year-old Wharton Baruch stood in the center of the grounds.

The stands were packed with students, instructors, academy officials, and even a few military representatives attending as observers. Today's graduation assessment was not a standard test, but an early graduation battle for a special group. In O'Brien Academy's eight hundred years, plenty of geniuses had graduated early, but Wharton was the first to apply at twelve.

The chief examiner was the academy's vice dean, Raymond "Iron Wall," an Eighth-level Warrior. The bald man, known for his severity, stood with his arms folded, watching the figure in the center of the arena with a complicated look in his eyes.

"Wharton Baruch, twelve years old, applying for early graduation," Raymond announced in a booming voice. "By the rules, you must defeat three outstanding students from your year in succession, then last against me for the time it takes an incense stick to burn. There's still time to change your mind."

Wharton wore the academy's standard black training uniform, with the cuffs and trouser legs deliberately drawn tight. It had been issued two years ago and had fit him then, but now it looked short and small. In six years, the scrawny boy who had entered the academy at six had grown into his frame. He was nearly 1.6 meters tall, not particularly large, but standing there, he was like a taut bowstring, every line of his body suggesting strength.

"I won't change my mind," Wharton said.

Raymond nodded. "First match, against Harold Stoke."

A blond boy came forward from the opposite side. He was fifteen, 1.8 meters tall, with broad shoulders and a thick back, the typical build of an O'Brien warrior. Harold was one of the best students in their year, a sixth-level warrior known for his strength.

"Wharton, I know you're strong." Harold worked his wrists. "But a graduation battle isn't ordinary sparring. I won't hold back."

"Don't," Wharton said.

The whistle blew.

Harold charged first, his heavy steps leaving deep pits in the sand. His right fist shot straight out, the wind of the blow howling. It was a textbook opening from O'Brien military boxing, but its speed and power had reached the peak of the sixth level.

Wharton didn't dodge.

He moved to meet him, reaching out with his left hand, not to block, but to seize. His five fingers clamped precisely around Harold's wrist and pulled him along. Harold's forward momentum was redirected, throwing him off balance. Wharton's right shoulder struck his chest. The impact wasn't hard, but it landed at a tricky spot.

Bang.

Harold staggered back three steps before regaining his footing, astonishment flashing across his face. The impact hadn't been powerful, but it had disrupted the core of his power generation, and now his chest felt painfully tight.

"Your strength is an advantage, but you put too much of it straight into your attacks," Wharton said. "When you turn your waist, hold thirty percent back so you can change moves."

It was advice, not mockery. Harold gritted his teeth and charged again. This time he was more cautious, using both fists and feet in an attempt to overwhelm Wharton with a flurry of attacks.

Wharton moved through the blur of fists. His steps were small, only half a step or a full step at a time, but each one took him just clear of an attack. His movements looked unhurried, even a little slow, yet Harold couldn't hit him.

After thirty exchanges, Harold's breathing grew ragged.

Wharton suddenly stopped and drove his right fist toward one of Harold's whipping kicks.

Fist and foot collided.

With a muffled thud, Harold was sent flying backward. After landing, he stumbled another seven or eight steps, his right leg trembling. Beneath Wharton's feet, the sand had sunk only half an inch.

"Thank you for the match," Wharton said.

Harold stared for a moment, then cupped his fists with a wry smile. "I lost."

A buzz of discussion rose from the stands. Harold, a sixth-level warrior, hadn't lasted fifty exchanges against Wharton.

Raymond's face showed little expression. "Second match, against Alice Windsor."

This time, a girl came forward. She was sixteen, slender, with red hair tied in a high ponytail. She wielded twin short blades that gleamed pale cyan-weapons enchanted with wind magic.

"Little Wharton, I won't be as clumsy as Harold," Alice said with a soft laugh. Her figure suddenly blurred.

She was a speed fighter. With speed at the peak of the sixth level and the boost from the wind enchantments, her movements were erratic and unpredictable. Her twin blades struck from every tricky angle, like venomous snakes flicking their tongues.

Wharton finally got serious.

He drew the training short blade at his waist-an ordinary iron blade, unenchanted. Holding it across his chest, he began to move.

He wasn't dodging. He was anticipating.

For every attack Alice launched, Wharton's blade was waiting in just the right place. The blades collided in a continuous series of clangs. The longer Alice fought, the more alarmed she became. She was clearly faster, yet Wharton always managed to cut off her path before she struck.

After seventy exchanges, Alice's breathing fell out of rhythm.

Wharton suddenly spoke. "Your left ribs are open."

Alice instinctively guarded her ribs, but Wharton's blade was already three inches from her throat.

"You..." Alice's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

"Your breathing rhythm." Wharton lowered his blade. "After every full-force thrust, there's a half-second gap while you catch your breath. You unconsciously relax your guard over your left ribs."

Alice stared, then bowed deeply. "Thank you for the lesson."

The stands had fallen quiet. If defeating Harold had been a display of superior strength, defeating Alice was a complete victory of skill and insight. The twelve-year-old fought with the seasoned experience of a veteran who had survived countless battles.

Raymond took a deep breath. "Third match, Roderick O'Brien."

The name brought silence to the entire arena.

The youth who approached from the other side of the arena was seventeen, with black hair, blue eyes, and a stern face. He wore ordinary training clothes, but he walked with a commanding stride and an air of authority. O'Brien-the imperial family name.

"Rod is a seventh-level warrior." Raymond looked at Wharton. "You may choose to use a weapon. He'll use one too."

Roderick stopped ten paces from Wharton and took a two-handed greatsword from the weapons rack. Its blade had no edge, but it was astonishingly heavy, and it stirred the wind as he lifted it.

"I've heard my imperial father mention you," Roderick said in a low voice. "Twelve years old, a seventh-level warrior, with the Dragonblood Bloodline. O'Brien Academy's greatest genius in eight hundred years."

Wharton said nothing, only tightening his grip on the short blade.

"I came today to see how strong this 'greatest genius' really is." Roderick gripped his sword in both hands. "I won't hold back because of your age, so don't disappoint me."

"Please," Wharton said.

Roderick moved.

Unlike Harold's brute charge or Alice's swiftness, his movements were simple, efficient, and heavy. His greatsword swept across, cutting off every angle of escape. This was battlefield swordsmanship, with no flourish, only killing.

For the first time, Wharton retreated.

Blade and sword collided, and the short blade shuddered violently. The difference in strength was too great. Even though Wharton used technique to deflect most of the force behind the seventh-level warrior's full-power strike, the remaining shock still left his arm numb.

Roderick pressed forward step by step, his greatsword striking like a furious storm. Every blow carried tremendous force, and every blow aimed at a vital point. This wasn't sparring. It was a real fight.

Wharton darted through the blur of the sword, danger surrounding him. Several times, the greatsword grazed past his body, cutting tears in his training clothes.

After fifty exchanges, Wharton was completely suppressed.

Someone in the stands shook their head. "In the end, the age gap is too much. The difference in strength and experience is too great."

But Raymond's eyes lit up.

He could see that although Wharton was retreating, his footwork remained steady. Every block and every dodge was executed with the smallest movement necessary. More importantly, Wharton's eyes remained calm, like a deep pool.

After seventy exchanges, a slight irregularity appeared in Roderick's breathing.

Now.

Wharton suddenly stopped retreating. He stepped toward the descending greatsword, using his short blade not to block but to slide along its length, and slammed the hilt into Roderick's wrist.

It was the same move, but it had limited effect against a seventh-level warrior. Roderick lowered his wrist and turned the downward chop into a sweep.

But Wharton was already in close.

The short blade left his hand-not dropped, but thrown. It spun toward Roderick's face, forcing him to turn his head aside. In that brief opening, Wharton's fist arrived.

It didn't smash forward. It thrust.

His fist shot like a spear toward Roderick's chest. Roderick raised an arm to block, but Wharton changed the motion, turning the thrust into a press against his opponent's elbow joint.

Crack.

There was a faint sound as the joint shifted out of place. Roderick grunted, nearly losing his grip on the greatsword.

Wharton didn't follow up. He stepped back three paces.

Roderick lowered his sword and moved his right arm, setting the joint back in place. He looked at Wharton with a complicated expression. "You held back on that last punch."

"It was only a spar," Wharton said.

"If you hadn't held back, my elbow would have shattered." Roderick was silent for a moment. "You win."

The stands fell dead silent, then erupted in thunderous applause.

Three fights, three victories, against opponents ranging from the sixth to the seventh level. The twelve-year-old had proved in combat that he deserved the title of "greatest genius in eight hundred years."

Raymond walked into the arena and came before Wharton. He studied the student. The quiet little boy from six years ago had now grown into a true warrior.

"Final match: last against me for the time it takes an incense stick to burn," Raymond said. "The rules remain the same, but I'll use the strength of a warrior at the peak of the seventh level."

Wharton nodded and picked up his short blade again.

Raymond used no weapon. He took his stance, and in an instant, his entire bearing changed. If Roderick had been like a drawn sword, Raymond was like a mountain-immovable and insurmountable.

"Begin."

Raymond moved. He wasn't fast, but every step fell into rhythm. He threw an unremarkable punch, yet the pressure of the wind from it made Wharton's breath catch.

Wharton turned sideways and stabbed beneath his ribs. Raymond neither dodged nor blocked, letting the point strike his training clothes. The blade bent, unable to pierce it. A defensive layer of battle qi at the peak of the seventh level was beyond a training blade's ability to penetrate.

"Your advantages are skill and speed," Raymond said as he punched. "But against a truly strong opponent, those aren't enough. Strength, defense, endurance-you can't do without any of them."

Wharton didn't answer. He only dodged, blocked, and counterattacked. His blade left countless white marks on Raymond, but none caused any real damage. Meanwhile, Wharton had to give his all to neutralize each of Raymond's punches.

Time passed, and more than half the incense stick had burned away.

Wharton's breathing grew ragged, and sweat soaked his training clothes. Against someone at the peak of the seventh level, it was already a miracle that he had lasted this long.

Raymond suddenly changed his approach. His punches became much faster, one after another, like a torrential downpour. Wharton was forced back again and again, his feet plowing deep furrows in the sand.

For his final punch, Raymond used eighty percent of his strength.

Wharton held his blade crosswise to block. It bent to its limit, then snapped. The punch continued undiminished, driving toward his chest.

I'm going to lose.

But dark red suddenly flashed in Wharton's eyes.

He didn't transform. If, in a mere examination, he needed to transform just to defeat an ordinary seventh-level warrior, he would be letting down his identity as a transmigrator.

He discarded the blade and crossed his hands over his chest.

Bang!

Wharton was sent flying backward. After landing, he staggered back more than a dozen steps, each one leaving a deep pit in the sand. He stopped on the last step, a trace of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but he remained standing.

The incense stick burned out.

Raymond withdrew his fist and looked at Wharton for a long time. Then he turned toward the stands, his voice carrying across the entire arena.

"Wharton Baruch has passed the early graduation assessment!"

Thunderous applause broke out.

Wharton wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and saluted Raymond, then the spectators. He turned and walked toward the edge of the arena.

Hiri was waiting there.

Six years had passed, and the old butler had grown older, his back slightly hunched and his white hair sparse. But today he wore his best clothes and held a wooden box in his hands.

"Young master." Hiri's eyes were red, but he was smiling. "Congratulations on graduating."

Wharton took the wooden box and opened it. Inside was a new set of clothes, dark blue and made of thick fabric, with the Baruch Clan emblem embroidered in silver thread on the cuffs. Hiri had made them himself.

"Thank you, Grandpa Hiri."

"It's time to put them on," Hiri said. "Wear them to receive your graduation badge."

Wharton went to the changing room and put them on. They fit perfectly; he had clearly been measured. The dark blue made his skin look darker, and the silver-thread emblem glinted faintly in the sunlight.

The graduation ceremony was simple. Raymond personally pinned a dark gold badge to Wharton's chest. It bore the design of a crossed sword and shield, with a small "O'Brien" engraved beneath.

"From today onward, you are an official graduate of O'Brien Academy," Raymond said. "The academy will record your achievements: twelve years old, a seventh-level warrior, and a bearer of the Dragonblood Bloodline. You are the academy's pride."

Wharton ran his hand over the badge, feeling the cool metal.

"Also," Raymond said, lowering his voice, "His Majesty wants to see you."

A side hall in the imperial palace of the O'Brien Empire.

Emperor Joanne O'Brien sat behind a desk. He was in his fifties, with a resolute face and eagle-like eyes. He wore simple casual clothes, but the authority of one long accustomed to high office came naturally to him.

Raymond brought Wharton in, then saluted and withdrew.

"Sit." The emperor pointed to the chair opposite him.

Wharton sat down, his back straight.

"I watched your graduation battle," the emperor said, getting straight to the point. "Twelve years old, a seventh-level warrior, with the Dragonblood Bloodline. Raymond says that if you transform, you can reach the ninth level."

"Lord Raymond flatters me."

"He doesn't offer empty praise." The emperor fixed his eyes on Wharton. "The O'Brien Empire needs geniuses, and loyal geniuses even more. What are your plans after graduation?"

"Return to the Fenlai Kingdom and see my family."

The emperor nodded. "As you should. But what about afterward? With your talent, you'd have better prospects if you stayed in O'Brien. The military, the court, the academy-take your pick. Resources, status, wealth, the empire can provide them all."

It was a recruitment offer, very direct but sincere.

Wharton was silent for a moment. "Your Majesty, my clan is in Fenlai."

"The Baruch Clan. I know," the emperor said. "Five thousand years of heritage, but it has fallen into decline. You want to restore your clan?"

"Yes."

"You don't have to go back to restore your clan." The emperor leaned forward. "In O'Brien, you can grow stronger faster. Once you become a ninth-level warrior, or even reach the Saint-level, who would dare deny Baruch's glory when you return?"

He had a point. But Wharton shook his head. "Your Majesty, some things can't wait."

The emperor looked at him for a while, then suddenly smiled. He took a token from a drawer and tossed it to Wharton. It was black, with a crown engraved on the front and a sword and shield on the back.

"This is an imperial guest elder token. With it, every official institution within O'Brien's borders will accommodate you," the emperor said. "I won't force you to stay, but O'Brien's doors will always be open to you. Whenever you change your mind, come back."

Wharton closed his hand around the token. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Go." The emperor waved his hand. "Remember, come back alive. A dead genius is nothing."