Lucien stepped into the training ground of Nalanda Academy, the sun sharp against the horizon. His uniform clung to his frame with military precision, and his eyes scanned the crowd that had gathered. Today was the beginning of official classes, and the air was heavy with anticipation.
Students of various races stood gathered—elves with regal bearing, beastkin with twitching ears and sharp stares, dwarves shifting restlessly with calloused hands, humans trying to find their space in between. All of them were wearing a silver-gray band on their wrists.
"These," Gorath's voice thundered from the front, "are Restriction Bands. While worn, your abilities will be compressed and fixed to F-rank limits. No exceptions."
The orc instructor's green skin gleamed under the morning sun. He wore no armor, only a rough black sleeveless gi that barely contained the bulging cords of muscle beneath. His tusks jutted out proudly, and his amber eyes glared with military discipline.
"Run," he said simply. "Run until the sun sets."
Silence. Then stunned murmurs.
"Is this some sort of test?"
"He's kidding, right?"
Gorath grunted. "This is your endurance lesson. Complain, and I double your weight bands. Faint, and you attend punishment training after class—with two bands."
Lucien rolled his shoulders casually. "Well, that escalated quickly."
He set off at a light jog, pacing himself. Most of the students followed, reluctantly. Some sprinted foolishly, trying to impress. Within twenty minutes, the first one collapsed. A tall elf boy fell, gasping.
"Drag him off. He's extra class material now," Gorath snapped, and danced happily as his hobby is making sissy students cry more.
Lucien's band pulsed on his wrist. His strength felt comfortably contained, a pleasant pressure over his limbs. It made the movement more refined, his body more precise. With Flow of Adaptation active in the background, his steps were steady, his rhythm improving with every cycle.
He brought up his panel silently.
---
[SYSTEM INTERFACE – ACCESS GRANTED]
Name: Lucien Level: 32 Rank: C-Rank (Restricted)
Skills: • Flow of Adaptation – S Rank (Perfected Flow Achieved) [Proficiency: 89.2%] • Reactive Sword Style – Level 3 [Proficiency: 82.9%] • Combat Footwork: Phantom Steps – Level 3 [Proficiency: 56.7%] • Mana Resonance – Level 9 [Proficiency: 91.3%] • Meditation – Mastered (Passive: Divine Mind Stability) • Radiant Mana Control – Mastered (Integrated)
---
His eyes flicked across the panel, briefly satisfied. Flow of Adaptation had subtly increased his stride efficiency by 0.3% just since morning. Minute, but relentless.
Ignis was several feet behind, matching pace. His eyes glowed with competitive fire. Determination burned around him like a smoldering aura.
Beads of sweat rolled down his jaw, but his teeth clenched with defiance.
Lucien didn't even look. But he knew.
Someone nearby grumbled, "This is insane… We're not soldiers."
Lucien muttered under his breath, loud enough for the wind, "Reminds me of someone I knew… 'Train harder, Kakarot.'"
A nearby beastkin with yellow spiked hairs gave him a confused glance. "Who's Kaka-what?"
Lucien waved it off, grinning.
An hour passed. Then another.
Gorath never said a word, just stood like a statue with arms folded. He only barked when someone slowed.
Several students collapsed. Others staggered. A dwarf began retching.
Gorath walked over happily and dropped a second band on him. "Evening class. Congratulations."
Some of the beastkin and orcs kept going—gritting through the fatigue. Their natural builds gave them an edge, but even they looked weary by the third hour.
Lucien felt calm.
Flow of Adaptation pulsed. Every step was smoother than the last. Even the aches were recorded and filed by his muscle memory for correction.
Ignis coughed behind him gritting his teeth. "Still not… tired?"
Lucien finally looked back. "Not yet. But I'll let you know if it happens."
The flames in Ignis' eyes flared.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden hue across the worn training yard, Gorath raised a single hand.
"Enough."
Lucien stopped mid-step, taking a deep breath. Not even winded. He rolled his shoulders.
Ignis dropped to a knee, frustrated, chest heaving.
Gorath began assigning students to extra training. About half the class. Some groaned. Some cursed.
Lucien walked past them with silent steps.
Behind him, whispers began to rise.
"He didn't even slow down."
"He's scary."
"Why's someone like him in our batch?"
That night, while others nursed their legs and bandaged their pride, Lucien sat by the common courtyard with a drink in hand.
He could already feel it in the air.
Alliances were forming.
Rivalries being born.
And somewhere deep in the night, one dark-shadow stared at him with calculating silence.
The games had begun.
But Lucien was already moving to the next step.
Because endurance was just the first foundation of power.
And he was already building toward the summit.