Chapter 195: Levels To This

  Inside the newly built Reinhart Institute, everything was running surprisingly smoothly.

  The air buzzed with quiet activity—quills scribbling against parchment, the soft hum of magic-infused artifacts, and the occasional spark of experimental mana.

  Dozens of individuals, robed or armored, moved through the hallways with purpose.

  Many had already been evaluated and assigned their tier badges, with a significant number qualifying for Tier 3.

  It was clear that the region held more magically inclined people than initially expected, and that magic, long hidden in the shadows, was finally beginning to bloom in public view.

  Abu stood by one of the upper balconies overlooking the training yard below, his arms folded as he watched a few pseudo-ranked adventurers spar under supervision.

  He was genuinely surprised—and quietly pleased—by how quickly things had fallen into place.

  The institute’s mission had been met with enthusiasm. Every day brought new applicants, new talent, and new potential.

  The tasks posted on the mission boards had begun to cycle through. Some involved exploring uncharted terrain, slaying rogue beasts, or collecting rare resources from nearby magical groves.

  A few daring adventurers had even returned with minor injuries and proud grins, having completed their first assignments successfully.

  The numbers were promising.

  A solid stream of Tier 3 badges had been handed out over the past week, and even a few more Pseudos had emerged—loners with magical tools or rare affinities who finally felt safe enough to step into the light.

  The spirit of independence and collaboration that Bask’s leaders hoped to foster was finally gaining momentum.

  Abu had also received promising intel from the other institutions. Apparently, the broader changes weren’t isolated to Reinhart.

  Across Bask, rogue apostles who had once walked alone were now joining the fold.

  Each of the three towers had reportedly welcomed at least ten new apostles into their ranks—those who, until now, had operated beyond the law or without support.

  The vision of a unified Bask was taking root.

  Back in Reinhart, peace had begun to feel real. With the institute running smoothly and the transportation hub nearing completion, the pressure on the local officers had finally eased.

  For the first time in a while, they could focus on the town itself, ensuring order, growth, and protection.

  The news about the Big Jellies arriving in a week was particularly exciting.

  These massive, friendly transport beasts—part biological creature, part enchanted entity—would act as mobile portals, connecting Reinhart to five other institutes across southern Bask.

  It was a revolutionary step in mobility, allowing for quick travel between distant cities.

  For longer distances beyond those five hubs, adventurers would need to transfer to another jelly at those institutes, continuing their journey in stages.

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was a major leap forward.

  The only piece still missing from the grand vision was the start of youth recruitment.

  The volunteers—many of them respected Pseudos' acquaintance with Abel—had been vetted and registered, but they hadn’t yet begun their roles as mentors, instructors, or protectors.

  That would come in time, once the institute formally opened its doors to the next generation.

  Abu allowed himself a rare moment of peace, gazing out over his work with satisfaction.

  Until the shouting began.

  He blinked and turned toward the sound, distant but growing louder. Commotion stirred near the main gate, voices rising, people rushing to peer outside. His brow furrowed.

  “What in the world…?” he murmured, pushing away from the balcony rail and making his way down the polished hall.

  Something was happening. And it had just arrived at the front door.

  The wide front doors of the Institute slammed open with a loud crack, the sunlight cutting through the polished hall as two muscular figures stormed inside.

  Both carried massive clubs strapped across their backs, their shirts clinging tightly to scarred, battle-hardened bodies.

  The first man, tall with deep brown skin and a close-cropped afro, scanned the room with quiet menace.

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  Beside him, the second, blond-haired, blue-eyed, and visibly more agitated, stormed ahead, holding up a glowing badge with the [III] insignia engraved at its center.

  "I’ve had enough! Tier Three?" the blond man barked, his voice cracking through the hall like a whip. "This has to be a mistake. I've killed a pseudo before! I should be Tier Two—minimum!"

  Every head turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. The room tightened like a drawn bow.

  On the edges, whispers picked up—low, sharp.

  "Dark Club Twins."

  "Didn't they just clear an Institute task?"

  "Supposed to be rising stars."

  The blond jabbed a finger at a nearby attendant, muscles straining under his jacket, veins thick as cords. "Tier Two gets better rewards. Better materials. What the hell is this garbage system?"

  Up on the balcony, Abu watched it unfold, expression unreadable. He sighed through his nose, then pushed off the rail and started down the steps.

  He'd seen this play out before. Too many times. A little recognition, a little success—and suddenly, everyone thought they were invincible.

  By the time Abu reached the floor, the tension had thickened. The blond was pacing now, his partner lounging behind him with a smirk, like he was enjoying the show.

  Abu stopped a few paces away, his voice carrying clearly across the silence.

  "You're not a pseudo," he said, calm and cold. "That alone bars you from Tier Two."

  The blonde's laugh was short, bitter. His partner stepped forward, blue eyes glinting.

  "Then test us," he snapped. "Let's see if your precious rankings mean anything. I've trained for years in a club-wielding art. Developed it myself. I bet I could even be the Institute Head."

  For a moment, Abu just stared at them. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly and heavily.

  Fourth tantrum this week. Different faces, same story.

  Some people just couldn't handle the truth: they weren't as strong as they thought.

  The ranking wasn’t arbitrary—it was based on genuine, quantifiable strength. And raw arrogance didn’t count.

  Before Abu could respond, a calm yet commanding voice cut through the tension.

  “I’m a pseudo,” said Lena, approaching from the side.

  She had just been passing through—the newer staff quarters she now resided in weren’t far from the institute.

  Her curly hair caught the light as her feline-like eyes fixed on the two men with cool indifference.

  “Why don’t you step outside,” she said evenly, “and see if you can take me on.”

  A silence fell over the room.

  The two men stiffened. The air shifted slightly, a subtle weight pressing against their bravado. Lena’s presence, quiet yet unmistakably dangerous, seemed to drag the temperature down a few degrees.

  The blond one opened his mouth but hesitated. His bravado flickered, and for a moment, so did his confidence.

  Abu folded his arms, thankful for the interruption. He didn’t even need to say anything.

  The challenge had already been issued.

  The two men exchanged a confident glance, smirking as they stepped forward. With a synchronized motion, they pulled out their iron-studded clubs, each wrapped in a swirling black aura.

  The spikes glowed faintly, pulsing with dark energy that radiated malice. A few onlookers instinctively backed away, sensing the tension building.

  But Lena didn’t flinch.

  With a casual shrug, she rolled her neck and let out a breath. Then her body began to shift.

  Fur bloomed across her arms, her frame thickened with muscle, and her features elongated into something both regal and terrifying.

  Her mane glowed faintly as her werelion form fully emerged, golden eyes glinting with power.

  Gasps erupted from the surrounding crowd. People stopped in their tracks, staring wide-eyed.

  Even Abu, who had stepped out to watch from a distance, raised an eyebrow.

  The energy Lena gave off wasn’t far from his own—it was refined, raw, and undeniably formidable.

  Now standing a full head taller than the men, her presence alone made them hesitate. But not for long. With a shout, they lunged.

  The clash was swift and brutal.

  “I'll show you Bitch!” The first man lunged with a wild overhead swing. His dark club howled through the air, but Lena was already gone, slipping to the side with a twist of her hips.

  She lashed out. Her claws caught his forearm in passing, tearing through cloth and skin. He yelped, staggering, his swing collapsing into a clumsy stumble.

  She had been lenient, as a true swing of her claw on this mundane man would've taken his hand off.

  The second man roared and charged, trying to catch her while she was mid-motion. He swung low, aiming for her legs.

  Lena hopped back, landing lightly on her feet. Sparks flew as the club scraped the cobblestones.

  She didn’t give him time to recover.

  With a snarl, she closed the gap, slashing at his wrist. The club tumbled from his hand with a clatter.

  The first man, blood dripping from his arm, came again—desperation turning his strikes reckless. He swung horizontally, aiming for her head.

  Lena ducked, felt the wind of the blow graze her ears, and drove her shoulder into his gut.

  He grunted, folding over her, and she brought her knee up, sharp and brutal, into his face.

  Bone crunched. He dropped like a sack of meat.

  The second man scrambled for his fallen weapon, but Lena was faster.

  She planted a foot on the club, pinning it to the ground, and slammed her fist into his jaw. His head snapped sideways.

  He wobbled—and Lena finished it with a savage kick to his chest, sending him sprawling across the stones.

  Both men lay beaten—one clutching his ribs and groaning, the other coughing blood, trying to crawl away.

  Lena stood above them, untouched.

  Her breathing was steady. Her eyes, cold.

  She flexed her claws, blood dripping from the tips.

  "There are levels to this," she said, voice low, crackling with menace.

  Without a glance back, she turned and walked away, tail swaying behind her slow, deliberate, the rhythm of a predator who knew exactly where she stood on the food chain.

  Abu let out a quiet exhale and shook his head, half-amused, half-impressed. Then, without a word, he turned and headed back inside the institute.