Dusk draped Aurora Academy in a soft orange glow as BaiYun trudged toward the Rogue division training yard—a familiar stretch of sand and weathered wooden dummies he knew like the back of his hand. Since stumbling into this place, it’d been his haunt. The Rogue division was his gig, after all—he was one of their own.

  Earlier that afternoon, he’d tracked down Ola, still lugging a hangover that stuck like sour mud. They’d run through his spell list—nothing Ola found particularly astonishing, merely rudimentary techniques any competent mage could muster. But the way BaiYun wielded them? That piqued the old man’s curiosity. He’d even proposed an audacious notion—converting that ultimate system trick they’d encountered a few days prior into a viable spell. The approach was so unorthodox Ola couldn’t suppress a flicker of intrigue, his hands clasped behind his back as he mused aloud, “Truly, I must wonder how your mind operates, conjuring such… unconventional applications.”

  Shock aside, Ola shifted to a more analytical tone. “You lack a direct offensive spell,” he observed, adjusting his robes with a precise tug. “Your tactics hinge excessively on redirecting others’ spells—ingenious, I’ll grant, yet it leaves you perilously exposed without a personal means of aggression.” As an arcane master, Ola didn’t hesitate—he proposed Arcane Missile with the air of a lecturer unveiling a theorem. A few demonstrations, some incisive guidance, and BaiYun grasped it swiftly. He flicked his wrist, mana sparking, and a volley of shimmering darts streaked forth, striking a practice dummy with a muted thud. Hardly devastating, but the execution was precise—Ola inclined his head, approving. “A Level 5 mage potential, indeed.”

  Then BaiYun mumbled, scratching his neck, “Uh, professor… I’m out of mana.”

  Ola’s expression stiffened, a faint exasperation creasing his brow. “Indeed?” He exhaled sharply, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. They’d need an alternative—arcane finesse wouldn’t suffice with such a meager reserve. “Consider this,” Ola said, his voice taking on a measured cadence, “your initial assignment to the Rogue division was not merely for security purposes and my observation. I had hoped you might acquire a close-quarters proficiency—something beyond hurling cookware at your opponents. Your slight physique scarcely suits the warrior’s path. Moreover, the Rogue division offers a repertoire of survival techniques—quite essential, I’d wager, for keeping you alive.”

  “Seek out Min Zhao,” Ola instructed, his tone firm yet scholarly. “Request her expertise in close combat training.”

  So here BaiYun was, boots crunching sand as he hit the Rogue division training yard at dusk, the place near empty save for a few stubborn souls still swinging at shadows. The air hung thick, laced with sweat and dust, and he felt every step jostle his aching head—thanks, Barrett.

  “Bulb Lighter!” a voice called from behind, sharp and teasing. “Aren’t you the guy who hates training? What’s dragging you here at sundown?”

  BaiYun turned, spotting a figure perched on the yard’s railing—a girl, leaning casual-like against the wood. She was decked in wine-purple leather, the kind so sleek it caught the fading light, with gold noble filigree curling over her shoulders and waist. A pair of amethyst bracers gleamed on her arms, and twin daggers hung at her hips, their handles studded with deep purple mana crystals that pulsed faintly—pricey as all get-out. Her chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders, glinting like red wine in the dusk, and her face? Too pretty—sharp brows, carved cheekbones, green eyes lazy with a haughty edge. She didn’t belong here, not in this grimy pit.

  BaiYun knew her—Ellinor Plantagenet, the Rogue division’s resident princess. He’d once asked his system about her, but it drew a blank. “No fame, no record—not a big shot on the continent,” it’d said, then added, “That surname, though—Plantagenet. Old as dirt, loaded with coin and clout. The Plantagenets are one of Auffre’s ancient houses, but weird thing? No top-tier genius like the ones from the Noble Six ever popped up. Keeps ‘em stuck below the elite.” Her gear screamed wealth—those gem-crusted blades, that leather fit for a gala. Rogue? More like a noble playing dress-up.

  They were acquaintances, sort of, so BaiYun shrugged, tossing back, “You’re here too, so what’s your deal?”

  Ellinor flicked her hair with a smug little grin. “This lady’s observing—watching’s training too, you know.”

  BaiYun rolled his eyes. Spoiled brats were their own breed—one wrong word, and you’d get an earful. Best to dodge and dip. “Right, well, you keep ‘practicing’ then, Lady Ellinor. Got stuff to do.” He waved lazily, turning to go—Min Zhao was the priority.

  She flashed a polite smile, waving back with a grace that didn’t match the dirt under her boots. BaiYun glanced at the yard, figuring he’d toss out some manners. “Hey, Alwina’s over there training—you could join her.”

  Big mistake. That one line lit a fuse.

  Ellinor’s eyes flicked up, lazy and sharp. “Who?” she drawled, then smirked, all teeth and taunt. “Oh, you mean that ‘upstart’?”

  The venom hit like a slap. BaiYun felt the air shift—hell, he’d stepped in it. Time to bolt. He regretted that extra breath already.

  “Oh?” Another voice cut in, familiar and edged with a huff of anger.

  BaiYun winced, turning to see a figure not far off—a blonde girl standing tall against the sunset, her silhouette gleaming like a blade in the fading light. She was a sight: white-gold leather hugging her frame, etched with subtle silver runes that caught the glow, her stance all coiled steel and quiet fury. Her golden hair whipped in the breeze, framing a face sharp as a dagger—high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and blue eyes blazing like a storm about to break. She crossed her arms, her vibe screaming danger.

  Alwina Verner—the “White-Gold Scout.” BaiYun had clocked her from day one—hard not to, with that gear and presence. He’d asked his system about her too, and this time it didn’t hold back. “Alwina Verner, heir to the Verner family—one of The Noble Six. Not your old-blood nobles, though—they clawed their way up in the last few decades, earning their title on the borderlands’ blood and grit. They’re more soldiers than aristocrats, holding the frontier against bandits, invaders, even beasts. Alwina’s the standout—trained since she could walk, a master of stealth and scouting. But unlike most rogues, she doesn’t hide. That platinum armor? Her calling card. She’s so fast, so sharp, she doesn’t need shadows—walks right into the fight and dares you to catch her. Word is, she’s danced through a thousand foes, left taunting notes in enemy camps, then vanished before they blink. Her crest’s the Garuda—wind-ruler, speed incarnate.”

  And right now, that Garuda’s heir looked ticked.

  “Who’d you just call an ‘upstart’?” Alwina’s voice was flat, but the edge in it could slice stone.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Ellinor didn’t flinch, adjusting a glove with slow, elegant ease, her head tilting just so. “Pardon me, who might you be?” she asked, voice dripping with mock innocence, then added with a faint smile, “Oh, right—the ‘nouveau riche,’ yes?”

  Alwina’s attack didn’t faze her—Ellinor was poking the bear, and BaiYun could feel the heat rising. He wanted out—why’d he have to open his big mouth?

  “Well now,” Alwina said, her tone icy, arms still crossed, blue eyes narrowing to slits.

  No dodging this one. BaiYun braced himself as Alwina stepped closer, her platinum armor glinting like a warning in the dusk. She wasn’t tall, but she carried herself like a storm waiting to break—shoulders squared, chin up, every move deliberate. Those blue eyes locked on Ellinor, sharp enough to cut through steel.

  “You just call me an ‘upstart’?” Alwina’s voice stayed calm, but the storm in her gaze said otherwise.

  Ellinor didn’t budge, smoothing her glove with a dainty flick, her green eyes glinting with lazy scorn. “Every family serves Auffre in its own way,” she said, voice syrupy. “The Verners guard the frontier—commendable, sure. But without centuries of culture, of depth, a few decades of scrapping hardly makes a noble house.”

  Alwina’s face hardened, her jaw tightening like a drawn bowstring. “Huh,” she said, low and cold. “Sounds like you’re real proud of that ‘culture and depth.’” Her hands shifted, and in a blink, twin silver daggers gleamed in her palms, their blades catching the last light with a wicked shimmer. “How about we test it? See if your family’s ‘depth’ can handle this upstart?”

  Ellinor raised a brow, her posture all grace under pressure, the faintest sneer tugging her lips. “I speak of heritage, and you jump to knives.”

  Alwina’s smirk vanished, those ice-blue eyes turning lethal. “Less talk,” she said, voice dropping, her grip tightening on the daggers until the blades flashed cold. She took a step forward—light as a breeze, but the air around her sharpened, like a gust about to snap into a gale.

  Ellinor didn’t flinch, her purple cloak lifting slightly in the evening wind, chestnut hair swaying as she tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “Oh my,” she said, voice soft and taunting. “Looks like someone’s riled up. Guess upstarts can’t keep their cool.”

  That did it. Alwina’s lips curled into a tight, frosty grin, and with a sharp huff, she moved—gone in a flash, a blur of platinum and gold as her foot kicked off the sand.

  BaiYun’s eyes widened, his hand jerking up. “Wait—”

  Too late. Alwina reappeared at Ellinor’s side, dagger slashing toward her throat, a streak of silver wrapped in a whisper of wind. Ellinor’s smirk deepened, her stance unshaken, like she’d seen it coming—her hand twitched, ready to counter. But before she could, a shadow slipped in, silent as a ghost. A black-clad arm shot out, catching Alwina’s blade mid-strike with a steady, effortless grip.

  Min Zhao stood between them, all in black, her face a blank slate. She didn’t even look strained—just held Alwina’s dagger tightly, her calm, watery eyes fixed on the blonde.

  The air went still, tension snapping like a cut thread.

  Alwina pressed her lips thin, held Min Zhao’s gaze for a beat, then let out a sharp “tch.” She yanked her dagger back, spun on her heel, and stalked off, platinum armor glinting as she vanished into the dusk.

  BaiYun blinked, shaking off the shock. He turned to Ellinor, angry. “Your mouth’s worse than mine—can’t you just shut it for once?”

  Ellinor chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a dainty flick. “Oh, I could,” she said, voice light, “but facts don’t care—she’s got no chill.”

  “Facts?” BaiYun shot her a glare, half-exasperated, half-annoyed. “If Min Zhao hadn’t stepped in, you’d be missing a chunk of that pretty face right now.”

  Ellinor just smiled, all poise and zero care, turning with a graceful sway of her cloak. She sauntered off, steps light as if the near-brawl was a passing breeze, leaving BaiYun staring after her, muttering under his breath about highborn headaches.

  “BaiYun, come.” A calm, firm voice sliced through his thoughts.

  He spun to see Min Zhao standing a few paces off, her black gear blending into the shadows, her expression as unreadable as ever. “Here to train or stir up trouble?” she asked, her tone flat. She’d caught the spat—and pinned it on him. Min wasn’t thrilled, especially with BaiYun’s knack for running his mouth.

  “Train, train,” BaiYun said, sheepish, rubbing the back of his head with an awkward grin.

  Min shot him a sidelong glance, clearly unimpressed, then tossed him a wooden dagger with a flick of her wrist. “Start,” she said, stepping square in front of him, hands empty—no weapon, no nothing.

  BaiYun caught it, his grip tightening as a flicker of nerves hit. What now? No warmup, no chit-chat—just straight into it? Sparring from the jump? He stood there, frozen, unsure if he was supposed to swing or wait.

  Min stared, her eyes narrowing as he dithered. Then, in a blink, she was gone—a black streak slicing through the air. Before he could twitch, her fist hovered an inch from his face, stopped cold. No force, but the wind from her speed brushed his skin, sharp and quick. She didn’t say a word, just loomed there, her silence louder than a shout—and somehow more exasperated.

  BaiYun flinched, eyes slamming shut as her fist loomed. Closed them right up.

  Min’s brow twitched, a spark of irritation breaking her calm. What was this guy doing? No combat sense at all—most folks fought to keep their eyes open, and here he was, shutting them tight at the first swing? No wonder Barrett had pounded him into a swollen mess. Still, looking at his face, a flicker of amusement tugged at her—she almost smirked.

  He cracked his eyes open, sheepish but stubborn, raising the dagger in a shaky “let’s go again” stance. Min didn’t budge, so he lunged—two quick jabs, sharp and decent, aimed at her side. She sidestepped the first like it was nothing, her body a blur, then twisted out of the second with a tilt of her shoulder. They circled, pulling apart, locked in a tense standoff. BaiYun’s focus wavered—he blinked, half a second too long.

  Min was on him in an instant, her fist whistling through the air, stopping just shy of his nose again. He flinched, eyes squeezing shut once more.

  She pulled back, her patience fraying. “Blink like that again, and I won’t stop,” she warned, voice low and clipped.

  “Got it, got it!” BaiYun nodded fast, bobbing his head like a scolded kid.

  Seconds later—whack. Her fist clipped his cheek, light but stinging. He winced, rubbing the spot, muttering, “Sorry, sorry—slipped my mind. Let’s go again.” A few beats passed—whack. Another hit, this time on the jaw. Time crawled by, and the punches kept coming—left, right, left—his already puffy face swelling worse with each smack. Even his system, usually a relentless heckler, piped up, exasperated: “Quit blinking, you dolt!” But knowing and doing were two different beasts.

  Min started feeling a twinge of guilt, watching him take hit after hit with no progress. “Maybe try something else?” she suggested, her tone softening just a hair.

  BaiYun, bruised and fuming—one part from the system’s nagging, one part from Min’s fists—snapped back, manners out the window. “I’m not a fucking quitter!” Inside, he was boiling: That spat with Alwina and Ellinor was their mess—I suggested they train together out of kindness, didn’t I? Why’s she beating me like this? Blinking’s just human, isn’t it? Fuck!

  Min sighed, progress nowhere in sight. Fine, he wouldn’t quit? She would. “That’s it for today,” she said, turning to leave.

  A voice cut through—annoyed, swollen, and a little ridiculous. “What time tomorrow? You gonna die if you say a longer sentence?”

  Min paused, caught off guard. He wanted more of this? Tomorrow? A laugh slipped out—short, dry, but real. She turned back, delivering the longest string of words he’d ever heard from her: “Same time. Hope today’s beating taught you something—never, ever blink in a fight. Especially against a rogue.”

  BaiYun blinked—figuratively this time—stunned she’d strung that many words together. Before he could muster a reply, she waved a hand. “Gone. See you tomorrow.”

  So that was the day—folks chuckled, BaiYun took a thumping.

  A rogue’s lesson, short and sweet: blink less, or eat some beat.