Primordial Heir: Nine Stars-Chapter 296: Reaching the Academy
The laughter from the train car felt like a distant memory, tucked away like the comfortable clothes they’d changed out of. Stepping onto the platform in the academy city was like walking into a wall of sound and flashing light. A sea of reporters and paparazzi surged against security barricades, lenses like a hundred hungry eyes searching for a single face: Nero’s. Shouted questions tangled into an indecipherable roar. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢
"Nero! Over here!"
"Is it true about your unique laws?!"
"A comment on your relationship with the Ice Queen!"
"What did the Leclairs really think?!"
But they found only a group of unremarkable students in oversized academy hoodies, hats pulled low, helping a sleepy friend with too much luggage. The disguise was simple, orchestrated by Lux, and it worked. They slipped through a service entrance like ghosts, the frantic energy of the crowd fading into a muffled echo behind thick steel doors.
The familiar, hallowed silence of Glory Academy’s main gate was a balm. But they weren’t alone for long. Two figures materialized from the shadow of a towering marble archway, their presence immediately quelling any remaining chatter from the group.
There was Aaron Taagal, the main teacher, a man with a scholar’s tired eyes and a warrior’s stillness. And beside him, radiating a contained, volcanic energy, was Balrog Cassius, their Knight-class instructor—the Knight of Blood. His crimson hair seemed to burn even in the dim light.
"Welcome, youngsters," Balrog’s voice was a gravelly rumble. A faint, approving smirk touched his lips. "You did well to have disguised yourself. If not, endless trouble awaited."
"Greetings, teachers!" the group chorused, relief evident in their voices.
Without another word, the two teachers fell in beside them, forming an impenetrable shield. Their mere aura seemed to bend the attention of passing cadets away. The group moved through the grand corridors like a secret, unseen and unremarked upon.
"Where are you taking us?" Adam whispered to Balrog, his eyes darting around the familiar, yet suddenly clandestine, halls.
Balrog smiled, a flash of white in the dim light. "Do not worry. You’ll head to your respective rooms to settle. Nero," he said, the name dropping like a stone, "will come with me to meet the headmaster."
They nodded, the plan clear. The teachers led them to a secluded dormitory wing, one usually reserved for visiting dignitaries. As they walked, both Aaron and Balrog made a pointed, almost comical effort not to look at Nero and Khione’s intertwined hands. It was as if acknowledging the linked fingers would break some fundamental law of the universe. Khione, the unapproachable Ice Queen who could freeze a rival with a glance, was walking with her shoulder pressed to Nero’s, her head tilted slightly toward him, listening to his quiet words. It wasn’t meekness, but a profound, quiet certainty. The sight was, for the two seasoned warriors, more disorienting than any new combat law. It dawned on them, visibly: the toughest iceberg could, indeed, be melted.
The teachers halted, giving them a moment. A silent, charged look passed between Nero and Khione—a universe of understanding in a glance, a squeeze of the hand, a slight nod. Then the group split. Lux, Adam, Blake, Eltreth, and Azalea disappeared into the quiet hallways toward their temporary rooms. Khione cast one last, cool glance at Balrog—a clear, unspoken warning—before following them.
Nero watched her go, then turned to his teacher. "Lead the way, sir."
Balrog grunted and began walking, not toward the headmaster’s spire, but toward the outer training grounds. Aaron had already vanished on some other errand. Nero wasn’t surprised. He’d expected a test.
The training ground was vast, an arena of packed earth and reinforced stone under the twilight sky. The air here always smelled of ozone, sweat, and shattered magic. Balrog stopped in the very center, turning to face his student.
"The headmaster can wait," Balrog said, rolling his shoulders. The air around him began to stir, a gentle breeze that quickly picked up, plucking at his coat and Nero’s hair. "Let me test your new law. Don’t worry," he added, seeing Nero’s focused expression. "I’ll limit my strength to entry-level Purple Knight."
Nero smiled, a fierce, eager thing. This was the opportunity he craved. Fighting a Knight of Blood, even a suppressed one, was a gift. "I wouldn’t have it any other way, teacher."
Balrog drew his weapon—a heavy, brutal bastard sword, its edge seeming to blur as the gathering wind vibrated along its length. The Law of Wind. Not just a breeze, but the concept of motion, pressure, cutting force, and impossible speed made manifest. Balrog was a master, near the legendary Black Knight level. Even suppressed, his understanding was oceanic.
Nero drew his longsword. Blue-white sparks, jagged and impatient, skittered down the blade. The Law of Lightning. Raw speed, devastating power, and the unpredictable, branching paths of pure electrical fury. It was his second law, newer, wilder than his first. At the Red Knight level, his body, soul, and unique nature allowed him to punch into the realm of low-level Purple Knights. But this was different. This was against a master who wielded a law with similar affinity for speed.
They stood fifty paces apart. Balrog didn’t adopt a stance; he simply existed, a calm eye in the storm whipping around him. Nero bent his knees, sword tip forward, lightning crackling in his free hand.
A single gold coin, flipped by Balrog, spun in the air between them. It twinkled in the fading light. It hit the packed earth with a soft ping.
The world exploded into motion.
---
Nero didn’t charge. He appeared. A straight line of scorched earth and crackling air marked his path as he used Lightning’s blinding initial burst. His sword, a spear of contained thunder, thrust for Balrog’s heart in a move almost too fast to see.
He hit nothing but swirling air.
Balrog wasn’t there. He’d dissolved into the gathering gale, reappearing three paces to the left. His bastard sword came not in a chop, but a flat, pressurized swat of condensed wind. It hit Nero’s flank like a runaway train.
WHUMP.
