The head instructor stood before them with a mana amplifier crystal at his throat.

"First place — Clara Duncan. Reward: 5,000 Academy Points, B-Rank weapon or armor of choice from the academy vault, and priority access to S-Rank training grounds for one month."

Clara nodded. Her expression was composed. The Ice Queen, even in victory.

A woman stood from the instructor section and walked toward the platform. She was beautiful — tall, with auburn hair pulled into a loose braid and green eyes that sparkled with sharp intelligence. Her combat instructor uniform was fitted perfectly to an athletic frame.

"Instructor Lira Cornell," the head instructor announced. "She has selected Clara Duncan as her student."

Lira stopped in front of Clara and looked her up and down with unhidden appreciation.

"Good physique," Lira said. "Very strong for a girl. You overpowered Damon Mercer’s gravity compression with raw body strength and beat Arthur Chevalier. That’s not just talent. That’s exceptional foundation work."

Clara inclined her head. "Thank you, Instructor."

"I’ll push you harder than anyone else has. Be ready."

Lira stepped back.

"Second place — Arthur Chevalier. Reward: 3,000 Academy Points, C-Rank equipment of choice, and access to advanced training rooms."

Arthur stood.

The head instructor himself stepped forward. "I will take Arthur as my student."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. The head instructor — a Grand Core Realm cultivator with forty years of teaching experience — rarely took personal students.

"Arthur has an exceptionally good understanding of his ability," the head instructor said, his voice carrying across the coliseum. "I would estimate he has lit at least five stars of his Metal star palace. His combat IQ is remarkable — he identifies opponent weaknesses within seconds and adapts his strategy accordingly. He lost to Clara not because of a skill gap, but because her specific ability combination countered his. Against almost anyone else, he would have won."

Arthur bowed. "I will work hard, Instructor."

"See that you do."

"Third place — Lucian Grimaud. Reward: 1,000 Academy Points and access to advanced training rooms."

Lucian stood. His body ached. The wounds from the Arthur and Elias fights throbbed without regeneration to numb them.

Two instructors rose simultaneously — a broad-shouldered man Lucian didn’t recognize, and Professor Vasilev. They exchanged a glance. Vasilev’s lips curved slightly.

Then the side door opened.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

An old man entered. He looked to be in his sixties — thin, with white hair pulled back in a simple knot and a long cane in his right hand. His eyes were closed as if he were sleepwalking.

He moved slowly. The cane tapped the stone floor in a rhythmic pattern that seemed too loud in the suddenly silent coliseum.

The two instructors who’d stood sat back down. Vasilev’s smile vanished. Her jaw tightened.

He stood at the front of the instructor’s stand for a moment, his closed eyes facing the platform.

Facing Lucian.

"I’ll take the boy," the old man said.

No one spoke. No one argued. The head instructor simply nodded.

Lucian frowned. Who is this? —

"Come." The old man was already moving toward the side door. Tap. tap. tap.

Lucian glanced at Clara. She looked as confused as he felt. He glanced at the head instructor. The man’s expression was carefully neutral.

Lucian followed the old man out.

Behind them, the awards ceremony continued — fourth place for Elias, selected by Professor Ming from the Research Department. Bruno was called up and invited by a combat instructor who’d noticed his raw potential despite the loss to Elias.

Fragments of whispered conversation continued among the clusters of students.

"Who’s that with him?"

"Is that the blind elder?"

"I thought he was dead."

"He doesn’t take students. Ever. In ten years, he’s never—"

Meanwhile, Lucian followed the old man. He was following the tap of a cane down a path that led away from the academy buildings, away from the training grounds, away from everything familiar.

The whispers faded as they climbed a gentle slope. Trees thickened around them — ancient oaks and silver birches that didn’t look like they belonged on academy grounds. The air changed. Like breathing water.

They emerged into a clearing.

Lucian stopped.

The scenery was impossible. A mountain lake stretched out before him, its surface so still it looked like glass. Waterfalls cascaded down distant cliffs. Wildflowers grew in patches of color that shouldn’t exist together — blue and gold and deep purple. Birds sang from trees that seemed to reach toward a sky bluer than any Lucian had seen.

At the clearing’s center stood a wooden house.

Simple and small. A thin curl of smoke rose from its chimney.

The old man walked toward it. Tap. tap. tap.

Lucian paused at the threshold. The fragrance of tea drifted out — rich, complex, so relaxing that his wounded body almost sighed in relief.

Trap? No. If he wanted to kill me, he would have done it in the coliseum. He seems very strong. Even my natural senses can see through him at all. Maybe I will try with eyes of the eternals when my system abilities return.

Lucian stepped inside.

The interior was sparse. A wooden table. Two chairs. A small stove where a teapot steamed gently. Shelves lined one wall, filled with jars of dried herbs and old books.

The old man sat in one chair, pouring tea with practiced ease despite his closed eyes. He filled two cups.

Then he spoke.

"What’s a young vampire like yourself doing here?"

Lucian’s blood ran cold.

His hand immediately drifted toward the Sword of Aikis at his hip.

The old man took a slow sip of his tea. "What? It’s not like you and your girlfriend are hiding it. I can literally sense it even with my senses shut. The way you moved in the finals — faster than a Peak Neophyte should, but not fast enough to compensate for your lack of technique." Another sip. "It’s quite surprising. Isn’t it?"

His eyes opened.

Lucian’s mind went blank.

The eyes weren’t normal. They swirled — not with one color, but with all of them. Rainbow spirals that seemed to contain galaxies, depths, infinities. Looking into them felt like falling.

Lucian felt naked. Every secret he’d ever had laid bare before those impossible eyes.

"You aren’t from any of the three great vampire clans." The old man’s voice was curious. "So which one are you from?"

Lucian’s hand closed around his sword hilt. He dropped into a fighting stance.

The old man calmly sipped his tea. "I can tell if you lie. Just so you know."

Lucian didn’t relax. His muscles were coiled. Ready to move.

"If I wanted to kill you," the old man said, "I would have done it already. You couldn’t stop me even at your best."

Lucian’s jaw tightened.

"I was born with the bloodline," he said. "Even I’m not sure what it is."

"What I know is my bloodline is far superior to theirs," he said quietly.

The old man laughed.

"You can’t even fight across realms. You lost to a first-year student with a B-Rank ability despite having such a great bloodline and A rank or above ability. Arthur Chevalier has already lit five stars of his ability. His spells are refined. His mana control is excellent — he doesn’t waste a single drop on unnecessary effects, sure. Clara Duncan, a turned vampire with barely a month of transformation, overpowered Damon Mercer’s gravity with raw strength and outthought Arthur’s superior realm through sheer tactical brilliance."

"And yet you have the balls to compare yourself to the other vampire clans." The old man set down his tea.

Lucian said nothing.

The old man leaned forward slightly.

"You lost because your foundation is garbage. You have power — raw, untapped potential that makes my teeth ache just looking at it — but you don’t know how to use it. You swing a sword like a thug. You cast spells like a child. Your Blood Manipulation is S-Rank on paper and maybe C-Rank in practice."

"You’re a joke," the old man said. "A joke with extraordinary potential."

Silence.

The tea steamed between them.

"What’s your goal?" the old man asked.

Lucian thought. His mind churned through the hatred, the rage, the cold emptiness that had driven him since he was six years old.

"I want all the vampires dead," he said. "They took my father and mother. They separated me from my sister."

He paused.

"And I want to find my sister."

The old man looked at him.

And his expression seemed disappointed.