Chapter 13: Whispers Before War

CHAPTER 13: WHISPERS BEFORE WAR

(Part 1 of 2 – The Path Revealed)

The hall was silent — but it was not peace.

It was the hush before a blade is drawn.

The instructor walked slowly to the center of the vast peer hall. His robes were immaculate black, trimmed with crimson, and his boots rang like war drums against the marble. A half-mask of silver veiled the lower half of his face, but his eyes — they burned with controlled fury, cold and assessing.

Even the proud sons of noble families sat straighter when he arrived.

Lux watched him in silence, golden eyes unreadable.

But the instructor's gaze had already found him.

Outer Ring? it seemed to ask.

No — it accused.

Then the moment passed.

The man turned from Lux as if dismissing him entirely and raised one hand. A single sigil flared above his palm — not divine energy, but raw authority. It silenced the final whispers in the room like a guillotine's drop.

"You are the Chosen Hundred," he said, voice smooth, controlled, unyielding. "Selected from the thousands of applicants to the Eternal War Academy. Some of you bear crests older than this Empire. Some were born with crowns in your cradles. Others…"

His eyes flicked again — just briefly — to Lux.

"Others crawled through ash and blood to get here."

Lux didn't move. But something in his dantian pulsed — the sleeping crow beneath his soul letting out a quiet, embered breath.

"You are not equals," the instructor continued. "Not yet. And likely… not ever."

That caused some of the students to smile — cruelly.

"But you are soldiers now. Or will be." He let the words hang like iron. "So let's begin with what matters most: power. Not the kind printed in your bloodlines or purchased by your ancestors. But the kind you will forge."

He lifted his other hand.

A scroll unraveled in midair, glowing with lines of divine script.

"This is the Foundation Scripture of the War Academy," the instructor said. "The one you all have access to. Spirit Grade."

Some of the students visibly yawned. One boy from the Inner Ring even turned to his companion with a smirk. "Spirit? That's peasant trash," he muttered.

Lux didn't flinch.

He was already ahead of them — ten thousand years ahead.

The instructor ignored the murmurs. "This scripture is freely given because we are not an ordinary academy. We train those who will lead legions. Not children who beg their sects for handouts. But make no mistake — most of you will ignore it."

That drew a few laughs.

"You, after all, come from clans who hoard Saint Grade techniques. Some of you have Divine Grade ones. I can feel it leaking from your dantians like spoiled perfume."

Lux looked straight ahead.

He had chosen the Spirit Grade flame technique during his registration earlier — a basic scripture named Burning Feather Manual. It was ordinary. Boring. Safe.

A perfect mask.

Because no one knew that inside his soul, the Golden Crow's Fate-Reversal Record had fused with the Codex of Fate, evolving into something beyond even Primordial Grade. Something alive.

Something divine.

"In the War Academy," the instructor continued, pacing now, "if you want a better technique, you earn it. Through contribution points. Kill beasts in the Outlands. Win duels. Lead skirmishes. Command. Conquer. You will be rewarded with access to the Technique Vault."

He paused, then added coolly, "But do not expect charity."

Lux's eyes narrowed slightly.

He had no need of their vaults. But perhaps… he could hide within them. Pretend. Blend. Until the right time came to burn the heavens.

Then, the instructor turned back to face the hall. His tone shifted — colder now. More deliberate.

"Now. Let us discuss what divides you further than any technique ever could: talent."

The murmurs returned. But not mocking ones. Now there was tension.

"Talent," he said, "is not a title. It is not a compliment. It is a measurement of how deep your soul can drink divine energy. How wide your dantian can stretch before it fractures. How easily you will walk the path… and how quickly others will be left behind."

He pointed at the scroll above them, and it changed.

A new image unfolded — silhouettes of cultivators, each with faint glowing cores. Some dim. Some radiant. A few… blazing.

"There are many ways to measure talent. Some use stars. Some use colors. We do not care. Here, we simply observe. Some of you will struggle to ignite even your first flame. Others…"

He looked again — this time at the frost-eyed girl in the front row, and the golden-skinned swordswoman beside her.

"And a rare few… may break through three realms in a year."

Lux did not blink.

The Codex had not yet finished assessing his talent. It still read: Undetermined. Corrupted by Codex fusion.

But deep inside, he knew.

He had surpassed even the concept of talent.

The instructor let the image fade. "But talent alone means nothing without a physique to match it. And the heavens are cruel — they grant powerful physiques only to those with exceptional talent. Why? Because if every peasant could be a god, the heavens would fall."

That made a few students nod grimly.

"Some of you were born with rare bodies — Flame-Blood Saints, Moon-Iron Vessels, Starlit Veins. Others will awaken theirs through chance, fate, or… conquest."

That last word was sharp.

And again, his eyes passed over Lux — just for a heartbeat.

"In the old eras," the instructor said, lowering his hand, "those with low talent were cannon fodder. Dead within five years. But in this era… even the lowest-born may rise."

He turned fully, facing them all.

"Because the Eternal War has no patience for weakness."

There was silence again.

Lux sat still.

But the flames inside his core were not still.

The Golden Crow opened its second eye.

Not fully awake… but watching. Waiting.

The girl with frost-colored eyes glanced back toward him now — just briefly.

But her gaze lingered longer than before.

Like she could feel something beneath his skin.

A weight older than her ancestors.

A fire that had burned even time