“Now that attendance is taken care of, follow me. We will go to the weapon room,” Isabell said, turning on her heel and walking toward the door.
The class fell into line behind her. Max dragged his feet slightly, finding himself at the very back of the line, which suited him just fine.
They moved through the halls of Nexus, the echoes of their footsteps filling the space. The academy’s design was futuristic—steel walls reinforced with glowing mana inscriptions, sleek metallic doors leading to different training facilities, and overhead chandeliers pulsing with energy instead of flames. The atmosphere screamed prestige and power.
Eventually, they arrived. Isabell pushed open a set of large, reinforced doors, revealing the weapon room.
The moment Max stepped inside, his breath caught.
The room was massive, more of an armory than a simple storage area. Weapons of all shapes and sizes lined the walls, displayed in an almost artistic fashion. There were swords, both standard and curved. Spears rested in racks, their tips gleaming under the artificial light. Bows of different sizes were propped against the far wall. Rows of daggers sat in open cases, their handles gleaming in the light. Even stranger weapons—ones designed for monster trainers and specialized combatants—were set aside in separate sections.
The air itself smelled of steel, leather, and excitement.
“You will pick your weapon today, and it will remain your weapon for the duration of your time at Nexus. There will be no returns, no switching unless there are specific circumstances,” Isabell announced, her voice sharp and leaving no room for argument.
The moment she finished speaking, the students dispersed, moving through the room with excitement and curiosity. Some rushed straight for the swords, grabbing hilts and testing their weight. Others examined bows, drawing back phantom arrows to test the tension. Skylar was already eyeing a shortsword with an almost greedy look, while Takahiro casually inspected a set of twin daggers, spinning one between his fingers with ease.
Max glanced up, curious about what the others were choosing, but instead of studying the weapons, most of the boys were fixated on the door. Their gazes were locked, their movements sluggish, as if they were caught in a trance.
Furrowing his brow, Max followed their line of sight and caught a glimpse of Isabell leaving the room. Her long, flowing hair trailed behind her as she exited, her posture effortlessly elegant. The effect was immediate—shoulders tensed, hands paused mid-reach, and a few students blinked rapidly as if trying to shake themselves out of a daze.
‘Oh… that effect is strong,’ Max thought, watching them struggle to refocus.
Some of the boys cleared their throats and awkwardly turned back to the weapons, pretending nothing had happened. Others, like Takahiro, seemed unaffected, his eyes still scanning the dagger selection without pause. Max shook his head. It was a reminder of why Isabell was so dangerous—her charm was a weapon in itself, even without her trying.
Max weaved his way through the crowd, slipping past students who were still admiring the weapons. The dagger section was less crowded, occupied by Takahiro and a few others who inspected the blades with trained eyes.
Rows of daggers lined the display—sleek, curved ones for quick slashes, thick-bladed ones for brutal strikes, and even some with serrated edges designed to tear through flesh. Each weapon gleamed under the artificial lighting, the steel reflecting Max’s face as he ran a finger along the handles.
Takahiro stood nearby, his expression unreadable as he tested the weight of a narrow-bladed dagger. His movements were methodical, almost second nature, as if he had handled weapons his entire life.
Max, however, wasn’t looking for anything flashy. He reached for the most unremarkable set—a pair of standard daggers with no engravings, no ornamentation. Just pure practicality. The blades were of average length, the edges sharp but nothing extraordinary. The handle was simple grey wood, sturdy but devoid of personality.
This would do.
Without hesitation, Max turned away from the selection, ignoring the more extravagant choices, and made his way toward the door. Others were still browsing, but he had no reason to linger.
…
Max found his way to the public training grounds, a vast open space lined with reinforced flooring to withstand constant abuse from students testing their weapons. Overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the facility. Training dummies were scattered throughout, some already bearing the marks of overzealous swings, while others stood untouched, waiting for fresh abuse.
He adjusted the straps on his holster, feeling the weight of the daggers settle against his thighs. The fit was snug, but not restrictive—good.
Max exhaled, rolling his shoulders before focusing on the simplest, most fundamental skill: drawing his weapon. He gripped the handle of his right dagger and pulled. It snagged slightly against the holster.
He reset. Again. This time, he tried to minimize wasted movement, angling his wrist just right. Another fraction of a second shaved off.
Again.
Again.
A rhythm formed. Draw, return. Draw, return.
Before long, students started filing into the training grounds. A few tested their weapons on dummies, some sparred with each other, and a handful simply observed. It was clear that many were eager to prove themselves.
It didn’t take long for some to take notice of Max.
A few snickers echoed from nearby.
"Is that all he's doing?" one student muttered, loud enough to be heard.
"Guess some people just don’t have talent," another added with a chuckle.
Max tensed but kept his focus. He wasn’t even in the center of the grounds—he had positioned himself in a far corner, away from the main action.
‘Why are they looking at me?’ Max thought, anxiety creeping in. He wasn’t bothering anyone. He had intentionally chosen a spot away from the crowd.
“Attention!”
The voice rang out across the training grounds, sharp and commanding. Max turned his head to see Isabell standing at the entrance, arms crossed, her presence instantly drawing attention. The murmurs and side conversations died down.
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“I figured most of you would head to the training grounds to break in your weapons, so I’ll make this quick,” she said, scanning the crowd. “I’m here to observe and answer any questions you might have.”
Almost immediately, students flocked toward her. Some were eager to receive advice, while others, particularly the guys, seemed more interested in simply being close to her.
Max stayed where he was, rolling his shoulders as he continued practicing his draw.
‘She’s a good teacher…’ he thought, watching her engage with the students. Despite her intimidating presence, she didn’t dismiss anyone outright. Even the most clueless questions were met with straightforward explanations.
Max’s attention shifted to the other side of the training grounds, where Collin du Plessis was practicing.
The rank one student stood tall, his sword slicing through the air in a seamless arc. Each swing was precise, measured, and effortless. His form was perfect—no wasted movement, no unnecessary flourishes.
Max narrowed his eyes.
‘It looks so effortless.’ He knew enough to recognize skill when he saw it. ‘If I didn’t have a five-star manual, I wouldn’t even come close to his level.’
Max leaned against the cold steel wall of the training ground, watching the other students swing, stab, and fire off attacks with their new weapons. Some were naturals—Collin, for example, who moved with the kind of effortless grace that only came from years of experience. Others fumbled, still trying to get used to the weight and feel of their chosen weapons.
Max, meanwhile, hadn’t even touched his daggers since picking them up.
Instead, he stood there, thinking.
Nightstalker.
A five-star manual. An assassin’s art. One of the deadliest combat styles in the world, designed to kill before a fight could even begin.
Max crossed his arms. The manual’s techniques played through his mind like a film reel, each movement carefully choreographed for maximum lethality.
Speed.
The foundation of Nightstalker. The first step dictated everything—plant your foot and go. There was no slow buildup, no wasted motion. If you weren’t fast enough to close the gap before your opponent reacted, then you were already dead.
‘Problem is… I’m slow.’
Max knew his limits. His reflexes were decent, but his raw speed was lacking. He wasn’t built like an assassin—yet.
He sighed.
Precision.
Nightstalker didn’t rely on drawn-out fights. Every strike aimed for a vital point—the throat, the arteries, the spine. Hit the right spot, and it was over in an instant.
‘No room for error.’
Max had never fought with daggers before. His muscle memory was nonexistent, his accuracy untested. If he missed even slightly in a real battle, he’d be the one on the ground instead.
He clicked his tongue in frustration.
Deception.
The most complicated part of the art. Nightstalker wasn’t about fighting fair—it was about winning.
Throw sand in the eyes. Fake an opening. Drop oil at their feet, then set them ablaze. If done correctly, an opponent wouldn’t even realize they were dead until it was too late.
‘That part… I can work with.’
Max had no assassin’s training, no muscle memory for daggers, no honed speed. But trickery? That was something he understood.
He smirked slightly.
If he couldn’t match them in raw talent, then he’d just have to outthink them.
…
A man stepped onto the training grounds, his yellowish-blonde hair ruffling in the wind as he surveyed the area. He was tall, with a relaxed posture that barely concealed the power behind it. Warren, a man whose presence seemed to demand attention without uttering a word.
“Any good ones to start out?” Warren’s voice was confident yet it had an easygoing quality to it, like a question one would ask in a casual conversation.
Isabell, standing nearby with her usual air of authority, didn’t flinch at the intrusion. She had heard this kind of question before. “Yeah, a couple,” she answered without a second thought, her voice measured and calm.
“Like who?” Warren asked, his curiosity piqued, though his tone remained nonchalant. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned slightly to the side, clearly at ease.
Isabell’s gaze flickered to the students around her for a moment, then back to Warren. “Collin, Ophelia, Skylar, Evelynn, Takahiro, Wei Zhen.”
Warren’s lips curled into a small, knowing smirk. “That’s expected with their families.”
A flicker of annoyance passed over Isabell’s features, but it was brief. “You’d be surprised.”
Warren shrugged it off, the edge of his skepticism still lingering in his voice. “Any of them you get your eye on?”
Isabell’s gaze sharpened. “Collin.”
Warren raised an eyebrow. “The kid who set a new record in training and rank… what was it? D-rank?”
“That’s exactly why,” Isabell said, her voice unwavering. Her focus was locked on Warren now, no hint of humor in her words. There was something in her eyes—something guarded. She knew what he was insinuating.
Warren tilted his head slightly, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. “Little suspicious that a kid with no impressive lineage could set those records, don’t you think?”
Isabell’s eyes narrowed, the air around her growing slightly colder. “Warren, I was there. I can assure you, he’s that talented.”
Warren’s smirk deepened, but there was something darker beneath the surface. “The Forbidden Rose speaks so highly of him, huh? Then he must be a real talent.”
Isabell’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a glint in her eye—something dangerous flickering beneath her calm exterior. “Show some respect, Warren,” she said, her tone taking on a dangerous edge. “Even if you have a powerful family, I’ll still kill you if you call me that again.”
Warren blinked, caught off guard by the venom in her words. His playful demeanor faltered for a brief moment before he quickly recovered. “Just a joke, Isabell,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
Isabell’s gaze shifted back to the group of students, but Warren’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“Hey, who’s that idiot in the corner?” Warren asked, his tone half-amused, half-curious.
Isabell glanced over, following his line of sight. Her eyes landed on Max, who was in the far corner of the training grounds, meticulously pulling his daggers in and out of their holsters. He was repeating the action over and over, with no noticeable change in speed or precision.
Warren’s laughter rang out, a sharp sound that carried across the open air. “What’s he doing, practicing for an invisible fight?”
Isabell didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she pulled out her tablet, scrolling through the data to find Max’s profile. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before she spoke, her voice flat. “Maximus Augustus…16… son of a guild director in Valthesis… talent assessment... D.”
Warren chuckled, his expression dripping with condescension. “And that’s why family and backing matter. People like him, with below-average parents, could never hope to come near the top.”
Isabell glanced at the tablet, her brow furrowing for a moment. She wanted to offer a counterpoint, something—anything—but the truth of it hit her. Max was barely making an effort. His movements lacked any sense of intention or commitment.
“Well—” Isabell started to speak, but her voice trailed off. She couldn’t refute Warren’s words this time. Max wasn’t just underperforming; he seemed to be doing the absolute bare minimum.
Max’s motions were mechanical, lifeless even. It was like he wasn’t even trying to improve. She almost wanted to tell him to at least act like he was putting in some effort—swing the daggers with more force, feign a little intensity, or take a break to look like he was thinking. But no, he simply stood there, doing the same motion.
‘At least act like you’re swinging them, or something,’ Isabell thought, her eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Anything else. At least give some illusion of effort…’
But even as she thought this, her gaze lingered on Max, wondering why someone would show up, equipped and ready to train, only to completely waste their time. Was it arrogance? Laziness? Or something else entirely? The uncertainty gnawed at her.
Warren, still watching Max, leaned back with a smug grin. “I mean, look at him. If that’s the future of Nexus, maybe I should start looking into a different career.”
Isabell didn’t respond right away. Her eyes never left Max. There was something... off about the way he trained—or rather, the way he wasn’t training.