As dawn breaks, a lone figure traverses the path to the hallowed halls of learning, the morning air embracing their senses with an unusual freshness. The remnants of a day spent in the enchanting company of Catherine linger, weaving threads of intimacy that dance in the recesses of their mind. In a jubilant haze, a melody unknown escapes their lips, yet thoughts are entwined with the beguiling visage of Catherine.

Abruptly, a metallic symphony rends the air, a fleeting discord that betrays the clash of blades. Instincts, honed by the crucible of a warrior's life, propel them toward the discord. In the distance, a congregation gathers, bearing witness to a conflict between two entities, distinguishable by the emblems of Vayu Academy and Prithvi Academy they bear.

"Wind Song, you craven! In our previous duel, you reveled in trickery. I shall not be ensnared again. Dare you face me in combat? The shame from our last encounter shall be returned twofold!" The voice resonates with fury, a declaration from Rage Roar, the third-ranked savant of Prithvi Academy. His form, a colossal figure wielding an iron rod, wields the transformative power of a giant python, a lineage entwined with the realm of half-beasts.

Half a year hence, in the crucible of the Empire's martial arts competition, Wind Song, with guile as his ally, triumphed over the forthright Rage Roar. This transgression birthed a feud that festers still. In this world where might reigns supreme, the pursuit of power is the unerring path to a loftier existence. Martial arts, a crucible of physical fortitude, stand as a testament to this ascension. Magic, an arcane pursuit, demands both intellect and an esoteric physical constitution, an avenue denied to some despite their mental acuity.

In the landscape of people, the martial realm emerges, a crucible of discord and confrontation. Gifted with formidable abilities, individuals are drawn to flaunt their prowess. Duels, a ritual of power and resolution, carve a path through the tapestry of growing up. From mundane squabbles to the fantastical, the duels of Wind City have woven themselves into the fabric of everyday life.

The Empire, an edifice founded on martial preeminence, annually orchestrates a national martial arts spectacle. The four eminent academies of Wind City, cradling exceptional talents, emerge as the vanguards of victory. The students, draped in the mantle of heroism, bear witness to the forging of grudges in the crucible of competition. The main crossroads leading to these bastions of martial erudition host duels, a recurrent saga that unfolds with relentless cadence.

The Empire neither condemns nor shuns this spectacle, for it perceives the cultivation of stalwart warriors in the crucible of conflict. The custodians of Wind City's security, the Royal Knights, remain inert unless fatal outcomes are imminent. In this epoch of magic, injuries, even severe, find redress in the ministrations of advanced white mages and priests, staunch purveyors of healing spells.

Yet, the chosen arenas of these duels perplex. In the midst of a parade of beauty, amidst graceful women passing by, these combatants unfurl their prowess. Inwardly, I lament the untimely display of bravado by these two.

"Haha, do you wish to suffer defeat before this assembly of fair maidens? Very well, your desire shall be fulfilled!" Wind Song, with an air of nonchalance, raises his hand, fingers flexing as if to loosen unseen constraints. Within, a sheen of sweat betrays the lingering numbness from a prior clash.

"Brat, today marks your demise! Witness my might. Ultimate Python Transformation!" Rage Roar, a formidable swordsman, swings his massive club with thunderous force, rending the ground asunder and shrouding the scene in a veil of dust. A primal roar accompanies his transformation, his already formidable physique swelling into a more fearsome semblance. Patterns etch across his skin, an embodiment of his half-beast ancestry in Python form.

"Enough of your theatrics. Do you believe yourself mighty? Can your prowess rival that of Heracles in our academy?" Wind Song, draped in feigned indifference, runs his fingers through his golden locks, a disdainful smile adorning his countenance.

Heracles, an invocation referencing the new-age dragon warrior inheriting the Karkinos Dragon, stands as a benchmark in recent competitions.Ardavan, the inheritor of the Manticora Dragon, vies with the War Soul for supremacy. The tapestry of their rivalry, woven into the annals of the eighth generation of dragon warriors, remains poised for revelation in the impending Empire Martial Arts Competition.

"Transformation may be your forte, but do I not wield the same prowess? Endless wind, bestow upon me boundless strength! Wind Spirit Transformation!" Wind Song, fingers splayed, invokes a spell. Instantaneously, his ears elongate akin to a rabbit's—a hallmark of the Wind Spirit Transformation exclusive to half-elves. The duel between the wielder of magic and the wielder of the blade unfolds, capturing the gaze of students and onlookers alike. Opportunistic gamblers, drawn by the tempest of conflict, cast wagers, fostering an ambiance steeped in chaos.

I linger not in this tableau. The duels of these combatants, though resonant to the uninitiated, seem but a paltry spectacle to one initiated into the realm of dragon warriors.

A graceful apparition materializes before me—Erin.

"Oh no, my immersion in Catherine yesterday led me to forget my tryst with Erin!"

In the frantic whirl of thoughts, concocting an excuse becomes imperative. Erin, however, seizes the conversational reins.

"I beg your pardon, David. A pressing matter arose last night, preventing my attendance. I inadvertently stood you up." Erin's visage tints with a blush, her apologies laid bare.

A momentary respite ensues, a wave of gratitude washing over me. Erin, too, ensnared in the machinations of that meddlesome woman, became a victim of her orchestrations. Gratefulness, veiled in jest, finds expression.

"Oh, that trifling matter? No cause for concern. Haha, a mere three-hour wait—nothing of consequence."Casual words spill forth, an attempt to don the mantle of a gentleman and curry favor with Erin.Yet, I couldn't shake the guilt of my prior intimacy and commitment to Catherine. My conscience nagged at me, leaving me with a twinge of regret regarding Erin.

In this country, polygamy wasn't prohibited by law. In Windhaven City, it was commonplace for men to take multiple wives, and for nobles and princes to keep numerous mistresses and female slaves. My own father, Charles, was no exception, engaging in relations with countless women before his passing. Had it not been for the low fertility rate among Dragon Warriors and my father's contraceptive measures, I might have had more siblings than I could count.

But for Erin, I desired more than just a fleeting affair. I longed for her to be my wife, not a mere mistress. With resolve, I decided to come clean: "Actually, I didn't have any prior commitments last night. I apologize for misleading you."

Upon hearing my confession, Erin's expression shifted from surprise to a gentle smile. "It's alright. I'm just glad you were honest with me," she replied warmly.

"Erin, hasten lest you incur tardiness!" The intrusive voice, a harbinger of meddlesome influence, reverberates from behind—I recognize it as that of the woman with a penchant for interference.

"Apologies, David. Astrid beckons, and I must away." Erin's gaze lingers, revealing a trace of emotion, before she departs.

The fiery-haired woman approached, her gaze a lethal force upon me. "David Johnson, wasn't your 18th name day a mere turn of the moon past?"

"Aye, elder sister, are you here to bestow a gift upon me?" My smile, a facade concealing the curses echoing within my heart.

"Hmph, it seems the Dragon Warrior's blood has not stirred within you. Johnson's scion lacks the mettle to grace the martial tourney. A lamentable fate," she remarked, feigning sympathy, her expression tinged with regret.

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This unhinged woman! My heart echoed curses upon her a hundredfold. Every tryst with Erin was marred by her interventions, transforming our moments into stolen fragments. A venomous presence, she flaunted her malice before alluring women. Curse her!

Despite the bile, I dared not betray my disdain upon my countenance. To maintain a veneer of composure, I greeted her with a facade of gentility, charm, and nonchalance.

Forcing myself to ingest this metaphorical dead fly, I retorted with a smile, "I lack the valor and martial ardor of my esteemed elder sister. If blame must be cast, it falls upon my old man for neglecting to pass the mantle of the Dragon Warrior's might unto me. A truly woeful circumstance!" I tilted my gaze skyward, rolled my eyes, and feigned a solitary tear, presenting a pitiable tableau. Erin erupted into laughter, the world momentarily drained of color in the radiance of her mirth.

Astrid snorted, escorting Erin away, but not before casting upon me a glare seeped in murderous intent. What sin had I committed to incur her ire? Erin, however, bestowed upon me a lingering look, a gaze that straightened my very soul.

"Enough! Cease your gawking! They've departed," a pat upon my shoulder, The Wind, a companion in mischief since our youth. Together, we had pilfered chickens and stirred chaos.

"Do you persist in your pursuit? Beware your frontal incisors," The Wind, his speech marred by a past folly, having attempted to court Erin half a year ago, was subjected to a free tooth extraction by Astrid.

"Hmph!" I chuckled, self-mockery in tow. Later, we shall discuss this matter. It had been a span since I graced the halls of learning. To most instructors, I was a wayward student. Skipping classes became my norm, a privilege extended by my passable grades and the aegis of my adoptive father, the principal. Were it not for these, expulsion would have been my fate.

In contrast to the militaristic rigor of the other three academies, Agni Academy embraced a laissez-faire ethos. Allowing students' imaginations to roam unfettered was the institution's time-honored creed. Half-day classes were the norm, with martial training conducted in the afternoons by student martial arts groups. It was this very leniency that endeared me to this academy—an opportunity to sidestep classes. However, this also meant that the most formidable warriors seldom emerged from Agni Academy; their ilk predominantly hailed from the other three.

Yet, Agni Academy boasted its own merits. The relaxed ambiance nurtured creativity and ingenuity. Our prowess in imagination and creativity eclipsed that of students from other academies. Many of the Empire's eminent generals were alumni of Agni Academy.

The living conditions in the other academies diverged drastically. Nunneries or monasteries, segregating male and female students, dictated uniform attire and enforced martial discipline. In contrast, Agni Academy was a haven of self-expression. Suzaku Academy's enchanting maidens were confined to widow's garb—attired in all-encompassing black. Prithvi Academy's attire resembled that of monks, garbed in uniform gray robes. Vayu Academy, perpetually battle-ready, attended classes in armor, akin to iron-clad sentinels.

"Yours is a haven!" Envy echoed from students of the other academies.

"Did you know? Over four centuries past, a century preceding the founding of the Wind Empire by the first emperor, George I, humans were devoid of transformative powers!" In the martial arts class, Alexander, our instructor, regaled us with tales of the Empire's history.

"We've known this for an eternity!"

"Nonsense! Must you reiterate the obvious? Known it for an eternity!"

"Grandfather and father have recounted it ad nauseam! Tedious!"

Post his discourse, yawns permeated the class. "Teacher, squandering time is squandering life. Why not regale us with tales of the fairer sex?" Mischievous voices erupted.

Unperturbed, Alexander, acclimated to the capricious nature of his charges, maintained his composure. The school's policy of non-interference facilitated the cultivation of exceptional generals.

His words indeed proved superfluous; the sagas of Dragon Warriors and new humans were ubiquitous in the Empire.

The term "new humans" denoted entities born of the fusion of human and other life forms. This amalgamation conferred myriad advantages, notably an extended lifespan. Yet, the human population scarcely burgeoned in the Empire established three centuries ago, primarily due to a diminished reproductive capacity. Menstrual cycles, once monthly, now occurred every four moons. Unearthing a heroine capable of birthing multiple progeny amidst new humans proved rarer than finding gold in the sand—a consequence of intermingled racial bloodlines. Yet, this natural balance, a consequence of fusion, was deemed by some as the equilibrium of nature.

In the contemporary Empire, while almost all were new humans, only a fraction possessed the prowess to transform into half-beasts, half-elves, or demonic forms of fallen angels. Out of a hundred, a mere ten could attain such metamorphosis. The renowned academies, thus, selectively enrolled students endowed with transformation powers.

"In this era, it is common knowledge that humans and dragons are distinct. Do you fathom the genesis of Dragon Warriors?" Alexander queried.

"Is it not by infusing a dragon's soul into a human vessel?"

"False. The process is not as simplistic." Alexander contested, bemoaning, "These pupils are indeed astute. I must impart more wisdom unto them."

"Contrary to other beings, dragons stand as the most formidable entities in the realm. Their might rivals that of mythical deities and demons combined. The Dragon Core houses the very essence of a dragon's omnipotent power. Now, contemplate the outcome when this core intertwines directly with a mortal form."

"It births the mightiest of Dragon Warriors!" The Tiger proclaimed with fervor, his martial prowess evident, but intellectual depth sorely lacking. A pawn fooled into meddling with the eccentric Astrid, he stood as testament to his simple-minded nature.

"A robust physique with an intellect to match. Well, at least ignorance has its blissful havens!" Alexander inwardly cursed, finding solace in the students' misjudgment. His class teetered on the brink of cancellation due to low attendance, a plight that left him on the precipice of unemployment. However, a faction of steadfast students, attending more for camaraderie than enlightenment, rallied against the impending demise of his lectures. They sought solace, relaxation, and the occasional nap, propelling a wave of opposition against the looming termination.

This query seized everyone's focus, prompting Abu to prod me, "David, as a progeny of the Dragon Warrior, you should hold insight. What's the answer?"

Of course, I possessed the knowledge, but the allure of securing funds for the next month's sustenance occupied my thoughts.

Following my parents' demise, my financial lifelines dwindled. My father, a Dragon Warrior and a duke, left me bereft of inheritance unless I, too, ascended as a Dragon Warrior. Yet, pledging allegiance to the emperor—a requisite for the title—struck me as an undue risk. Emperor Faber VII, a Dragon Warrior himself, besmirched the honor of our lineage with incompetence. Whispers insinuated his proclivities lay with handsome men, particularly the empire's prime minister, Cassandra, who traded his own flesh for favor.

Titles, by imperial decree, demanded military merit. Despite my father's accolades granting him the Grand Duke title, I wallowed in obscurity. Publicly unveiling my Dragon Warrior heritage would undoubtedly secure a count title, a strategic move to bind all seven Dragon Warriors to the empire. But my loyalty was to myself, an oath borne since youth.

I vowed self-sufficiency, brewing the Potion of Dreams—an economic bequest from my parents. Alas, my stock depleted when those ruffians imbibed the potion, thrusting me into fiscal turmoil. Yet, my newfound powers, inherited from the Dark Dragon, hinted at alternative means. In dire straits, contemplation veered towards unconventional sources, perhaps embracing the world's oldest profession—a strategic maneuver in resource development.

"If the Dragon Core is forcibly integrated into a human vessel, the outcome mirrors this." Alexander gestured towards the table, featuring an empty bottle and a water-filled bucket. Employing earth magic, he sealed the bottle, then extracted a marble-sized water sphere with water magic, injecting it into the bottle. As the water orb infiltrated, fractures marred the bottle's surface, culminating in a violent detonation.

"All in existence adheres to boundaries, and human potential is no exception. Imposing power beyond these limits mirrors adding a droplet to an already brimming cup."

"Dragon power transcends the thresholds of human endurance. If enforced..." Alexander intentionally paused, "the recipient of the Dragon Core will meet an explosive demise, unable to withstand the overwhelming might."

The disparity lies in the certainty of death when a person explodes, unlike the bottle... Alexander invoked an object restoration spell, returning the bottle to its pristine state.

The classroom fell into a hushed captivation. Alexander reveled in the charged atmosphere, propelling him to continue with fervor:

"Thus, the Ten Sages devised a method. Leveraging God's blessing as a conduit, they fused the Dragon Core's might with the human form..."

In the hallowed halls of academia, where knowledge weaves its intricate tapestry, most courses held a certain allure. However, amidst this sea of enlightenment, there lurked a subject that left a bitter taste in the mouth – "Social History." Much like the autocratic rulers who dictated the empire's fate, schools mandated the study of these insipid and utterly meaningless courses. They stood as a compulsory hurdle, the failure of which condemned one to the cruel shackles of non-graduation.

The curriculum, a sycophantic hymn to the greatness of the prevailing system, vilified alternative structures, extolled the benevolence of the emperor, extolled the supremacy of royal authority, and harped on the sacred duty of loyalty to the throne. In essence, it was an exercise in indoctrination, sculpting batches of loyal and exemplary subjects for the empire.

This vacuous and tiresome pedagogy cast a pall over the students' ardor for learning. The classroom often bore witness to a symphony of somnolence, with The Tiger leading the charge, snoring in sonorous protest. Professor Abraham, vexed by this recurring disruption, once truncated a class prematurely, summoning The Tiger to his sanctum for clandestine tutelage. Henceforth, The Tiger acquired a resounding moniker – "Dismissal Bell."

On this particular day, the social history class unfolded with Professor Abraham extolling the deeds of George III. Acquiescing to The Tiger's premature dismissal antics, the sage educator urged him to occupy the front row. In a pedagogical gambit fueled by affection, Abraham hoped to kindle The Tiger's scholarly zeal, envisioning a future contributor to society. Perhaps the affable professor's overtures bore fruit, as The Tiger sat with unprecedented attentiveness, a paragon of focus.

To stave off the creeping embrace of lethargy, my comrade The Wind and I devised a diversion – a gambling game. The rules were simple; wagers hinged on the estimated time until the dismissal bell's resonant chime. The once-drowsy gathering of friends animatedly engaged, the betting coffers swelling within minutes. Observing The Tiger's atypical comportment, they wagered that today's dismissal would unfold punctually.

"These rogues, always pleading poverty when I seek a loan. Yet, when bets are in play, their purses magically expand." My silent lament resounded within. Gazing upon the accumulating gold coins, apprehension seized me. The Tiger, seemingly transformed, remained entrenched in attentive absorption. Could the purported influence of the teacher's love hold veracity? Sleepiness retreated, replaced by an unwavering focus on The Tiger's every nuance. The tide seemed to be turning, Abraham's content smile further fueling my apprehensions.

As the minutes slipped away, the class neared its conclusion, yet The Tiger persisted in his unwavering posture. Mischievous glances from betting cohorts implied my impending defeat. Abraham, in high spirits, lauded the class for their diligence, singling out The Tiger's impeccable vigilance. He heralded this as a triumph for his pedagogical approach, a model he intended to champion in the academy. Front-row spectators, uninvolved in the betting frenzy, regarded The Tiger with disbelief, witnessing the potency of love and influence in education. Amidst the admiration and envious glances, The Tiger maintained his stoic indifference, a silhouette of unwavering resolve.

"Curses, this rascal The Tiger, still maintaining his façade of profundity. Is he vying for the admiration of the fairer sex?" My silent diatribe echoed. The Wind leaned in, a mournful visage asking for guidance on repaying the debt of twenty gold coins. Covert signals from mischievous allies hinted at the option of trading their bodies if fiscal obligations proved insurmountable. Internal turmoil burgeoned within me: "Must I truly resort to the life of a male prostitute?"

Just as Abraham continued to extol his teaching philosophy and method, a familiar sonorous symphony reverberated in the classroom – the unmistakable cadence of snoring.