Chapter 1 - MAGA System
Asmon Greystone stood at the edge of Mount Everest's Peak Summit, the world sprawled out below him like a picture-perfect postcard. The sun was setting in a blaze of orange and pink, and he, naturally, had one goal: the ultimate selfie.
"Alright, Asmon, this is your moment," he muttered, angling his phone just right. "Perfect lighting, perfect angle… chin up, jawline sharp. Yeah, you handsome devil, you've got this."
He shuffled closer to the edge, squinting into his phone screen. "Closer… just a little closer… need to get that cliff in the background. Make it look epic. We will go viral with this!"
Ignoring every survival instinct in his body, he leaned out, holding his phone at an absurdly dangerous angle. "A little more. Just gotta get that perfect—AHHH!"
The ground beneath his foot decided it was tired of his nonsense and crumbled. Asmon flailed like a startled cat, his phone tumbling out of his grasp and snapping one final, blurry selfie mid-fall.
"NO! My phone!!!" he screamed as gravity claimed its victory, his life flashing before his eyes—mostly a highlight reel of bad decisions. As the wind roared in his ears, a ridiculous thought crossed his mind: At least the selfie's gonna have great motion blur… Just like the final moment of his life, the next think he know is intense pain followed by complete darknes.
[DING! Congratulations on successfully binding to the MAGA System! Maximized Accelerated Growth Amplifier System!!!]
The crisp, mechanical voice jolted Asmon awake. Before he could even process what was happening, more notification flooded his mind.
[You've taken a step, MAGA activated! Your bronze rank movement technique has evolved to silver rank martial art 'Make Step Great Again.' ]
Asmon blinked, his jaw practically hitting the floor. "What the—?" He froze mid-thought as memories of his very recent, very undignified fall off Mount Everest Peak Summit crashed into him like a bad joke. One moment, he was snapping a selfie at the edge; the next, he was doing his best impression of a human comet.
And yet… here he was, alive, un-splattered, and in an unfamiliar room.
"Did I… transmigrate? And not just that—I've got a cheat system now?" His voice cracked with disbelief as he took a tentative step forward.
['Make Step Great Again.' Partially mastered!]
Immediately, his body moved with unnatural ease. A rush of warmth coursed through him.
Asmon stared down at his feet like they'd sprouted rocket boosters. "Okay, this is real. This system is insane!" Testing his new skill, he darted forward, transforming into a golden blur that reappeared several meters away. "Holy crap, I'm practically a ninja now!"
After a few giddy moments of whooshing around the room like an over-caffeinated squirrel, Asmon stopped to catch his breath and absorb the memories flooding his brain.
Apparently, he was now the "Asmon G.Trumpwood" of Valorcrest Land, a place where strength, martial arts, and ridiculous power levels reigned supreme. His new identity was… less impressive. He was the 15-year-old disappointment of the illustrious Trumpwood Family in Ironvale City. Born into privilege but blessed with the martial talent of a soggy noodle, Asmon had struggled to scrape by at the second level of Body Tempering for years.
To make matters worse, his dad, Victor Thrumpwood, had pulled every string and risked his life to secure him a spot at Silvercrest Martial Institute, a prestigious martial arts academy. But the day before his big break, some cousin-slash-bully named Harris Thrumpwood had decided to play gatekeeper and beat him within an inch of his life for refusing to give up his chance.
Asmon's fist slammed into the nearest wall. "Harris, you absolute dirtbag! I'm gonna—"
[You've thrown a punch, MAGA activated! Your bronze rank punch technique has evolved to silver rank martial art 'One Punch To Make your Enemy Grovel.' ]
He froze mid-rant. A rush of knowledge exploded in his mind like someone had crammed a martial arts manual straight into his brain. "Wait… WHAT?" His lips curved into a wide grin. "This system is freaking OP!"
Testing his newfound skills, Asmon shadowboxed the air, each punch feeling like it could pulverize boulders. "Man, if just punching walls levels me up, imagine what actual training will do! "
And so, fueled by equal parts excitement and spite, he sat cross-legged to cultivate.
[MAGA activated, You've successfully broken through to the third level of Body Tempering!]
Asmon's eyes snapped open. He flexed his arms, marveling at the new power surging through him. "Three years stuck at level two, and I break through in two minutes? Forget OP—this system is downright broken!"
He rummaged through his belongings until he found a small jade bottle. "If meditating is this good, what happens if I take one of these bad boys?" Inside was a Low Qi Essence Pill, a low-grade cultivation booster for beginners. He popped it into his mouth without hesitation.
[You've taken Low Qi Essence Pill, effect is Amplified, absorption accelerated and maximized]
[Your cultivation have broken through to the fourth level of Body Tempering!]
[Your cultivation have broken through to the fifth level of Body Tempering!]
[Your cultivation have broken through to the six level of Body Tempering!]
The rush of power was so intense, Asmon felt like he could punch through the heavens. He flexed his hands, practically vibrating with excitement. "Sixth level! I've leapfrogged half my family in one sitting!" Even Harris Thrumpwood, the guy who had turned him into a human punching bag, was now a level below him.
The thought brought a smug smile to Asmon's face. "Oh, Cousin Harris, you're in for a world of hurt. Let's see how tough you are when I'm the one throwing punches."
Fueled by his newfound strength and the absurd potential of his system, Asmon plotted his next move. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a flicker of guilt about abusing his cheat system.
But then he remembered Harris's smug face, and the guilt evaporated faster than water on a hot skillet.
"This is going to be fun."
He leaned back, his grin stretching ear to ear. Among the younger generation in the Thrumpwood family, only the golden boy Weston, who had already strutted his way into Silvercrest Martial Institute, could top him now. Even Harris, the so-called second-best talent, was lagging behind at the fifth level. And now? Asmon had left him eating his dust.
"System, I think I love you," he muttered, half-joking, half-serious. This Maga system wasn't just heaven-defying—it was downright unfair to everyone else. The geniuses at Silvercrest? Pfft. Give them a box of tissues for their tears; he'd be leagues ahead in no time.
But the grin faded as he remembered something. "If I'm right, Harris's taking my family token today and heading to Silvercrest Martial Institute," he muttered, a glint of steel flashing in his eyes. "We'll see about that. What's mine stays mine."
Asmon strode to the door, ready to throw a wrench in someone's day. But as soon as he stepped outside, he hit an obstacle. Well, a person.
A large, burly man blocked his path like an oversized wardrobe someone had carelessly plunked in the hallway. "Chubbs Thrumpwood." Asmon narrowed his eyes. "What do you think you're doing?"
Chapter 2 - SLAP!
Chubbs smirked, the kind of smug grin that made you want to punch it off someone's face. "Orders from the elder. You're to stay put today, Master Asmon."
There was no respect in the way he said "Master Asmon." If anything, it sounded like he was calling him a toddler in charge of a toy kingdom. Chubbs, once polite thanks to Asmon's father, Victor, had clearly decided he no longer cared now that the patriarch was away.
Asmon's lips curled into a cold smile. "Move aside."
Chubbs crossed his arms. "Now, now. Don't make this difficult. The Elder said—"
SLAP!
Chubbs's head snapped to the side before he could finish his sentence. His cheek turned red as he stared at Asmon in disbelief.
[You've slapped Chubbs, MAGA activated! You slapping technique has evolved to Silver Rank martial art 'Know Your Place!' ]
Asmon blinked at the notifications, then grinned. "Wow, leveling up from slapping someone? I should've started earlier!"
Chubbs, still processing the stinging betrayal on his face, growled, "You little—!"
But before he could finish his sentence, Asmon raised a hand. "Shh. Let's not waste your last brain cell on words. It's about to get busy."
Chubbs roared and swung a punch, aiming to knock Asmon flat. But Asmon barely flinched, casually catching the fist between two fingers like it was a pesky mosquito.
"What?!" Chubbs's jaw dropped.
"Don't look so shocked." Asmon smirked. "Isn't it obvious? I am strong. You? Not so much."
Before Chubbs could say another word, Asmon throw Groveling punch straight into his chest. The burly man flew backward like a sack of potatoes and crumpled to the ground, groaning.
['One Punch To Make your Enemy Grovel.' Partially mastered!]
Asmon dusted off his hands and stepped over Kuan without a second glance. As he walked toward the courtyard, the system kept chiming like an overeager cheerleader.
['Make Step Great Again.' Mastered!]
Asmon glanced at his feet. "Walking to greatness. Literally. At this rate, I'll trip and discover a divine treasure."
The courtyard bustled with activity as disciples gathered to send off Harris , who stood at the center looking like a peacock basking in everyone's admiration. The Grand Elder, Stelter Thrumpwood, stood nearby, beaming proudly.
Asmon strode in, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife. "Harris Thrumpwood!"
All eyes turned toward him. Harris Thrumpwood raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "What are you doing here, Asmon?"
Asmon didn't miss a beat. "The spot for Silvercrest Martial Institute belongs to me. My father risked his life to secure it, and I'm here to take it back. You? You're just borrowing what's mine."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Isn't that the so-called waste of the Thrumpwood family?"
"What's he even thinking?"
"Does he have a death wish?"
Harris smirked, his tone dripping with condescension. "Oh, please. You're just upset you weren't good enough. Be a good boy and go home before you embarrass yourself."
Asmon stepped closer, his grin as sharp as a blade. "Embarrass myself? Watch closely, Harris. The only thing I'm here to embarrass is you."
The square buzzed with the low hum of sneers and muffled laughter as Asmon strolled toward Harris and Stelter. Their smug expressions faltered when they saw him approach, their confidence visibly shaken.
"Asmon, stop running your mouth!" Harris barked, the disdain in his voice thick enough to choke on. "Sure, the Patriarch secured a spot at Silvercrest Martial Institute for the family, but you? What qualifies you to take it? You're a glorified punching bag stuck at the second stage of Body Tempering! Do you seriously believe you're worthy of this chance?"
The sneer curling Harris's lips was almost too big for his face. Beneath it, however, was a simmering bitterness. Three months ago, he had flunked Silvercrest Martial Institute's freshman assessment. At sixteen, this was his last shot, his final ticket to salvation. Losing the spot wasn't an option—not to Asmon, of all people.
"Not qualified?" Asmon said, raising an eyebrow with practiced nonchalance. "And you are? If I remember correctly, you didn't pass the Silvercrest Martial Institute assessment either. So, remind me again, what makes you any better?"
Harris's face darkened like a storm cloud, anger flashing in his eyes. The Silvercrest Martial Institute assessment was the stuff of nightmares—famously brutal and only conquered by the best of the best. For someone to fail it, as Harris had, was a sore spot he preferred left untouched. Asmon's words, unfortunately, poked right at the bruise, and in front of a crowd no less.
"Even if I failed," Harris shot back, his voice rising, "I'm still leagues ahead of a waste like you who's been stuck at the second level of Body Tempering for years! This spot should go to someone with real potential—not a hopeless dead end like you."
As the onlookers whispered and snickered, Harris's lips twisted into a mocking grin. "I'll tell you what," he continued, the confidence dripping from his voice like poison. "If you can beat me, I'll give up the spot myself. How about that?"
Gasps rippled through the square. Asmon's gaze slid to Stelter, who was watching the exchange with a frown. "Elder, what do you think?" Asmon asked calmly.
Stelter hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. After a pause, he nodded. "The spot should indeed go to the family's most promising disciple," he declared, his tone heavy with meaning. It was clear from his expression he didn't consider Asmon to be a threat to Harris.
Asmon smirked, turning back to his cousin. "All right, Harris. You heard the elder. Get over here and fight me."
The square exploded with disbelief.
"Did Asmon just challenge Harris? Is he insane?"
"Harris's been at the fifth level of Body Tempering for months! Asmon's practically committing suicide."
"This is going to be over in seconds!"
Even Harris was momentarily stunned, blinking at Asmon as if he'd suddenly sprouted a second head. Then his shock melted into cruel amusement. "Fine," he sneered. "You want a fight? Don't come crying to me when you regret it."
Harris lunged, his fist slicing through the air like a cannonball aimed straight at Asmon's head. The watching disciples cringed, already imagining the gruesome aftermath.
But Asmon didn't even flinch. With the ease of swatting away a pesky fly, he sidestepped the punch, leaving Harris's attack to crash harmlessly into empty air.
"Wait…did that actually happen?" one disciple whispered, his jaw practically unhinged. "Did Asmon just dodge?"
Harris's confidence wavered as he stared at his missed punch in disbelief. But then he sneered, shaking off the moment. "Lucky shot," he muttered under his breath. "Let's see you dodge this!"
He launched another punch, faster this time. Asmon didn't bother moving backward. With a flick of his wrist, he caught Harris's fist mid-swing, stopping it dead in its tracks. Gasps echoed around the square.
Asmon cocked his head, his expression somewhere between amused and bored. "Is that it?" he asked, his tone light. "No wonder Silvercrest Martial Institute turned you down."
"You—!" Harris's face flushed a deep crimson as laughter bubbled up from the crowd. The harder he tried to free his fist from Asmon's grip, the tighter the hold became.
"You call me a waste," Asmon said, leaning in slightly as his voice dropped to a sharp whisper, "but honestly, I'm starting to think you're the real disappointment here."
Chapter 3 - Yates Family
Fury erupted across Harris 's face as he yanked his hand back, summoning every ounce of energy he could muster. "Tiger Howl Fist!" he roared, his fists glowing with power as he hurtled toward Asmon with all the force he could gather.
Asmon didn't move. Instead, he smiled—a small, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, as if daring Harris Thrumpwood to try.
The crowd in the square was buzzing louder than a hive of agitated bees, their excitement palpable.
"Finally! Harris's busting out 'Tiger Howl Fist'! The guy means business this time," one disciple whispered, barely containing his awe.
"Right? Word is, he's got it to Minor Accomplishment. Combine that with his strength at the fifth layer of Body Tempering, and Asmon's toast."
"Seriously. Asmon must have a death wish, taunting Harris like that. What's he even thinking?"
Meanwhile, Harris soaked in the hype like a peacock basking in its own magnificence. A malicious grin split his face, his eyes gleaming with glee. "You're finished, you little bastard," he sneered, relishing the moment. In his mind, the Silvercrest Martial Institute token was his golden ticket out of the Thrumpwood family. Nobody—not even Asmon—was going to mess that up for him.
Asmon, however, looked as calm as a monk on meditation day. He simply stepped back, fist clenched, and focused his energy. The air around him began to hum as his aura surged, gathering power like a storm winding up to let loose.
"One Punch To Make your Enemy Grovel" Asmon's voice rang out, strong and clear. His fist shot forward, a force of nature in motion, the energy behind it cracking like a whip through the air.
The clash was thunderous, shaking the square like a mini earthquake. A moment later, a figure went flying, landing with a spectacular crash a good distance away.
The crowd gasped in unison, their collective breath held in suspense. Everyone was certain Asmon would be the one eating dirt. "What else could happen against someone two whole Level ahead?' they thought. 'Lucky if he didn't break half his ribs in the process.'
But as the dust cleared, mouths dropped open in disbelief. The person sprawled out on the ground wasn't Asmon—it was Harris!
"W-what the hell just happened?!" one disciple stammered, his voice high with shock.
"Did Asmon just… win? Against him?"
"No way! The 'waste' of the Thrumpwood family actually sent Harris flying with one punch? That's insane!"
All around, disciples were muttering, struggling to reconcile the smug punching bag they knew with the powerhouse now standing tall. This wasn't some fluke. Asmon had just pulled off the impossible.
On the elder platform, Stelter nearly dropped his teacup. 'That's Asmon? The same kid stuck at the second level for years?' He rubbed his eyes. Nope, not a hallucination. Just yesterday, Harris Thrumpwood had trounced this kid and walked off with the academy token. Now, this?
As the whispers grew louder, Asmon calmly strode toward Harris, who was still sprawled on the ground looking like he'd forgotten how legs worked. Standing over him, Asmon's voice was cold, sharp, and commanding. "Harris, you lost. Hand over the Silvercrest Martial Institute token."
"No! NO! I didn't lose! This—this is some trick!" Harris sputtered, coughing up blood. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with unhinged fury. "How could a nobody like you beat me?!"
He staggered to his feet, fists shaking with rage, and lunged at Asmon. "I'll make you regret this, you trash!"
Asmon raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He didn't even flinch. But before either of them could make a move, a shadowy figure dropped from above, landing gracefully between them like a cat that had just stuck its perfect dismount.
"Ah, the esteemed Elder of the Thrumpwood family," Asmon said dryly, crossing his arms. "Come to play referee?"
Stelter gave Asmon a long, unreadable look before turning to his grandson. His tone was cold enough to freeze molten steel. "Hand over the Silvercrest Martial Institute token. Now."
Harris Thrumpwood's face twisted further, veins bulging on his forehead. "No! Grandpa, I haven't lost! I can still win!"
"Enough!" Stelter barked, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. "A loss is a loss. Stop embarrassing yourself. Or me. Token. Now."
With shaking hands and a face redder than a beet, Harris fished the token from his robes and shoved it at Asmon as though it burned to touch.
Asmon snatched it, gave Harris a look that screamed 'pathetic', and without another word, turned and walked toward the gate. The onlookers parted like the Red Sea, watching him leave in stunned silence.
By the time Asmon arrived at Silvercrest Martial Institute, the towering gates loomed before him, a stark contrast to the chaos he'd left behind. He barely had time to admire the scenery before a familiar chime rang in his mind.
['Make Step Great Again.' Evolved to Gold rank technique, 'Almost Great Step.']
Asmon blinked, then let out a low whistle. 'Not bad. Got a Gold-Rank movement technique just from walking? The system really is something else.'
He shook his head in disbelief. All this from a walk to the academy? Forget the token—if life kept playing out like this, he might just stroll his way to becoming a legend.
At Silvercrest Martial Institute, mastering a gold-Rank martial skill while still in the Body Tempering Realm was like discovering oil in your backyard—it was rare and made you the talk of the town. For Asmon, this wasn't just an accomplishment; it was a line drawn in the sand, marking him as someone who couldn't be ignored.
With his Almost Great Step and sixth-level Body Tempering strength, Asmon was no longer the underdog. His speed now rivaled martial artists two or three levels above him. As he mentally patted himself on the back for his progress, a voice that dripped with mockery cut through his thoughts like nails on a chalkboard.
"Well, well, if it isn't Asmon, the Thrumpwood family's legendary failure. Tell me, did your dad have to bribe someone to get you into Silvercrest Martial Institute?"
Asmon's internal groan was loud enough to echo across dimensions. He turned toward the voice to see a familiar, self-satisfied smirk plastered on the face of Lucas Yates . Decked out in flashy robes that screamed, 'My family's richer than yours,' Lucas radiated arrogance.
"Lucas Yates ," Asmon muttered, his eyes narrowing like a predator spotting its prey.
Lucas Yates , heir to one of Goldenridge City's three big families, had a face that begged to be punched and an ego inflated by his older brother's success. The two of them had locked horns more than once, but Lucas Yates 's older brother had always tipped the scales in his favor.
But today? Today was different. Asmon's newfound confidence told him Lucas Yates wasn't even worth the calories it'd take to argue. With a dismissive glance, Asmon strode past him, radiating cool indifference.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Lucas barked, stepping in front of Asmon to block his path, his face redder than a steamed crab.
Asmon sighed, his expression as frosty as winter. "Lucas , the only reason you're even in Silvercrest Martial Institute is because your brother dragged you in. Don't act like you're anything special."
Chapter 4 - Alchemy
Lucas's face twisted in rage. "You think I'm still the same guy you used to know? I'll show you what I'm capable of!"
Nearby students, always hungry for drama, began to gather like moths to a flame.
"Isn't that Lucas stirring up trouble again?" one whispered.
"Of course it is. Guy's got a brother on the Silvercrest Genius List, so he thinks he's untouchable," another chimed in.
"Who's the other guy? Asmon, right? Heard he barely got in. Some kind of charity case."
Lucas's smirk deepened as the whispers fed his ego. Turning back to Asmon, he sneered, "A double-waste like you, standing up to me? That's rich. Do yourself a favor—kneel and apologize, and maybe I'll go easy on you. Otherwise, I'll beat you so badly even your mother wouldn't recognize you."
Asmon's face didn't so much as twitch. "You want to fight? Fine. But if anyone's walking away unrecognizable, it'll be you."
The crowd collectively gasped.
"Did he just say that?"
"This guy's either brave or stupid," another whispered.
Lucas's smirk evaporated. His face twisted with fury. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Let's take this to the arena. Unless, of course, you're too scared?"
Asmon, arms crossed, gave him a look that said, Really? "The arena? Why bother? Let's just handle this here."
Lucas's triumphant grin returned. "What, scared of the rules? If we fight here, we'll both get expelled. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
Asmon rolled his eyes. 'Of course, this guy's hiding behind the rules.' "Fine, but let's make it interesting. How about a wager?"
Lucas's eyes gleamed with greed. He whipped out a jade bottle, holding it aloft like a trophy. "This is a Body Tempering Pill. If you win, it's yours. But if you lose, you owe me one. Deal?"
The crowd erupted into murmurs. "A Body Tempering Pill? That's worth a fortune!"
"Lucas's setting him up to fail. This is just bullying at this point."
But Asmon didn't flinch. "Deal," he said, his tone calm, even amused. He knew this pill was worth a small fortune and would skyrocket his progress. And thanks to his Maga System, Lucas was basically handing him a golden ticket.
"Is he insane?" someone whispered. "He's two levels below Lucas Yates ! He doesn't stand a chance!"
Lucas's grin widened, confidence oozing from every pore. "Since you're so eager to lose, let's head to the arena."
Asmon held up a hand. "No need. We can settle it right here."
Lucas Yates 's face darkened. "What, too scared to face me in front of an audience? Afraid of losing in public? Don't think I'll let you get away with breaking the rules."
Asmon smirked, leaning in slightly. "Oh, I'm not afraid of losing. I'm just saving you the embarrassment of everyone watching when you realize you've bitten off more than you can chew."
As Asmon stepped onto the field, the crowd of students burst into laughter and jeers.
"Look at this guy! Second level at Body Tempering trying to challenge someone at fourth level? Someone stop him before he hurts himself!" one student snorted.
"He's got guts, I'll give him that. Or maybe just a death wish," another added with a dramatic shake of his head.
"Ten moves? Please, Lucas will end it in one!" a third chimed in, smirking.
Despite the mocking, there was a grudging hint of admiration behind their words. After all, it took a special kind of audacity—or stupidity—to walk into a fight so confidently against the odds.
Lucas, already steaming, stepped forward with a sneer plastered across his face. "Asmon, still playing the arrogant fool, I see. You really think you're going to win this with some cheap tricks?"
Asmon raised an eyebrow, his tone maddeningly calm. "Talking so much before a fight… are you trying to bore me into losing? Let's stick to the rules: touch me even once, and I'll admit defeat."
Lucas's fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked. "Keep acting smug. I'll wipe that smirk off your face!" With that, he launched himself forward, aiming to grab Asmon's shoulder.
Just as his hand reached out, Asmon's figure blurred like a mirage in the desert. He reappeared three meters away, hands still casually by his sides.
Lucas froze mid-step, his jaw slack. 'What the—?! Did he teleport? No, that's impossible at his level!'
He gritted his teeth and tried again, moving faster this time. But Asmon simply sidestepped, leaving him clutching at thin air like an amateur in a slapstick comedy. Two more attempts followed, both equally futile. Sweat began to bead on Lucas Yates 's forehead as his frustration mounted.
By now, the crowd had fallen into stunned silence, save for the occasional whisper.
"How's he doing that? Is he secretly stronger than he looks?"
"Nah, Lucas's just too slow. Maybe he needs to lay off the late-night snacks."
Lucas's frustration hit a boiling point. Abandoning all finesse, he lunged with a final, desperate burst of speed. But Asmon moved out of reach once again, as calm as if he were strolling through a garden. The tenth move came and went, and Lucas stood there, panting and red-faced, while Asmon remained as unruffled as ever.
"It's over," Asmon said, folding his arms and tilting his head slightly. "Hand over the Body Tempering Pill. A deal's a deal."
Lucas's face twisted in fury, but he reluctantly tossed the pill to Asmon with a glare that could have melted steel. "This isn't over, Asmon. You'll regret this," he spat before storming off.
Asmon caught the pill mid-air, inspecting it with a casual smile. "Looking forward to it," he called after him.
Silvercrest Martial Institute was unlike anything Asmon had encountered before. Its structure was straightforward but rigid: an Inner Palace for the academy's brightest talents, known as the Silvercrest Genius List disciples, and an Outer Palace divided into C, B, and A classes.
A class students were the elite—the shining stars from prestigious backgrounds. Silver students earned their place through merit and hard work. Then there was the C class: a mixed bag of backdoor entrants, questionable recommendations, and… well, Asmon.
Not that he cared about labels. "C, B, A—whatever. I'll make my own way," he muttered as he skimmed the academy's rules.
His roommate, Travis Shepherd, waddled over, a wide grin on his chubby face. "Brother Asmon, there's an alchemy class for us C students this afternoon. Want to check it out?"
Asmon raised an eyebrow. "Alchemy, huh? Why not. Maybe I'll learn how to turn water into wine."
The pair headed to the classroom, joining nearly a hundred students. Among them, of course, was Lucas , whose expression soured the moment he spotted Asmon.
"Well, well, look who's here," Lucas sneered, his tone dripping with venom. "Do you even know what alchemy is, or are you just here to humiliate yourself?"
Asmon smiled coolly. "No idea. But I bet I'm already better than you."
Lucas's face darkened as the other students burst into muffled laughter. "Why don't you make another bet, then?" Asmon added, his grin widening. "Bring another Body Tempering Pill while you're at it."
Lucas glared but sank into his seat, clearly unwilling to risk another humiliation. The chatter died down as a stunning young instructor entered the room. She looked barely twenty, her presence commanding instant respect. The students straightened in their seats, trying—and failing—not to gawk.
"That's Sophia Lexington," Travis whispered to Asmon. "Third-rank alchemist. She's a big deal."