Step, step.
Perhaps because the building was old, and the hallway barren of any furniture, Ian’s footsteps echoed through the corridor.
‘They must be in disarray right about now.’
Ian thought as he walked.
No matter how arrogant and unruly they were, they were still just brats not yet twenty.
Unlike Ian of the past—who was dismissed as incompetent and treated like half a fool—these ones had always been recognized for their talents by vassal families and branches of the martial clan.
It was simply that no one had yet been able to win their hearts.
Since they had the talent to back it up, they had never once been treated like garbage, no matter how eccentric, no matter how unruly their behavior.
The reason was simple.
Their talents were outstanding.
Their futures were bright.
That was precisely why they had been able to grow arrogant, crooked, and spoiled.
‘It’s obvious.’
Ian had once brought countless talents of the northern continent Krohoka under his banner.
Out of so many people, there had never failed to be some who strutted around with arrogance.
With such types, one must never approach first with a submissive attitude.
Nor should they simply be crushed head-on by force.
The correct approach was indifference: treating their so-called talents as something dispensable—fine to have, but meaningless if absent.
When faced with such an attitude for the first time, they would be shaken, and soon become curious.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, to look down on me like that?’
And soon that curiosity would turn into anger.
Fine then. Let’s see just how great you think you are to be so arrogant.
They would begin to watch, to test.
‘And if you fail that test, those talents will simply walk away.’
Talented yet hot-headed ones were all the same—though their methods varied slightly, most behaved that way.
They never gave their loyalty to someone who failed their standards.
They never opened their hearts to someone who couldn’t understand their struggles.
But if you managed to pass that stage—
Then they would give everything, devoting their entire being in loyalty.
Ian had no doubt.
He would never fail the tests of some children not even twenty.
He would never fall short of their standards.
And even now—
‘Looks like one’s already started.’
Step, step.
His footsteps continued to echo through the building.
At a glance, they sounded no different from before.
But Ian’s ears had not missed the faint irregularity that had slipped in moments ago.
‘Judging from the resonance… above me.’
Not a bad choice.
The ceiling, like the ground beneath one’s feet, was one of assassins’ favored positions.
The reason was simple.
Human vision could not encompass both the ceiling and the floor at once.
Thus assassins preferred striking from above.
But precisely because of that—
‘Too obvious.’
Shaaa…
Ian’s senses caught the faint scattering of powder drifting from above.
Wooooong!
Without breaking stride, Ian slowly unfolded the Blood Chain Art.
Chains of the Solar Vein unraveled, and through the opened mana path, the Blood Qi began to circulate.
Compared to the overwhelming force he once wielded, it was feeble—yet Blood Qi itself was among the most domineering energies in the world.
Even if most of his mana paths were sealed by the Solar Vein’s chains, it was hardly so frail that it couldn’t withstand some childish poison.
Crackle.
From above, the aura shook violently, transmitting frustration when its poison proved ineffective.
‘Tsk tsk. Inexperienced, inexperienced.’
Ian had suspected it earlier, when she lost her composure against Ralph’s taunt.
Silia lacked emotional control.
For an assassin of the Clonen shadow clan to lose her composure and reveal emotion just because her ambush failed—unthinkable.
Shing! Whish!
With his left hand Ian drew the Little Serpent and flicked it up toward the ceiling.
“!”
Clang!
A sharp metallic clash rang out.
Surprised by the sudden counter, she hadn’t dodged but blocked instead.
An assassin, flustered by her target’s retaliation—another strike against her.
Silia knocked aside the blade and immediately turned to where Ian had stood.
But he was already gone.
‘…Where did he—?’
As if reading her thoughts,
“Right beside you.”
Ian’s voice sounded from close at hand.
“!”
Her body twitched instinctively, but Ian moved faster.
The Great Serpent was already pressed against the side of her neck.
“An assassin must never reveal her emotions. The essence of the Clonen clan’s killing arts is assassination and ambush. For now you’re young and have only been assigned simple tasks, so it hasn’t mattered—but if you can’t master your emotions, you won’t live long.”
“……!!”
A scathing evaluation.
Ian withdrew his blade and added:
“And if it were me, I wouldn’t have chosen the ceiling. The ceiling’s too high. Your poison takes too long to reach me.”
Finished with his critique, Ian stepped down from the ceiling’s shadow and walked calmly toward the room.
Silia, still clinging to the ceiling, stared blankly at his retreating back.
Ian hesitated, then added one more remark before entering the room.
“Or maybe not. Perhaps, if you refine your killing arts, you might even grow strong enough to fight head-on without losing—like when you stood against Ralph.”
“……!!”
Her dazed eyes regained focus.
For the first time, someone had recognized and spoken aloud the path she sought.
Aside from Silia, who had followed Ian inside, the other four children were still stunned by the bizarre scene.
“Well… this is a first. Intriguing.”
The boy with glasses who had cast magic pushed them up with a finger.
“That arrogant bastard… Half-wit or not, how dare he treat me like trash?”
Grit!
Ralph Kalia ground his teeth, unable to hide his fury.
“Hmph… Took a hit there. Who knew the Second Young Master had such tricks?”
“What nonsense is that?”
“If we just walk away now, it’ll damage our standing.”
“Speak plainly, damn it!”
Pressed by Ralph, Luan explained.
“Think about it. Right now it wasn’t us rejecting him—it was him declaring we’re unnecessary. If we just leave, rumors will spread in the clan. ‘So, even the half-wit Second Young Master cast them aside.’”
That was unacceptable.
They were the ones meant to be evaluating him, not the other way around.
“And what do you suggest?”
“What else? For now, we follow his lead.”
“Damn it! Nothing about this sits right!”
Ralph’s temper flared again.
But Luan’s expression hardened.
“…And a warning. Don’t speak to me with such vulgar tone. I’m not beneath you.”
“Oh yeah? Then maybe we should settle right here who’s on top.”
Despite being knocked out by Ian’s earlier strike, Ralph’s ferocity hadn’t cooled—like a mad fighting dog.
Luan shook his head.
“Tch. Forget it. Do as you please. Whatever you do, it’s none of my concern.”
With that, he strode into the building.
The mage boy and the girl in priestly robes, seeming to agree, followed after him.
Leaving only Ralph in the training yard.
Whoooosh.
The wind blew around him, wrapping him in solitude.
“Damn it… I hate being dragged around.”
Scratching the back of his head, Ralph scowled.
“Damn it, to be led around by a mere half-wit… Hey! Wait up!”
Muttering curses, Ralph finally followed, and with that the boisterous first night of the Hidden Dragon Unit slowly drew to a close.
A week passed since Ian and the Hidden Dragon Unit began living together in the same building.
In that time, Ian had shown no interest in them.
Or rather, he had not initiated a single conversation.
Because what was needed to open their hearts wasn’t trite talk or forced friendliness.
This week was for observing—figuring out exactly what they wanted, what they needed.
Whooosh!
A heavy blade cut through the dawn air.
Steam rose constantly from the clash of early morning chill and the heat of his body.
Veins stood out on forearms, abs etched sharp, shoulders broad and firm.
The youth’s physique had developed to a degree hard to believe for someone not yet grown.
The swordsmen of the Falkion sword clan had well-built bodies, but few with such immense muscle.
Their swordplay was swift, elegant, unpredictable.
Large, thick muscles were nothing but hindrances to such swordplay.
But Luan’s blade was slow, heavy, and utterly simple.
The exact opposite. Yet Luan harbored no doubt he was training correctly.
Compared to the halberds, war hammers, and axes of the Kalia family, his blade was lighter—but still far heavier than any sword.
Thus, muscles like his were only natural.
“Whew…”
Satisfied with his morning training, Luan exhaled.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Completely wrong.”
A voice doused his good mood in filth.
“…Second Young Master?”
Luan turned to see Ian crouched on the steps in the corner of the yard, chin resting on his hand, watching.
“What do you mean by that?”
Even if he was the fool of the family, this was galling.
After a week of silence, the first words out of his mouth were insults to his training?
Luan, who had given up the sword despite being a direct heir of the sword clan and endured disadvantage for the sake of his chosen path—the blade—took immense pride in it, more than even Ralph did.
“You’d better explain yourself. If you just said that without thought… I’ll make sure you learn that words have consequences.”
“Yaaawn.”
Despite the growl of threat, Ian only yawned.
“If it’s wrong, it’s wrong. What else should I call it?”
“You bastard…!”
“A man who wields the blade, yet trains in the exact same way as the sword clan… Need I say more?”
Pause.
Luan froze, blade half-raised.
“…What do you mean?”
The same as sword clan training? Impossible.
If that were true, his body would be balanced like theirs.
How could he resemble them in any way?
Tap, tap.
Dusting off his pants, Ian rose and slowly took Luan’s blade.
Clang.
“Pretty hefty. Nice weapon.”
He twirled it lightly. Luan’s eyes flickered.
This blade had been custom-forged at the clan’s workshop.
Lighter than most, yes—but not so light that the “half-wit” should wield it so easily.
Regardless of Luan’s feelings, Ian adjusted his grip and suddenly swung the blade toward him.
Whshhh!
“……!”
The rush of wind blew Luan’s hair back.
Ian’s strike stopped just short of slashing his shoulder.
“The blade is heavy. Simple. To wield it most efficiently, where should strength come from?”
Ian tapped the weapon against Luan’s thigh.
“From the lower body. The blade’s destructive power comes from a balanced foundation. And yours?”
Luan glanced down reflexively.
“The Falkion sword is dazzling, unpredictable, striking from any angle. But the blade is meant to end a fight in a few exchanges. Training in footwork designed for fluid swordplay—it’s nonsense.”
“……!!”
Handing the blade back, Ian pressed on mercilessly.
“Your body is malformed—an overdeveloped upper half. No matter how much you train, you’ll never achieve proper bladework like that. Keep this up and you’ll end as a half-wit blademan, weaker than any average swordsman.”
Whshh!
Ian flipped away and headed for the yard’s exit.
“With skills like that, so much for being called a ‘wild hound.’ All bark and no bite. Maybe you should just quit.”
Crack.
Veins bulged on Luan’s sweat-soaked forehead.
‘…This bastard.’
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