Kaelan turns to the board and begins to write, chalk tapping softly as the symbols take shape—one through nine in the number system of this world.
He turns back to the students. "Tell me what they are."
The room bursts into noise as everyone shouts over one another, calling out the numbers from one to nine.
Kaelan listens quietly, then turns again and continues writing. From ten onward, each mark he draws is a new and unfamiliar symbol—ten, eleven, twelve, and so on, each written differently.
In this world, the number ten isn't written as one and zero, but as its own symbol. Every number that follows has its own unique mark.
There's nothing wrong with that system itself, but Kaelan knows how hard it is to memorise.
He had read once that the written symbols extended up to a hundred, though few people knew beyond thirty. Most never needed to.
After all, this world had never invented zero.
For ordinary people, numbers only mattered for small exchanges—counting coins, buying food, simple trade. When they did earn large sums, they quickly spent them on cultivation resources to try and transcend.
Those who succeeded became martial artists, not Qi refiners, since a spirit root was needed for that path. Their extraordinary minds and sharp memories grew with their cultivation, letting them handle complex calculations with ease.
Kaelan finishes writing the last symbol, the one for a hundred, then turns back to the class.
"After this," he asks, "what comes next?"
He Shoumei raises her hand, voice clear. "One hundred and one."
Kaelan smiles faintly. "And how is it written?"
The room falls silent. Not one student answers.
He turns back to the board, erases the symbols, and writes again—this time the mark for a hundred, then the sign for plus, then one.
"It's written like this."
The children stare wide-eyed, nodding with rare seriousness, their faces lit by the chalk's faint dust.
Kaelan continues, his hand moving quickly as he writes two hundred twenty-three, three hundred seventy-seven, and several random three- and four-digit numbers, all in the world's original system.
The students' gazes stay fixed on the board, their brows furrowed, curiosity mixing with confusion.
Then they turn to him, puzzled, unable to grasp what he's trying to show.
Kaelan looks at their blank faces and asks softly, "Isn't it hard to remember how large numbers are written, or to calculate them?"
The students glance at one another, lips pursed, uncertain why numbers matter to magic. In their world, spells are born from comprehension of heaven and earth, not from counting.
He Shoumei raises her hand. "Teacher, why do we have to learn this to learn a magic spell?"
Kaelan pauses, then decides to show them. He wipes the board clean and begins writing a formula—lines of numbers, symbols, and runic marks flowing together in precise order. It is a mathematical model describing energy, its transformation into a projectile's motion, its shape, and its release.
"This," Kaelan says, tapping the board, "is the foundation of a spell called Energy Missile."
He turns back to face them. "You can draw the spell model and use it, but without understanding this formula, you will never truly know the spell—never master or improve it."
He lifts his right hand. Above his palm, runes light up, intertwining into a glowing spell model. The runes shift and connect, forming a rotating pattern that hums with restrained power.
The students stand instinctively, eyes wide, captivated.
Kaelan watches their awe quietly. This is his first time teaching the wizard path—these twelve children are not just students but the first stones laid in the foundation of wizardry. Teaching them, he is also building the knowledge system that will define the wizard way itself.
When the session ends, none of them has managed to form the spell model. Kaelan expected as much; understanding and precision take time.
He walks to the door and calls for a maid. "Bring paper and ink."
Moments later, the maid returns with the supplies. Kaelan instructs the students to draw each individual rune of the Energy Missile model, then combine them into the full structure.
When they finish, he gathers their sheets for review and waves his hand gently. "That's all for today. You may go."
The students bow deeply before leaving, faces glowing with awe as they clutch the sheets covered in runes and formulas. Their small feet hurry down the corridor, eager to return home and practice the spell they've just witnessed.
At the palace stairs, Kaelan spots Lin Zian waiting for him.
"You wanted my advice on breaking into the Ultimate Martial Realm?" Kaelan asks.
Lin Zian bows deeply. "Yes, Lord."
Kaelan studies him—the chosen child of fate, whose cultivation had soared from the Master Realm to the Supreme Martial Realm in just three months. His growth is monstrous, the kind found only in stories.
"Let's go to the training field," Kaelan says. "I want to see your strength."
They walk together through the palace corridors and step onto the vast training grounds, where royal guards are drilling in formation. The guards stop at once, bowing as Kaelan passes.
"One of you, bring me a sword," he says.
A guard quickly offers his weapon. Kaelan takes it, feeling its weight, then walks to the centre of an empty platform. Lin Zian steps up opposite him, his posture steady, eyes blazing with focus.
"Show me your strength," Kaelan says calmly.
Without hesitation, Lin Zian charges forward. His sword arcs like lightning, slashing at Kaelan from every angle. Kaelan meets each strike with effortless grace, parrying again and again, the ringing of metal echoing across the field.
Minutes pass. Lin Zian's breathing grows heavier, while Kaelan's stance doesn't shift an inch.
Kaelan's voice cuts through the air, sharp and teasing. "Have you not eaten this morning? Attack with all your strength."
Lin Zian grits his teeth.
His grip tightens on the hilt, and dark True Qi bursts from his body, twisting like black fire.
Lin Zian's sword becomes a blur, each strike faster, heavier, sharper—every swing aimed to break through Kaelan's calm defence.
The guards watching from the side gape in awe. Lin Zian's speed makes his figure vanish from their sight, his movements reduced to streaks of shadow and light. Yet Kaelan sees everything clearly, every swing, every breath, every flaw.
To provoke him further, Kaelan suddenly counterattacks. His blade flashes once—then his foot slams into Lin Zian's stomach, sending him flying off the platform.
The guards scatter, barely avoiding Lin Zian's crashing body.
Groaning, Lin Zian clutches his abdomen and pushes himself up with his sword. His face is red with pain and humiliation.
Kaelan tilts his head slightly, eyes calm. "Xueyao told me you were a genius," he says. "But I'm not seeing anything."
The guards exchange glances, murmuring among themselves.
"I don't know why, but it feels good to see him getting beaten."
"Yeah. He is a guard like us, but he acts like he's above everyone."
Lin Zian's jaw tightens, shame and fury flashing across his face.
He remembers the days before his benefactor gave him the Crow Visualisation Technique—the humiliation, the scorn, the helplessness.
He breathes deeply and forces the emotion down.
Then, calm again, he steps back onto the platform.
He grips his sword tighter. Heat ripples around him as the blade turns crimson, glowing with fierce energy.
"Red Fire Cut!"
He swings. A streak of blazing sword light roars across the platform toward Kaelan.
Kaelan's sword hums once. A thin arc of wind slices through the air, shredding the fire in an instant.
Lin Zian doesn't stop. The moment his first strike fades, his entire body bursts into orange light.
"Fire Light Swing!"
His sword blazes brighter, engulfed in flames, the power behind it shaking the ground as it descends.
Kaelan raises his free hand. Frost spreads from his palm, forming a gleaming ice shield that meets the fiery strike head-on.
Lin Zian's flames crackle against the shield. He steps back, gathering his strength.
"Sun Strike!"
The tip of his sword flares like a miniature sun and crashes forward, shattering the ice. But before the strike can land, Kaelan catches the sword between two fingers.
"Enough," Kaelan says, his voice calm. "I've seen your strength."
He releases the sword from between his fingers. Lin Zian exhales deeply, sheaths his blade, and bows. "Lord, what advice do you have?"
Kaelan turns away. "Follow me."
They leave the training ground, their footsteps echoing softly through the stone corridor. When they step into the sunlight outside, Kaelan speaks. "I have a question for you. You cultivate a dark-elemental breathing technique, yet your best-practised martial technique is of the light element. Why? Wouldn't it be better to train a dark-element technique?"
Lin Zian hesitates before answering. "Because of my breathing technique," he says quietly.
Kaelan nods faintly, not pressing further. "Your goal is to comprehend the Law of Light and step into the Ultimate Martial Master Realm, correct?"
Lin Zian nods.
Kaelan looks ahead. "Then do you realise your martial art technique is incomplete?"
Lin Zian lowers his gaze. "Yes. It's called the Seven Light Sword Technique. I only have the early stages. I've searched for the rest, but I couldn't find them."
Kaelan stops and lifts his hand. "The Seven Light Sword Technique draws its inspiration from the rainbow."
A sphere of water forms above his palm. He tosses it gently into the air, and as it bursts, sunlight filters through the droplets. A faint rainbow arcs before them, shimmering in the air.
Lin Zian's eyes widen, the reflection of colours gleaming in his pupils. "Thank you," he says softly, bowing again.
Kaelan watches him for a moment.
He has the middle stages of the Seven Light Sword Technique, but decides to withhold them.
If Lin Zian can comprehend and refine the technique on his own before Kaelan's preaching, it will prove his worth.
"Take care," Kaelan says at last. Then, without another word, he turns and walks away, his robe fluttering lightly in the breeze as he heads toward the forging hall.