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For thirty days, the training courtyard behind Lei Mansion became Lei Wuchen's entire world. Under the sharp gaze of Duke Lei Tianlong, every dawn began with strikes, every afternoon with techniques, and every night with meditation, refining his spiritual power in silence and exhaustion. The Tyrant Ironplate Armor had manifested subtly in the early days, amplifying his muscles and resilience, but now... now it pulsed with a rudimentary, dense power that seemed to beat in rhythm with his heart.
On the morning of the thirty-first day, Tianlong stood with arms crossed in the center of the courtyard. His posture was relaxed, but Wuchen had already learned that this did not mean weakness.
"Today is our last session," the Duke said. "After this, you'll have to walk on your own."
Wuchen nodded silently, his body firm, eyes burning with intensity.
"Attack me with everything you've got. Show me what you've learned."
The boy didn't hesitate. His feet scraped the stone floor as he lunged forward. The Armor's energy activated, making his movements heavier but also more powerful. He used the Silent Thunder Style to approach with precision, slipping past the Duke's guard and delivering a punch with perfect hip rotation.
Tianlong blocked the blow with his forearm, and the shockwave reverberated across the courtyard.
"Faster than before," he murmured. "But still predictable."
A swift counterattack struck Wuchen's shoulder, but he absorbed the impact, spinning his body and using the imbalance to launch an upward kick. The strike was deflected again, but the Duke took half a step back. A small victory.
The fight continued for several intense minutes. Wuchen alternated between styles — the heavy fists of the Chainbreaker and the fluidity of Silent Thunder — blending techniques like a versatile warrior. Finally, when his last attack was parried and he staggered backward, exhausted, the Duke raised his hand, signaling the end.
"You've learned enough to defend yourself. And more importantly... to grow on your own." Tianlong stepped forward, placing a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "From now on, the forge is yours. But know this: iron shaped under pressure... always becomes stronger."
Wuchen panted, but nodded. This was only the beginning.
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Two days later, the gates of the Academy for Noble Youth of the Thunder Dominion opened.
Located in the northern mountains of the Duke's territory, perpetually shrouded in clouds, the academy was more than an educational center — it was a proving ground for the heirs of nobility. There, sons of generals, magistrates, spirit masters, and influential clans were trained from the age of six to twelve, before moving on to imperial military academies or elite cultivation schools.
Wuchen arrived wearing a dark gray robe, simple, with the Lei Family crest subtly embroidered on his chest, and his mother's pendant around his neck. The transport had been discreet — an unescorted carriage, just as the Duke had ordered. No extravagance, no unnecessary attention.
The moment he stepped onto the academy's front courtyard, he felt the stares.
Some were curious. Others... heavy with judgment.
"So that's him. The Duke's bastard?"
"The one they say had his spirit ring given to him by the Duke himself?"
The whispers echoed like thin blades. Wuchen had expected this. He didn't react. He walked steadily toward the central pavilion, where the introductions would be held.
Inside the hall, most students had already gathered. Dozens of youths — some in fine clothing, others surrounded by bodyguards — all bearing the aura of privilege. Among them, one group stood out in particular. Six youths, appearing about two years older than Wuchen, formed a small circle at the hall's center. They spoke in hushed laughter, their eyes sharp, like predators studying prey.
At their center was a boy with long hair tied in a blue ribbon. His eyes were like contained lightning: calm on the surface, dangerous beneath.
His name was Lei Jinghai — son of Lei Minghao, one of Wuchen's fiercest opponents within the main bloodline.
When Jinghai's eyes met Wuchen's, silence fell. The noble walked over with the confidence of someone who had always been on top.
"Lei Wuchen," he said with a cold smile. "Or should I just call you Wuchen? After all, bastards have no right to the family name, do they?"
Wuchen stared at him for a moment. He didn't reply.
"So rude," another youth beside Jinghai scoffed, laughing. "Didn't even learn how to greet his betters."
"Leave it for later," Jinghai said with smug superiority. "Our new classmate will have plenty of time to learn his place."
They walked away, but the tension remained. The lines had been drawn.
At the opening ceremony, the academy's headmaster, a Spirit Saint at level 73 named Qiu Baifeng, gave a formal speech about honor, discipline, and growth. But Wuchen knew: in that place, strength and surname spoke louder than anything.
After the ceremony, each group was led to their dormitories. Wuchen was assigned to the Eastern Block — the section for newly awakened students without direct ties to the main lineage. Even with the Lei Family crest, he had been placed there. A subtle, but clear message.
During the first week, he kept mostly silent. He attended classes on combat, spiritual meditation, and imperial history. But what he paid most attention to were the lectures on spirit beasts and the power structure of the current world. Especially the Spirit Hall — he was amazed by how colossal that organization was.
He wasn't the best. But he wasn't mediocre either. The instructors acknowledged his seriousness, though many remained cold toward him.
Jinghai, on the other hand, was a rising star. He already had two century-old spirit rings and a natural talent for lightning techniques. His martial spirit was the Heavenly Thunder Spear, a long-range weapon with destructive power. He led training sessions, received praise, was adored by other noble sons. And with each passing day, he found new ways to provoke Wuchen: during class, in the corridors, during joint training sessions.
"If you want, I can lend you my spear. Maybe then you'll manage to land a hit."
"They say you trained with the Duke. What a shame he wasted his time."
"Good thing you know how to take a beating. Learned that at home, didn't you?"
Wuchen replied with silence. But something was growing inside him.
Anger? Yes. Despite having vague memories of his past life, they were fragmented and not continuous, and the body and mind of a child still influenced much of his actions. Sometimes, he was still pulled by those provocations.
Wounded pride? That too.
But above all, a fierce will to prove he was more than a name tossed in the wind.
At the end of the month came the first Demonstration Tournament — an internal event to evaluate student progress. Simulated combat. No serious injuries. In theory.
Wuchen was matched against one of Jinghai's lackeys: Lei Hanlei, a distant cousin trained since early childhood to become an elite soldier. He was a level 22 Grandmaster with a close-combat martial spirit — the Crimson Iron Fist.
In the arena, the other students watched with hungry eyes. They wanted to see the bastard fall. Jinghai observed with arms crossed, his smirk ready.
Hanlei began with an explosion of energy, two yellow rings rising behind him. His first ring activated, and his fists became coated in crimson energy. Wuchen narrowly dodged the first punch, which shook the ground.
On the second strike, Wuchen activated his martial spirit — a single yellow ring glowed behind him.
His muscles swelled, his movements grew heavier — but also more solid. He remembered the training. The twists, the balance, the styles.
Hanlei's third strike came like a hammer. Wuchen didn't dodge. He took it on his shoulder.
The movement helped absorb the impact, and his counterattack came like thunder: a direct punch to Hanlei's stomach that knocked the wind out of him. The boy staggered, but Wuchen pressed forward, spinning his body and unleashing the Chainbreaker Style.
With a single blow to the chest, Hanlei was thrown out of the combat ring.
Silence.
And then, murmurs. Surprise. Disbelief.
Wuchen walked out of the arena without celebrating. But his eyes, though quiet, shouted:
"I'm here. And you will have to swallow me whole."
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