novel-bin Chapter 13 Arrival
Chapter 13 Arrival
The closer they got to the capital, the better the road conditions became, and the more prosperous the towns along the way. But Wharton didn't have much time to appreciate it—halfway through the journey, the accumulated fatigue began to show. Sitting in a bumpy car for eight or nine hours every day, sleeping in a dormitory at night, and eating rough food was a huge burden for a six-year-old child.
He tried to hide it, but Buck saw through it.
During the midday break on the forty-second day, Buck called Walton aside and handed him a small leather bag.
"Take it."
Wharton opened it, revealing several pieces of dark red jerky with fine texture and faint energy fluctuations.
"Monster jerky, from a level three fire-type monster called 'Flamehoof Deer'," Buck said. "I don't have much in stock, so take this and eat a small piece each day. Your constitution is special, and ordinary food can't keep up with your energy expenditure."
Walton looked up at him.
"Your father confided in me," Buck said in a low voice, "Dragonblood Warrior, right? At first, I was puzzled as to why Hogg would let such a young child travel alone. But then I saw you secretly practicing your skills every morning and evening, and your blood and qi fluctuations were different from ordinary people, so I guessed it."
Walton gripped the leather bag tightly: "Thank you."
"No need to thank me, thank your dad." Buck waved his hand. "He paid extra for the protection and asked me to look after you. This jerky is my personal addition—it's an investment, in case you become a big shot someday, I can brag about knowing you."
The words are straightforward, but not offensive.
Wharton accepted the jerky. He ate a small piece after dinner that evening. The jerky was hard and took a long time to chew, but after swallowing it, a warm current spread from his stomach to his limbs. The cellular hunger was somewhat relieved.
A prompt appears on the panel:
Consuming high-energy foods
[Slightly increased blood vessel activity]
Fatigue recovery speed +15%
effective.
After that, Wharton ate a small piece every day, and his health improved significantly. He kept this favor in his heart.
On the fifty-first day, the convoy finally arrived at Crimson Flame City.
From afar, the city walls came into view—built of dark red boulders, towering into the clouds, with banners fluttering atop them and watchtowers at intervals. The city gates were wide open, and the flow of people and carriages was constant, yet orderly. The guards were well-equipped, with sharp eyes, and their checks of documents were swift and efficient.
"O'Brien Imperial Capital, the holy land of warriors on the Yulan Continent." Buck's tone was filled with pride. "I've been running trade routes for twenty years, and I'm still awestruck every time I see it."
Upon entering the city, a cacophony of noise immediately envelops you. The streets are wide enough for eight carriages to travel abreast, and the buildings on both sides are magnificent, mostly made of stone, and carved with weapons, wild beasts, or battle scenes. Warriors make up a very high proportion of the pedestrians, and you can often see young men and women in academy uniforms, full of vigor and ambition.
There was a tense energy in the air—not magic, but a field formed by the convergence of countless powerful energies. Walton took a deep breath, his dragon bloodline pulsating slightly, as if responding to the city's call.
The convoy unloaded its cargo at the trading company's premises. After finishing the handover, Buck took Walton to a nearby inn to stay.
"I'm off today. I'll take you to register at the college tomorrow," he said. "The registration procedures need to be done in advance; it'll be troublesome if we're late."
The inn's rooms were simple but clean, with separate beds. Walton took a bath—the first proper hot bath in over a month—changed into clean clothes, and then took his dirty clothes to the well in the backyard to scrub them.
Aunt Martha was also doing laundry. When she saw him, she smiled and said, "Oh, our little soldier has learned to do his own laundry!"
"It's something we should learn," Wharton said.
That evening, Buck treated him to dinner in the inn's lobby, ordering two dishes, one meat and one vegetable, and even exceptionally requesting a pot of fruit wine.
"Consider this a farewell gift." Buck raised his glass. "Once you're in academy tomorrow, you'll have to rely on yourself."
Wharton toasted with water instead of wine.
"A few final words," Buck said, putting down his cup. "There are many geniuses at O'Brien Academy, and the competition is fierce. You're young and from out of town, so you're bound to be bullied at first. If you can bear it, then bear it; if you can't, then choose the right way—the academy forbids private fights, but there is a formal challenge system. If someone really picks a fight, then challenge them to a training ground in a fair and square manner."
"clear."
"Also, be frugal with your money. The academy is expensive; training equipment, medicine, instruction—everything costs money. What your brother gave you can last for two years if you're careful with your spending. After two years, you'll have to figure things out yourself—take on academy missions, go hunting, or try for a scholarship."
Wharton nodded. He had thought about all of that.
"Finally," Buck looked at him, "stay alive. A warrior's path is paved with blood, and the academy has annual casualty statistics. Getting stronger is important, but you only get stronger by staying alive."
That's very true. Wharton said solemnly, "I will remember that."
After dinner, Wharton returned to his room but didn't rush to sleep. He opened his bag and took out his belongings one by one to organize them. The copy of the Dragonblood Codex had some wear on the edges but was intact; Linley's letter had deep creases but the handwriting was clear; not a single gold coin from Hogg was missing; and there was still some dried meat left from Ciri's making, which he carefully wrapped up.
Then he sat by the window and looked at the night view of Crimson Flame City outside.
The lights, like stars, stretched from our feet to the horizon. In the distance, a particularly bright area could be vaguely seen; Buck had said that was where O'Brien Academy was located.
I'm going in tomorrow. A whole new world, new rules, new challenges.
He closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the panel. The data accumulated over three years was displayed silently:
[Basic Physical Fitness: Meets Standard (Level 2 Warrior Standard)]
[Dragonblood Warrior Guidance: Mastery 3.2%]
Fire magic power: 3.5 standard units (not yet cast)
[Theoretical knowledge reserves: sufficient]
Current goal: Pass the O'Brien Academy entrance exam.
Everything is ready.
The sound of the watchman striking his clapper came from outside the window; it was the third watch.
Wharton lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He suddenly remembered the morning he left Wushan Town, Hogg standing at the door. He remembered Ciri's red eyes. He remembered Linley's letter: "When we're all strong enough, let's retrieve the family sword together."
He closed his eyes.
The next morning, Buck took Walton to O'Brien College.
The academy is located in the west of the city, covering a vast area, with walls even higher than the inner city walls. The main gate consists of two massive iron gates, with reliefs of battle scenes on them, and the lintel inscribed with four simple characters: "Sanctuary of Warriors."
There was already a line of people at the entrance, mostly teenagers accompanied by their parents. There weren't many children as young as Wharton, which attracted a lot of attention.
Buck handed over the documents, which the guards checked before allowing him to pass. Inside was a wide plaza, its surface paved with smooth, worn bluestone slabs. Directly opposite the plaza stood a magnificent main building, a seven-story stone structure, each floor's outer corridors displaying weapons and armor.
"That's the main training building," Buck explained. "The entrance exams are held there. Go in by yourself; I can only take you this far."
Walton slung his bag over his shoulder: "Thank you, Uncle Buck, for taking care of me along the way."
"You're welcome." Buck patted him on the shoulder. "Do your best on the exam and make our Kingdom of Fenlai proud."
Walton nodded and turned to walk toward the main building.
The square was growing larger, with an estimated hundred or so test-takers. Wharton walked among them, like a blade of grass blending into the woods. He could feel the gazes directed at him—curiosity, scrutiny, and occasionally disdain.
"So young to be taking the exam?"
"Which family are you from? I've never seen you before."
"They're probably just here to make up the numbers."
The murmurs were low, but Wharton could hear them. He ignored them and went to queue at the registration desk in front of the main building.
The line moved slowly. When it was Wharton's turn, the person in charge of registration was a male instructor in his thirties, with a buzz cut, a scar on his face, and wearing the college's uniform black training clothes.
"Name, age, place of origin." The instructor didn't even look up.
"Walton Baruch, six years old, Wushan Town, Kingdom of Finlay."
The instructor then looked up and sized him up: "The recommender?"
"Barker of Greyhoof Trading Company, here are the documents." Walton handed over the letter of recommendation prepared by Barker.
The instructor glanced at it, then accepted it: "Go over there to take the basic test." He pointed to a row of cubicles next to him, "Come back and get your assessment card after you're done."
The basic tests were simple: height and weight, vision and hearing, joint flexibility, and a simple strength test. Wharton completed each one to standard, without excelling or making mistakes. The recorder marked it on the form and finally handed him a wooden plaque with the number "73" engraved on it.
"Candidate number seventy-three. The assessment consists of three parts: physical fitness, sparring, and talent assessment. Physical fitness in the morning, sparring in the afternoon, and the talent assessment last." The recorder said matter-of-factly, "Now assemble at training ground number three."
Training Ground No. 3 is located behind the main building; it's an open-air area covered with fine sand. Fifty or sixty candidates have already gathered, queuing according to their numbers. The examiner is a lean, middle-aged man with eagle-like eyes.
"First event, cross-country running with weights." The examiner's voice boomed, "See that red line? Start from here and run ten laps around the training ground, each lap is 800 meters. You can walk, but you can't stop. The last 100 will be eliminated."
Some people gasped. Eight kilometers is already strenuous for teenagers, and almost impossible for a six-year-old.
Wharton didn't speak, but simply adjusted his breathing. A concise prompt appeared on the panel:
[Bodyweight Cross-Country Running: 8 km]
[Current physical fitness estimate: Can be completed]
[Recommendation: Maintain a steady pace and breathing rhythm]
The examiner blew the whistle.
The crowd surged forward. Walton didn't try to overtake, but followed behind, maintaining his own pace. The first two laps were easy, but some started slowing down on the third lap, and by the fifth lap, some had fallen behind. Walton maintained a mid-range position, his breathing steady.
By the sixth lap, his legs were starting to ache. He remembered Hogg's words: "A warrior's path is measured by his body; not a single step can be missed."
On the seventh lap, his throat felt dry. He took small breaths to adjust his breathing.
By the eighth lap, the number of people able to keep up had decreased by a third. Walton overtook several people and moved forward.
On the ninth lap, he reached his limit. His lungs felt like they were burning, and his legs felt like lead. He gritted his teeth, and the breathing technique started automatically—not the complete movements, but the rhythm of his breathing. With each inhale and exhale, the faint warm current in his blood was mobilized, relieving his fatigue.
The final lap. The examiner at the finish line shouted, "Sprint! The last 100 are eliminated!"
Those who could still run accelerated desperately. Walton also sped up, but kept himself in control. In the final 100 meters, he overtook three people and crossed the finish line.
I stumbled and almost fell, but managed to steady myself. My chest heaved violently, and sweat poured down my back.
The examiner glanced at him and jotted something down in his notebook.
After a half-hour break, the second item is a strength test. It's not weightlifting, but striking a strength-measuring stone. Candidates take turns striking a soft pad on the stone with all their might, and a magical device nearby displays the numerical value.
Walton stood at the back, observing the people in front. The scores ranged from tens to hundreds, with the highest score coming from a burly young man who scored "320," eliciting gasps of amazement.
When it was his turn, low chuckles rippled through the crowd.
"Can this little guy even score fifty?"
Walton ignored him. He walked to the stone tablet, but didn't rush to make a move. He first got into position—not just any random punch, but a standard power exertion honed through three years of training: feet gripping the ground, waist turning, shoulder thrusting, and punching out.
boom!
The sound was not loud. The numbers on the stone tablet jumped and stopped: 107.
The laughter stopped.
107 isn't tall, but considering his age and physique, this number indicates excellent power generation technique. The examiner glanced at him again and made a note.
The third test: Endurance. Suspend a horizontal bar and see how long it can last.
Walton gripped the bar, his body suspended in the air. Time ticked by, his hands began to tremble, and his forearm muscles felt like they were about to tear apart. He closed his eyes, imagining himself practicing the Qi-gathering posture in the backyard of Wushan Town, twenty minutes, thirty-five minutes, pushing his limits time and time again.
People kept falling around him. He was still hanging there.
When the examiner finally called a halt, only about twenty people remained hanging. Wharton let go and landed, his hand trembling violently, but he didn't fall.
The morning assessment concluded. Of the more than one hundred candidates, half were eliminated. The number on the Wharton sign was crossed out and replaced with a new one: "Number Thirty-Nine."
He ate lunch at the college cafeteria—free, but simple: dark bread, stew, and water. Wharton ate slowly, trying to regain his strength. Groups of students around him discussed the morning's results. He sat alone, and no one approached him.
That's good, it'll be peaceful.
The afternoon practical assessment was moved to an indoor training hall. The floor was covered with soft mats, and the examiner was a female soldier in her thirties with short hair and sharp eyes.
"Real combat isn't about fighting," she said. "It's about testing your combat awareness, reaction time, and basic skills. You'll be paired up and spar with training wooden swords, stopping short of a fight. I'll score you based on your performance."
Grouping was randomized. Walton was assigned to a twelve-year-old boy, two heads taller and with a muscular build.
The boy grinned: "Little brother, don't worry, I'll be gentle."
Walton didn't speak, but picked up the wooden sword. It was longer than the short sword he usually practiced with, but the weight was just right.
The whistle blows.
The boy underestimated his opponent and casually swung his sword. Walton didn't take the blow head-on, but dodged to the side, and thrust his wooden sword towards the boy's ribs—a very basic thrust, but the timing was perfect.
Snapped.
The tip of the sword touched the boy's ribs. The boy froze, clearly not expecting to be hit.
"I'm lucky." He stopped smiling and became serious.
Walton failed to land any more blows in the next few exchanges. The gap in age, strength, and experience was too great; he could maneuver around Walton using skill and anticipation, but it was difficult for him to create effective attacks. The boy gradually figured out Walton's tactics and intensified his offensive.
Walton began to retreat, parrying and looking for an opening. The wooden swords clashed and crackled, and his arm went numb from the impact.
The panel calmly displays itself in the corner of my consciousness:
[Analysis of the match: The opponent has a clear advantage in strength, moderate skill, and is accustomed to attacking from the right flank]
[Recommendation: Lure the enemy deep into your territory and create an imbalance]
Walton deliberately feigned an opening, his steps appearing unsteady as he retreated. The boy, as expected, launched a preemptive attack, slashing down with all his might. Walton didn't block directly; instead, he dodged to the side, his wooden sword sliding along the opponent's blade, the hilt striking the opponent's wrist.
The boy cried out in pain and dropped the sword.
Walton's sword tip stopped three inches from his throat.
silence.
The boy's eyes widened, his face flushed. The examiner blew his whistle: "Stop! Wharton wins."
Whispers arose around them. Walton sheathed his sword and nodded to the boy. The boy picked up his sword, muttered something, and turned to leave.
He fought two more matches after that, winning one and losing one. His opponent in the loss was a fourteen-year-old girl with exquisite swordsmanship, giving him no chance whatsoever. Walton lost decisively, but he learned something from the experience.
After the practical assessment, another batch of people were eliminated. Wharton's new number is "21".
In the evening, the last item: talent assessment.
The location was a quiet room on the top floor of the main building. The examinee entered alone, where three examiners were seated: the Hawkeye examiner from the morning, the female warrior from the afternoon, and an old man with a white beard dressed in a mage's robe—this surprised Wharton; why would a warrior academy have mages?
"Walton Baruch, six years old." Hawkeye the examiner read the data. "Above average in physical fitness test, excellent in strength test technique, and good in actual combat."
The three examiners exchanged glances. Hawkeye quickly scribbled on a piece of paper, then looked up: "Talent assessment: Excellent. Walton Baruch, you have passed the test."
There were no cheers, no congratulations, just a calm statement.
Walton withdrew his hand: "Thank you."
"Come tomorrow morning to complete the enrollment procedures and be assigned a class and dormitory." The eagle-eyed examiner handed him a piece of paper. "This is a temporary pass; you can stay at the college guesthouse tonight for free."
Walton accepted it, thanked him, and left.
It was already dark when I stepped out of the main building. The square was brightly lit, with only a few students and parents remaining. Wharton stood on the steps and took a deep breath.