The scent of herbs still lingered in the infirmary, mingling with the sterile sharpness of antiseptic and linen. The lights glowed dim, casting long shadows across the walls. Senior Liang rested quietly, his injuries freshly bandaged, his expression as unreadable as always.
Elric Vaughan stood by the door, arms folded, as Miguel sat down a little distance away, still visibly shaken.
"Thank you, Senior Liang," Miguel said again, his voice hushed. "You really saved us back there."
Liang Ren simply nodded.
Elric, more cautious, added, "That girl… Arya… she would've seriously hurt Mikhail."
Senior Liang didn't deny it.
"She might've," he said mildly, then added with a quiet weight behind the words, "Don't provoke her next time. Stay away."
A chill threaded through the air. The words were calm—almost casual—but something in his tone made both boys stiffen.
It wasn't a warning.
It was a command.
Miguel swallowed hard. Elric shifted uncomfortably, his lips tightening. They were grateful, yes—but not foolish.
That warning wasn't to protect them.
It was to protect her.
And for Elric Vaughan, that fact gnawed at him.
Because, for all his calculated detachment and analytical mind, he had never understood her.
In Shaantvan Academy, everyone had a place. Even the orphans.
Shaantvan wasn't an institution you could simply apply to. It wasn't a place for the elite to flash money or legacy to buy admission. Hidden beneath the facade of an ordinary mountain university, it was a living relic—an ancient sanctum that had survived centuries of war, conquest, and corruption. An indestructible archive of talent, tradition, and battle-forged wisdom.
It chose its own.
It picked those it wanted and discarded the rest. The orphans it trained were usually wild talents found accidentally—feral, untamed youths brought in from war zones, ruined temples, collapsing nations. They were trained, educated, refined—not out of charity, but because their strength could someday feed the strength of the Academy.
But never, not once in Shaantvan's long history, had an orphan been directly placed under the supervision of a Temple Elder, let alone the Grand Monk himself.
And Arya?
Arya was both.
A girl whose face was always hidden beneath a veil. Who rarely spoke unless provoked. Who was said to have arrived years ago, abandoned and scarred, with no name, no known bloodline, and—if rumors were true—no beauty.
She wasn't simply accepted by the Academy.
She was claimed.
Taken under the Fourth Elder's direct protection.
Raised under the personal eye of the Grand Monk.
Indulged, even, despite her violent outbursts, blatant defiance, and complete disregard for hierarchy.
Even when she attacked students—like today—she was seldom punished.
It had baffled the student body for years.
Because Shaantvan might've looked like a haven for lost souls—but it ran on structure. On power, loyalty, and merit. On legacy.
And Arya had none of it.
Except… whatever she was hiding beneath that veil, whatever force she carried within her spirit—it had been enough to shake even the most deeply rooted traditions.
Elric Vaughan clenched his jaw.
He was no fool. At twenty-two, he was the heir of the Vaughan clan—one of the most respected bloodlines with influence spread through Solmara, Novareth, and beyond. He was being groomed to take over as Head the moment he graduated.
He was smart, perceptive, ruthlessly strategic.
And he was a bully.
His victims wouldn't speak of it. They wouldn't dare.
Because Elric was the kind of person who could crush you without lifting a finger. Who understood every weak link in your armor before you realized you had any.
Yet…
He had never touched Arya.
Never confronted her.
Never even insulted her to her face.
It wasn't out of respect.
It was out of instinct.
Because whatever she was, whatever she was hiding—it was dangerous.
Not the kind of danger you challenge. The kind you stay very, very far away from.
But today… something was different.
Today, he had watched.
Watched as Arya, just sixteen years old, single-handedly disabled Mikhail, then challenged Senior Liang—a prodigy, a monk-warrior feared even among Elders.
And she held her ground.
She hadn't won, no. But she didn't break either.
Elric watched the memory replay in his mind—the way she smirked as if the fight amused her.
The way she pulled her staff as if it were a sword of judgment. The way her eyes gleamed even under pressure.
He was an analyst. That was his talent.
And now he realized something that should've terrified him:
She didn't stand out because she was a prodigy.
She stood out because she didn't need to fit in.
She was a storm that never asked for permission to exist.
And everyone else was just trying not to drown.
Elric Vaughan expression sank.
Fortunately—or perhaps, unfortunately—because of the clash between Senior Liang and Arya, he had caught something others missed.
The contrast.
It wasn't just a duel between a disciple and a prodigy. It was a revelation. Liang Ren—Senior Liang—had clearly been in a superior position during the entire fight.
His movements were sharper, his reactions more precise. Arya had been formidable, but Elric's keen eye could see the subtle tells, the deliberate restraint.
Liang Ren had held back.
But why?
That question burned at the back of Elric's mind. Yet he never asked.
Because Elric knew better than to meddle in waters far deeper than his reach.
But Miguel Saavedra—blunt, impulsive Miguel—did not share the same caution.
His mouth worked faster than his thoughts.
"Why did you hold back, Senior Liang?" he blurted, still cradling his bruised wrist, eyes wide with disbelief.
The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.
Elric stiffened instantly. His gaze cut sharply toward Miguel, warning and cold.
"What the hell are you thinking?" he hissed under his breath.
Miguel blinked, confusion flickering across his face—clearly unaware of the line he'd just crossed.
Liang Ren didn't respond at once. Instead, he turned his face toward the window where the wind gently stirred the gauzy curtain.
For a moment, he seemed a statue of quiet stillness, breathing in a memory no one else could see.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Do I need to answer you?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.
Miguel shrank back, still unable to understand what he had done wrong.
"She would've done worse if I hadn't held back."
Liang Ren's voice was calm—too calm—but the words carried weight. Not just a warning, but the echo of a truth buried deep. There was something behind that calm—something raw and old, like a wound that never truly healed.
Elric finally spoke, his eyes narrowing. "She nearly broke your ribs."
"She always holds back," Liang Ren said, still watching the wind. "You just don't notice it."
Miguel stared at him, disbelief painted across his features. "And you still protect her?"
Liang Ren's gaze didn't falter.
"She's not reckless," he murmured. "She's angry. There's a difference."
The room went quiet again, shadows stretching long across the infirmary floor.
Elric leaned forward, his tone now gentler. "Then why, Senior Liang? Why do you always shield her? Even when she's the one causing chaos? Even when she doesn't seem to want your help?"
For the first time, Liang Ren's hands moved—his fingers curling subtly over the edge of the bed sheet, knuckles pale.
His answer came softly.
"I owe someone."
Just three words.
No explanation. No justification. No name.
Elric frowned slightly. "Owe who?"
Liang Ren gave a faint smile—thin, almost invisible. It tugged at the corner of his lips but never reached his eyes.
"Someone who once told me… if she ever lost her way, I should help her find it back."
Before Miguel could say anything more, Liang Ren's gaze shifted to him—sharp and steady.
"I don't know on whose orders you planned to confront her," he said, his voice low, edged with quiet warning. "But there's a line you don't cross—no matter who you are. So tell him not to try anything reckless…"
His eyes darkened.
"Or he'll have to answer to me."