Chapter 115: The Senior Class
Chapter 115: The Senior Class
Solomon stepped entirely into the illuminated courtyard. The sharp clack of wooden training blades abruptly ceased. Dozens of older teenagers lowered their weapons and turned their attention toward the entrance.
The customized azure robes of the second-year disciples contrasted sharply with the basic gray fabric of Solomon’s first-year training gear. He stuck out completely among the veterans.
[LazyCat: they all stopped to look at the trespasser.]
[GamerGuy: boss music starts playing.]
A tall senior with a square jaw separated from the central group. He rested a wooden broadsword on his shoulder and marched directly toward the archway. Marco Alfoy remained entirely silent in the background while keeping his distance from the front lines.
"Are you lost, newbie?" the tall student demanded. He pointed the tip of his wooden blade at Solomon’s chest. "This is the second-year training ground. You need to turn around and walk back down those stairs right now if you actually value your physical well-being."
Other seniors chimed in from the dirt rings. They demanded to know why a novice would wander so far up the mountain and threatened to physically toss him over the stone walls.
Solomon kept his hands resting casually on the strap of the executioner’s sword strapped to his back. He looked around the spacious courtyard and glanced at the weapon racks.
"Is there a specific rule written somewhere that forbids first-year disciples from entering this area?" Solomon asked.
The tall senior blinked. The surrounding second-year students exchanged confused glances. People usually responded to threats with drawn weapons and arrogant boasts. Solomon simply threw logic and sect regulations back in their faces.
"Well, no," the senior muttered. He lowered his wooden broadsword and scratched his neck. "There is no official rule against it. We just claim this space for our own routines."
Solomon nodded in understanding. He bypassed the confused senior and walked toward a raised stone planter situated near the edge of the courtyard. He casually sat down on the smooth rock and stretched his legs out over the dirt.
"That is perfectly fine," Solomon announced. "I honestly have absolutely nothing else to do right now. I completely failed to fall asleep down in the dorms. You guys can just carry on with your parry sequences. I will sit right here and watch your training."
The seniors stood frozen in the center of the rings. They completely lacked any idea on how to handle a first-year student treating their exclusive training ground like a public theater.
[User12: bro just bypassed a massive fight with a technicality.]
[GoonLord: HE IS LITERALLY TAUNTING THEM BY SITTING DOWN!]
[NewbHunter: Marco is probably praying Solo Man doesn’t ask for a rematch.]
The second-year disciples gripped their wooden swords. They completely lacked any valid excuse to physically drag Solomon out of the courtyard. Initiating an unprovoked attack on a seated first-year student invited immediate disciplinary action from the pavilion instructors.
Marco Alfoy quietly stepped to the back of the formation and signaled the others to drop the issue. The tall senior clicked his tongue, spun around, and commanded his peers to resume their parry sequences.
Solomon leaned back against the stone planter. He casually watched the older teenagers swing their wooden blades through the dirt rings. They aggressively hacked at invisible targets, occasionally casting irritated glances toward the silver-haired boy.
Solomon simply offered a bright, unapologetic smile every single time they looked his way.
A short while later, a large group of newcomers marched through the stone archway. These cultivators wore entirely different training uniforms sporting dark crimson fabrics. Solomon tilted his head to inspect the arrivals.
He initially assumed they were third-year seniors joining the night session.
However, he quickly noticed a complete lack of silver academy crests stitched to their chests. Furthermore, absolutely zero mechanical bronze owls hovered above their shoulders. They belonged to an entirely different institution altogether.
The crimson-clad students claimed a section of the courtyard and immediately initiated their own routines.
They swung their wooden weapons with explosive vigor, shouting loudly with every single strike. They purposely exaggerated their lunges and parries, clearly attempting to demonstrate their absolute superiority over the Live Streaming Academy disciples.
"I am bored," he muttered.
Solomon rested his elbows on his knees and yawned. Watching teenagers violently hack at wooden posts completely lost its entertainment value after ten minutes. He tapped the floating owl and turned his attention to the scrolling blue interface.
"Look at the guy in the red uniform on the right," Solomon told his chat, pointing a finger at a particularly aggressive cultivator. "He just overextended his front leg on that horizontal sweep. A simple tap on his shoulder would send him face-first into the dirt."
[LazyCat: lmao you are just sitting there roasting them.]
[GamerGuy: he looks like a confused duck swinging that stick.]
[BloodKnight: A terrible stance indeed. His center of gravity is entirely compromised.]
"I came all the way up here hoping to steal some advanced techniques," Solomon commented, leaning back and kicking his boots together. "Now I am just getting a live tutorial on how to permanently ruin my knee joints."
Suddenly, angry shouts erupted from the center of the courtyard. The constant clacking of wooden blades abruptly ceased. Solomon looked up from his screen. The LSA seniors and the crimson-clad students had completely abandoned their individual routines.
They formed two hostile lines in the dirt, aggressively shoving each other and yelling insults across the divide.
[1Fizzy: What happened?]
"I didn’t see. I was talking to you guys," Solomon announced to the drone. "I will go check on the commotion."
He pushed himself off the stone planter and walked toward the escalating conflict. He easily slipped past the arguing cultivators and reached the front of the crowd.
A second-year LSA student lay curled on the dirt floor.
The teenager clutched the side of his head with both hands, while bright red blood seeped rapidly through his fingers and dripped onto the cobblestones. Standing directly above the injured boy, a crimson-clad student held a wooden training sword casually resting against his shoulder.