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Chapter 18: The Magician on the Training Field.

Kyle stared blankly at the black-haired kid sitting beside the goddess of his dreams.

That damned fellow had actually plopped himself between Kyle and the goddess, blocking her from his view entirely.

What was the point of buying this seat, then? This is outrageous!

The other male students gnashed their teeth as well, wondering whether the goddess would have accepted them had they gone over first.

What a shame… the black-haired brat beat them to it.

Ashura had not expected to incur everyone’s wrath, so he hunched his neck and lowered his head, pretending to study his notes.

Clara, sitting beside him, seemed unaware of his embarrassment.

She twirled a lock of silver hair between her fingers, apparently in a good mood.

A moment later the instructor walked in, and everyone except Kyle shifted their hostile gazes away and focused on the lesson.

Yet after two periods Ashura’s expression turned ugly.

He could still grasp only part of the basic Magic lecture; anything slightly advanced was beyond him.

Ashura knew that continuing like this was a complete waste, and he could no longer afford to squander time.

He buried his head in his arms and fell into deep thought.

Clara had no idea what was wrong; she raised a finger, meaning to poke him back to attention, but withdrew her hand again.

On the other side the class monitor Kyle snorted disdainfully.

He thought, “Only two days in and he is already sleeping in class? How could my goddess ever fancy such a slacker?”

“She is probably annoyed with him already; how do I rescue my goddess from this dunce?”

Before Kyle could finish plotting, Ashura suddenly sprang to his feet, new light flashing in his eyes.

Without a word he turned and dashed out, leaving the instructor and the students baffled.

No one knew whether Ashura had lost his mind or what.

But the academy was famously free-spirited, so they soon returned to their studies and forgot the incident.

Only the girl beside the now vacant seat seemed a little unhappy…

Ashura dashed out of the Magic School toward the training field outside.

He had not gone crazy; he had simply thought of a way to stay here, albeit a desperate one.

Dean Sanin had said that anyone who reached the Martial Master or Magician realm and inflicted real damage on the test dummy would pass.

Although he was only Mage Apprentice Stage 3 in the Magic School, his Warrior rank was Warrior Stage 3.

If he trained hard for the next 3 months, could he not break through to Martial Master and clear the assessment in one stroke?

The more Ashura thought about it, the more feasible it seemed.

Besides, academy rules never said a Magician could not attend Warrior classes.

The youth congratulated himself on his cleverness.

Yet the moment he reached the training ground, many students began pointing and whispering at him.

After all, a Magician in a magic robe showing up at the drill ground was a once-in-a-century oddity.

Ashura ignored the stares and tried to locate Second Brother Arthur’s class so he could sit in on their Warrior lesson and consult Arthur when something confused him.

But the drill field was enormous, and there were nearly 2,000 first-year Warriors; he could not find Arthur right away.

While Ashura was wandering around like a silly goose, looking left and right on the field, a stern shout stopped him: “Hey, kid in the magic robe, I’m talking to you… what are you doing on the training field?”

Ashura followed the voice and saw a middle-aged instructor in silver light armor staring at him.

Looking closer, he realized the instructor was the very man who had overseen his entrance exam.

Ashura hurriedly replied, “I came to audit a Warrior class, Instructor; please, carry on, don’t mind me.”

With that he tried to slip away from trouble.

The middle-aged instructor recognized him too; the black-haired boy had left quite an impression.

After a moment’s thought, the instructor guessed Ashura’s purpose, since he knew the boy’s background.

He called out, “If you want to audit a Warrior class, come over here; I’m lecturing my class right now.”

Ashura dared not attend this man’s class; he had set a trap for the instructor just 2 days ago, and walking into his class would be walking into the lion’s den.

He quickly shouted back, “No need to trouble you; I’ll just listen to another instructor’s class!”

The middle-aged instructor chuckled meaningfully and said, “I won’t force you if you prefer someone else, but about the assessment…”

He did not finish the sentence, yet Ashura had already stopped in his tracks.

He knew the instructor had seen through his intentions, since the man knew his details.

The youth hurried over, plastered on a flattering smile, and said, “I was merely afraid of wasting your time; it would be my honor to learn from you.”

Pleased with the boy’s attitude, the instructor nodded appreciatively and said, “Then fall in with the group over there,” before turning toward a nearby squad.

Ashura followed behind, silently cursing the instructor’s female relatives a hundred times.

But when he reached the class, he froze… why were there so many people?

There were over 100 students in this line, whereas other classes had only 30 or 40.

Was this middle-aged uncle really that good a instructor?

The Warrior students likewise pointed at the boy in the magic robe, speculating about his purpose.

Was he here to pick a fight with some of them?

At that moment the instructor spoke: “Get in there, kid. Oh, right, your name’s Ashura, isn’t it?”

“I remember you. If you want to take Warrior classes in the future, be sure to come to me, otherwise…”

Ashura drooped his head and replied, “Yes, Uncle.”

The instructor was taken aback; no one had called him ‘uncle’ in years.

A vein throbbed on his forehead as he said, “My name is Enge; you may call me Instructor Enge.”

Ashura feigned earnestness and said, “Yes, Uncle Enge.”

Enge was silent for a long moment, then, instead of getting angry, he laughed and waved Ashura into the ranks.

He swept his gaze over the Warriors and said, “This black-haired kid is Ashura; from now on he will attend Class 8 with us.”

“Now, back to our combat drill. Everyone, groups of 10, attack me with full strength… begin!”

Ashura blinked in surprise… were Warrior classes really this straightforward and brutal?

He watched as the Class 8 freshmen charged at Instructor Enge, 10 at a time.

Moments later each student was sent flying out of the encirclement, landing on the ground and yelping in pain.

Ashura watched team after team rush in, only to be knocked away one by one.

He swallowed hard, wondering whether he would be the one sent flying the farthest.

Remembering how he had called the man ‘uncle’ twice, he wished he could slap himself.

Soon it was his row’s turn; Ashura’s eyes darted about, then he charged at Instructor Enge with the others.

With several dull thuds, the whole squad was sent flying without suspense, landing in a heap and howling.

Yet Instructor Enge frowned; something felt off… he seemed to have thrown only 9 punches.

He scanned the students on the ground, and the one in a Magician’s robe writhing in pain quickly drew his notice.

Enge let out a cold laugh; the brat dared play tricks on his watch… time to teach him a lesson.

Ashura lay there, twisting about and crying ‘ow ow’ like the others.

He had just pulled a fast one: he joined the charge but vaulted backward before even touching Instructor Enge, pretending to be blasted away.

He was here to learn Martial Techniques, not to get beaten up.

He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt.

By then the last team had rushed Instructor Enge, and Ashura was still playing injured.

Suddenly a back slammed hard into him, and Ashura sucked in a breath of pain.

A mass of fiery red hair spilled over his face.

Enduring the pain, Ashura pushed the body off him, wondering why his right hand felt so springy.

Instinctively he gave it a slight squeeze before he even realized what he was touching.

The owner of the red hair slowly turned her head toward him.

With a sculpted, strikingly handsome face framed by brows like an artist’s stroke, she asked coldly, “Does it feel nice?”

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