69novels Chapter 14 Graduation
Chapter 14 Graduation
At O'Brien Academy's graduation arena, twelve-year-old Walton Baruch stands in the center of the field.
The stands were packed—students, instructors, academy executives, and even a few representatives from the military. Today's graduation assessment wasn't a regular test, but a special batch of early graduation challenges. In O'Brien Academy's 800-year history, many geniuses had graduated early, but this was the first time someone had applied for early graduation at the age of twelve.
The examiner was Raymond, the vice dean of the academy and an eighth-level warrior known as "Iron Wall." This bald man, known for his sternness, stood with his arms crossed, looking at the figure in the center of the arena with a complex expression.
"Walton Baruch, age twelve, is applying for early graduation." Raymond's voice boomed. "According to the rules, he must defeat three outstanding students of his class consecutively and withstand my attacks for the duration of an incense stick burning. It's not too late to back out now."
Wharton wore the academy's standard black training uniform, the cuffs and pant legs deliberately tightened—the uniform had been issued two years ago, fitting perfectly then but now appearing too short. Six years had passed, and the skinny little boy who entered the academy at six had grown up. He was nearly 1.6 meters tall, not particularly tall, but standing there he resembled a taut bowstring, every line exuding power.
"No regrets," Walton said.
Raymond nodded: "First match, against Harold Stock."
A blond boy, fifteen years old, standing 1.8 meters tall, with broad shoulders and a thick back, walked up from the opposite side—a typical O'Brien warrior physique. Harold was one of the best students in this cohort, a level six warrior, renowned for his strength.
"Walton, I know you're strong." Harold cracked his knuckles. "But the graduation match isn't a casual sparring match. I won't hold back."
"There's no need to hold back," Walton said.
The whistle blows.
Harold charged forward first, his steps heavy, each one leaving deep craters in the sand. His right fist lashed out, the wind whistling through the air. It was a standard O'Brien Military Boxing opening stance, but the speed and power were at the peak of a Level 6 warrior.
Walton didn't dodge.
He stepped forward, his left hand reaching out, not to block, but to hook. His five fingers precisely gripped Harold's wrist, pulling him away with a swift motion. Harold's forward momentum was pulled back, and he lost his balance. Walton's right shoulder slammed into his chest, not hard, but in a tricky spot.
boom.
Harold stumbled back three steps before regaining his footing, a look of astonishment flashing across his face. The impact hadn't been powerful, but it had damaged his core strength, leaving him with a tightness in his chest.
"Your strength is an advantage, but you're applying it too directly," Walton said. "When you twist your waist, reserve some of your strength for a change of move."
This was guidance, not mockery. Harold gritted his teeth and lunged again. This time he was more cautious, using both fists and feet, trying to overwhelm him with sheer volume of attacks.
Walton moved through the shadows of fists. His steps were small, only half a step or a full step at a time, but he always managed to avoid the attacks perfectly. His movements seemed unhurried, even a little slow, yet Harold just couldn't land a hit.
After thirty moves, Harold's breathing became rapid.
Walton suddenly stopped, clenched his right fist, and unleashed a powerful roundhouse kick at Harold.
They clashed fists and feet.
With a muffled thud, Harold was thrown backward, landing seven or eight steps back, his right leg trembling. Walton, on the other hand, only sank half an inch into the sand.
"Thank you for the courtesy," Walton said.
Harold paused for a moment, then smiled wryly and clasped his hands in a fist salute: "I lost."
A buzz of discussion arose from the audience. Harold, a level six warrior, couldn't last fifty moves against Walton.
Raymond's face remained expressionless: "The second match is against Alice Windsor."
This time, a girl came up. She was sixteen years old, with red hair in a high ponytail and a slender figure. She was using twin short blades, the blades gleaming with a pale blue light—weapons enchanted by wind magic.
"Little brother Walton, your sister isn't as stupid as Harold," Alice chuckled, her figure suddenly blurring.
Speed-type. With peak level six speed and the added bonus of wind-elemental enchantment, her movement trajectory is unpredictable. Her twin blades strike like a viper's tongue, coming from all sorts of tricky angles.
Wharton finally got serious.
He drew his training dagger from his waist—a plain iron sword, unenchanted. He held the blade horizontally in front of his chest and began to move.
It's not dodging, it's anticipation.
With each of Alice's attacks, Walton's blade was always waiting in the perfect spot. The blades clashed, creating a cacophony of ringing sounds. Alice grew increasingly alarmed—she was clearly faster, yet Walton always managed to block her path before she could even make a move.
After seventy moves, Alice's breathing became erratic.
Walton suddenly spoke up: "Left side, open goal."
Alice instinctively protected her ribs, but Walton's knife was already three inches from her throat.
"You…" Alice's eyes widened. "How did you know?"
"Your breathing rhythm," Walton said, sheathing his sword. "After each full-force thrust, there's a half-second pause to catch your breath. Your left flank defense will subconsciously relax."
Alice froze, then bowed deeply: "I've learned a lot."
The audience had fallen silent. If defeating Harold was a matter of overwhelming power, then defeating Alice was a complete victory of skill and insight. A twelve-year-old child, yet his combat experience was as seasoned as that of a battle-hardened veteran.
Raymond took a deep breath: "Game 3, Roderick O'Brien."
The name silenced the entire room.
A seventeen-year-old boy with black hair, blue eyes, and a stern face walked from the other side of the court. He wore ordinary training clothes, but walked with a powerful stride, exuding authority. O'Brien—a royal surname.
"Rhodes is a level seven warrior," Raymond said, looking at Walton. "You can choose to use a weapon, and he can use one too."
Roderick stopped ten paces from Walton and took a two-handed greatsword from the weapon rack. The blade was blunt, but incredibly heavy, and it made a whooshing sound as he lifted it.
"I've heard my father mention you," Roderick said in a deep voice. "Twelve years old, a level seven warrior, with dragon blood. The number one genius of O'Brien Academy in eight hundred years."
Walton didn't speak, he just gripped the dagger tighter.
"I'm here today to see just how strong this 'number one genius' really is." Roderick gripped his sword with both hands. "I won't hold back because of his age, and don't disappoint me."
"Please," Walton said.
Roderick moved.
Unlike Harold's brute force and Alice's swiftness, his movements were concise, efficient, and heavy. His heavy sword swept across, sealing off all angles of evasion. This was battlefield swordsmanship—no frills, only the killing of the enemy.
Walton stepped back for the first time.
Swords clashed, the short sword trembling violently. The difference in strength was too great; even though Walton skillfully deflected most of the full force of a level seven warrior's attack, the aftershock still made his arm numb.
Roderick pressed forward relentlessly, his greatsword lashing out like a storm. Each strike was powerful and heavy, aimed directly at vital points. This was not a friendly sparring match; it was a real battle.
Walton weaved through the swordplay, narrowly escaping death several times. Several times, the greatsword grazed his body, tearing his training uniform.
After fifty moves, Walton was completely overwhelmed.
Someone in the audience shook their head: "Ultimately, it's the age difference; their strength and experience are far too different."
But Raymond's eyes lit up.
Because he saw that although Walton was retreating, his steps were not disordered. Every block and every dodge was completed within the most economical range. More importantly—Walton's eyes remained calm, like a deep pool.
After seventy moves, Roderick's breathing became slightly disordered.
Right now.
Walton suddenly stopped retreating. He stepped forward to meet the descending heavy sword, his short sword not used to parry, but instead slid along the blade, the hilt striking Roderick's wrist.
The same move, but with limited effect against a level seven warrior. Roderick lowered his wrist, changing his greatsword's slash into a sweep.
Walton, however, was already close behind.
The dagger flew from his hand—not dropped, but thrown. It spun towards Roderick's face, forcing him to turn his head to dodge. In that split second, Walton's fist arrived.
It wasn't smashing, it was thorns.
The fist, like a spear, stabbed towards Roderick's chest. Roderick raised his arm to block, but Walton changed his stance, turning the thrust into a press, striking Roderick's elbow joint.
Click.
A slight thud. Roderick groaned, his greatsword nearly slipping from his grasp.
Walton did not pursue, but stepped back three paces.
Roderick lowered his sword, stretched his right arm, and found his joint had returned to its normal position. He looked at Walton, his gaze complex: "You held back that punch just now."
"It's just a friendly exchange," Walton said.
"If I hadn't pulled back, my elbow would have shattered." Roderick paused for a moment. "You win."
The audience was deathly silent, then erupted in thunderous applause.
Three wins in a row, against opponents who went from level six to level seven. This twelve-year-old proved with real combat that he deserves the title of "the greatest genius in eight hundred years".
Raymond stepped off the field and approached Walton. He looked the student up and down; the quiet little boy from six years ago had grown into a true warrior.
"In the final match, hold out against me for the last incense stick's time," Raymond said. "The rules remain the same, but I will use my peak level seven strength."
Walton nodded and picked up the dagger again.
Raymond didn't use a weapon. He assumed a fighting stance, and instantly, his entire demeanor changed. If Roderick was like a sword drawn from its sheath, then Raymond was like a mountain—unshakeable and insurmountable.
"start."
Raymond moved. His speed wasn't fast, but every step was perfectly timed. He threw a punch, unremarkable in itself, yet the force of the blow made Walton gasp for breath.
Walton sidestepped, thrusting his blade towards Raymond's ribs. Raymond neither dodged nor evaded, letting the blade pierce his training uniform—the blade bent, unable to penetrate. A level seven peak battle aura protecting him was beyond the reach of a training blade.
"Your strengths are skill and speed," Raymond said as he threw a punch, "but against a true champion, those aren't enough. Strength, defense, and endurance are all essential."
Walton didn't answer, only dodging, blocking, and counterattacking. His blade left countless white spots on Raymond's body, but none of them caused any real damage. And every punch Raymond threw required his full strength to deflect.
Time passed, and the incense had burned down to almost nothing.
Walton's breathing became rapid, and his training clothes were soaked with sweat. It was a miracle that he had been able to hold on this long against a level seven peak opponent.
Raymond suddenly changed tactics. His punches increased dramatically, raining down one after another. Walton was forced to retreat repeatedly, his feet carving deep furrows in the sand.
Raymond used 80% of his strength in his final punch.
Walton parried with his sword. The blade bent to its limit and then snapped. His fist, undiminished, slammed towards his chest.
We're going to lose.
But a dark red glint suddenly flashed in Walton's eyes.
He didn't transform—if it was just an exam, it would be a disservice to his identity as a transmigrator if he needed to transform to defeat even an ordinary level seven warrior.
He discarded the knife and placed his hands together on his chest.
boom!
Walton was sent flying backward, landing with a staggering 10-15 steps, each step leaving a deep crater in the sand. He stopped with his last step, a trickle of blood escaping from the corner of his mouth, but he stood firm.
The incense burned out.
Raymond retracted his fist, stared at Walton for a long time. Then he turned to face the audience, his voice echoing throughout the arena:
"Walton Baruch, you have passed your early graduation assessment!"
There was thunderous applause.
Walton wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, bowed to Raymond, and then to the stands. He turned and walked toward the sidelines.
There, Ciri waited.
Six years have passed, and the old butler has aged even more, his back slightly hunched, his white hair thinning. But today he is dressed in his finest clothes, holding a wooden box in his hands.
"Young Master," Ciri said, her eyes red but smiling, "Congratulations on your graduation."
Wharton took the wooden box and opened it. Inside was a new set of clothes, dark blue, made of thick fabric, with the Baruch family crest embroidered in silver thread on the cuffs—made by Ciri herself.
"Thank you, Grandpa Ciri."
"It's time to change," Ciri said. "Wear this to get your graduation badge."
Walton went to the locker room to change. The clothes fit him perfectly, clearly having been measured. The deep blue made his skin appear even darker, and the silver insignia shimmered slightly in the sunlight.
The graduation ceremony was simple. Raymond personally pinned a dark gold badge to Walton's chest. The badge featured crossed swords and shields, with the small "O'Brien" engraved below.
"From this day forward, you are an official graduate of O'Brien Academy," Raymond said. "The academy will record your achievements: twelve years old, a level seven warrior, and a holder of dragon blood. You are the pride of the academy."
Wharton ran his hand over the badge, feeling its cool metallic touch.
"Furthermore," Raymond lowered his voice, "His Majesty wishes to see you."
Side hall of the O'Brien Imperial Palace.
Emperor Joan O'Brien sat behind his desk, a man in his fifties with a resolute face and hawk-like eyes. He wore simple casual clothes, but the majesty of someone who had long held a high position was naturally evident.
Raymond led Walton in, bowed, and then left.
"Sit," the emperor said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
Walton sat down, his back straight.
"I watched your graduation battle," the Emperor said bluntly. "Twelve years old, a level seven warrior, with dragon blood. Raymond said that if you transform, you can reach level nine."
"Lord Raymond, you flatter me."
"He doesn't exaggerate." The Emperor stared at Walton. "The O'Brien Empire needs geniuses, and even more so, loyal geniuses. What are your plans after graduation?"
"Return to the Kingdom of Finlay to see my family."
The Emperor nodded: "That's right. But what about afterwards? With your talent, you'll have better opportunities if you stay in O'Brien. The military, the court, the academy—the choice is yours. Resources, status, wealth—the Empire can provide them all."
This is recruitment. It's straightforward, but sincere.
Walton paused for a moment, then said, "Your Majesty, my family is in Finlay."
"The Baruch family, I know them," the Emperor said. "Five thousand years of history, but it has declined. You wish to revive the family?"
"Yes."
"Revitalizing the family doesn't necessarily require going back." The Emperor leaned forward. "In O'Brien, you can grow stronger much faster. Once you become a level nine warrior, or even a Saint, then when you return, who will dare deny Baruch's glory?"
That makes sense. But Walton shook his head: "Your Majesty, some things cannot wait."
The emperor looked at him for a moment, then suddenly laughed. He took a token from a drawer and tossed it to Walton. The token was black, with a crown engraved on the front and a sword and shield on the back.
"This is the Imperial Guest Token. With it, all official institutions within O'Brien will grant you preferential treatment," the Emperor said. "I won't force you to stay, but the doors of O'Brien will always be open for you. Come back whenever you've changed your mind."
Walton gripped the token tightly: "Thank you, Your Majesty."
"Go," the emperor waved his hand. "Remember, come back alive. A dead genius is nothing."