The blue demi-god recovered from his shock, though a faint crease of fascination lingered in his brow.

  “I don’t know what you are,” he said, “but I will just try to help you as if you were a demi-god, one of us.”

  He gestured broadly, as if encompassing the chamber, the void beyond, the war waiting. “See, just as every other mortal race, demi-gods are stuck at Tier IV of the system. Other than us, only elder dragons sometimes even reach the end of that tier.”

  John nodded faintly. He knew the tiers—ascensions etched into the world’s rules: Tier I at level 10, II at 50, III at 100, IV at 150. Level 200 should unlock Tier V, but…

  “The reason is because of the gods,” the man continued. “They sealed any leveling up after level 200. As you know, you can ascend to Tier I at level 10, to Tier II at level 50, Tier III at level 100, and Tier IV at level 150. Level 200 would normally unlock Tier V, but gods were afraid of mortals starting to challenge them and sealed leveling past that threshold. Only gods can go beyond.”

  He leaned in slightly, eyes keen. “But you have a strange situation. You are already Tier III and IV at the same time, but only level 100 in your highest track. But already the fact that you have two level tracks is unheard of. Even us demi-gods cannot challenge the system.”

  John’s mind flicked to Archangela—her levels, her power, measured in that dragon testing realm. The blue man caught the thought immediately.

  “The levels of pets in the dragon testing realm work differently,” he said. “They don’t hold the same meaning.”

  John shifted gears, remembering the vast leviathans he had glimpsed through golden dragon eyes—colossal shadows in the ocean’s depths, moving with a weight that defied mortal scales, dwarfing the giant shark he had encountered long ago. Were they only Tier IV? John was not convinced.

  The blue man nodded before the thought fully formed. “Some creatures of the sea leveled past the frontier before the gods sealed the level cap. They are older than dragons themselves.”

  He straightened, yellow eyes gleaming with renewed purpose. “You break the rules in ways even we don’t. That’s why you’ll be useful, whatever you are.”

  The blue demi-god waved off the lingering mystery of the tablet with a decisive gesture.

  “Anyways,” he said, “we demi-gods have something we call Tier V. But we cannot level up in it, as we only reach it after hitting level 200. This is the second awakening of divine blood. Dragons cannot ascend again after reaching level 200, but we have one last ascension—the divine awakening.”

  John absorbed it, his mind already turning the implications over. Level 200 should have been the gateway to Tier V, even if progression halted there. Dragons stalled at the end of Tier IV, their raw might capping without that final spark. But demi-gods? They had a hidden step beyond the seal—a divine ignition that mortals couldn’t touch even if that was then the end for them.

  So apparently, there were more barriers to the whole system than just the divinely imposed level cap. The gods hadn’t only locked the numbers; they had layered the paths, reserving the true pinnacle for their own blood.

  The blue man watched him process it, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Your anomaly makes you… intriguing. Whatever you are, it bends lines we thought unbreakable.”

  The blue demi-god continued without pause, his tone shifting to one of practical focus.

  “But that second awakening of the divine blood after level 200 comes later,” he said. “The first awakening—the one that changes our skin colors—comes first.”

  He studied John intently. “I am not sure if you can do it, as I am not sure what you are. But we should try.”

  A beat, then: “And we should start with training your mind to shield against mind reading. It is not good for someone like you to be sent to the front lines as an open book.”

  The blue demi-god stepped closer, his presence filling the small chamber with focused intent.

  “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the floor. John lowered himself cross-legged onto the smooth light-surface, which felt firm yet yielding, like polished marble warmed by an unseen sun. The blue man sat opposite, knees folded, yellow eyes locking onto his.

  “Mind shielding begins with stillness,” he began. “Your thoughts are a storm—wild, scattered. A telepath like me slips in through the gaps. We will build walls.”

  He placed his palms up on his knees. “First: breathe. In through the nose, slow count of four. Hold four. Out through the mouth, four. Empty your mind. No tiger forms, no Kanas, no wars. Just breath.”

  John complied. The air in the chamber was cool and scentless, but each inhale grounded him. In… hold… out. The whirlwind in his head—the tablet’s lights, the void outside—began to quiet, like rain easing on leaves.

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  “Good,” the blue man murmured after a minute. “Now, visualize. Picture your mind as a fortress. Stone walls, thick and high. No gates. No windows. Feel the weight of the stone, the chill of mortar. See it rise around you.”

  John’s brow furrowed slightly. He closed his eyes. Stone by stone, a tower took shape in his thoughts—grey blocks from the weretigresses’ camp, mortared with jungle clay. Walls climbed, encircling a quiet core where only he sat.

  The blue man’s voice wove in. “Probe incoming.”

  Pressure bloomed—a gentle push at the edges of John’s awareness, like fingers testing a locked door. Surface thoughts flickered: river… tigers… dragons…

  “Hold the walls,” the instructor said. “Don’t fight. Contain. Flood the surface with noise if you must—recite numbers backward, name every beast you’ve slain. Drown the probe.”

  John gritted his teeth. He envisioned the walls thickening, battlements rising. In his mind’s foreground, he began: Veyna, Lirra, Elyse… names of tigresses he did not know well, looping endlessly. The pressure circled, insistent but rebuffed.

  “Better,” the blue man said. A sharper prod now—aimed at the fortress core. John felt it tug at deeper layers: ichor… Serenielle…

  He reinforced. The walls became dragon scales, impenetrable. He switched noise: mana circles, one to ten, recited in reverse. The probe slipped, found no purchase.

  “Static next,” the demi-god instructed. “Not walls—mist. Your mind is fog, thick and directionless. No shapes, no anchors. A telepath grasps at smoke.”

  John shifted visualization. The fortress dissolved into churning grey clouds, swirling without form. Breathe in… hold… out. The next intrusion met emptiness—thoughts diffused, scattered like mist in wind.

  Hours blurred—or minutes; time felt elastic here. Probes varied: blunt force, sly whispers, emotional lures tugging at fear for the tribe, curiosity about his origins. Each time, John adapted—walls for direct assault, mirrors to reflect probes back, voids to swallow them.

  Sweat beaded his brow by the tenth cycle. His mind ached, muscles unused to the strain trembling inwardly.

  “Enough for now,” the blue man said at last, leaning back. His eyes gleamed with approval. “You learn fast. Crude, but effective. Practice daily. Surface noise for crowds, deep voids for threats like me. Soon, you’ll shield without thinking.”

  John opened his eyes, exhaling. The chamber felt… quieter. His own thoughts his own, no distant echo of intrusion.

  “One last test,” the instructor said, smiling faintly. He pushed—a casual scan.

  John’s walls snapped up instinctively. Mist swirled. Silence.

  The blue man nodded, rising. “You will soon be ready for the front. For now.”

  Days bled into one another in the starlit void, time measured not by sun or moon but by the rhythm of exertion and growth.

  John trained with the demi-gods.

  Mornings blurred into spars on vast platforms—grey-skinned warriors testing his forms with blows that shook the light beneath their feet. He dodged crimson auras, countered with blue tiger strikes laced in dragonfire, his mind-shield holding firm against probing thoughts. Afternoons dissolved into group drills: formations against simulated corrupted hordes, telepathic links coordinating strikes he now disrupted at will. Evenings brought the blue demi-god’s refinements—deeper meditations, where John layered his defenses into instinctive reflex, walls rising unbidden at the first whisper of intrusion.

  Sweat and strain forged him sharper. He sparred equals who had lived eons; they began to nod, grudging respect in their eyes.

  Between sessions, John withdrew.

  He slipped into his trial subworld—a pocket realm of endless challenge, summoned by will alone. There, away from watching eyes, he focused his second track: the Tier IV class humming within him. Endless waves of shadow beasts poured forth—trials scaling to his power, forcing adaptation.

  He ground through them.

  Level by level, the track climbed. Skills unlocked in bursts of light: scaled resilience, temporal flickers, mana weaves that bent space mid-strike. Archangela’s duplicates drilled at his side when summoned, her blade a mirror to his growth.

  By the end, he stood twice level 100—dual tracks maxed at Tier III’s peak, Tier IV woven seamlessly through both. Back in his shelter, he drank from the waiting potion—a rare concoction allowing him to level down and thus to increase his stats by levelling back up. His growth burned like starfire, surging through veins, pushing strength, agility, vitality to Tier IV’s zenith.

  He flexed his hands, feeling it settle: power coiling like a storm caged in flesh. Muscles honed beyond human limits, senses piercing veils of illusion, mana reserves deep as ocean trenches.

  Now, he thought, testing a casual spark of dragon aura that warped the air—he could defy dragons without trouble. Not just match them. Overpower. The black dragons in Celestor would have been his prey.

  The void outside waited, war drawing nearer. John emerged, ready.

  After one training session, the blue demi-god’s yellow eyes flared once more, and the small chamber dissolved around John.

  Space folded, depositing him not in void but in storm-lashed reality.

  Naggaroth, the swamp land.

  The air hit like a blade—bitter cold laced with ash and blood, winds howling across jagged black spires that clawed at iron-grey skies. The dark elves’ domain unfolded below: fortress-cities of obsidian towers piercing thunderheads, encircled by walls manned by lithe shadows in spiked armor. Endless wastes stretched beyond—cracked charred plains scarred by Chaos tracks, corrupted hordes shambling in the distance, their forms twisting with unnatural growths.

  A war zone.

  John materialized on a high rampart overlooking the churning front. Dark elf sorceresses chanted nearby, whips cracking over slave ranks, bolt-throwers humming with dark energy. The horizon burned with siege fires; warped beasts bellowed, clashing against elven phalanxes.

  Demi-gods were mobilizing.

  Figures like the grey one strode the battlements—dozens now, skins grey and resolute, auras flaring as they prepared to advance. No blues in sight yet; they orchestrated from afar. Their target: enemy counterparts glimpsed in the fray—opposing demi-gods, twisted by corruption, leading the invading tide from the warped lands.

  Gods remained absent.

  Higher ones watched from beyond, intervening only to punish lesser kin who dared meddle—swift judgments for breaching the veil. Lesser gods who had slipped rules in Celestor, sowing chaos, had already faced retribution, their essences shattered or bound by forces above even them. Higher gods enforced the line: no direct hands in mortal wars.

  Gods, even higher ones, were forbidden to interfere in mortals' affairs. By whom? The question hung unanswered, a shadow over divine law—some greater compact, some primordial enforcer, origin lost to even demi-god lore.

  John’s thoughts flickered to the mysterious old man—the helper that had taught time’s weave, helped him save his friends, urged him through the portal. Punished now? Was he a god in disguise, risking all for a boy and his tigresses?

  No answers came. Only the roar of war.

  He gripped his blade, dual tracks thrumming at their peaks, mind shielded tight. Demi-gods marched to clash with their fallen kin; he fell in step, a shadowed anomaly amid immortals, ready for the corrupted front.