Lian left the academy gate behind and dove into the underbelly of Nova Prime City.
He had heard whispers on the streets—dark markets, hidden arenas, forbidden teachers who sold power to anyone with credits or guts.
He searched for them.
Night after night.
Slipped through lower levels where lights flickered weak and air smelled of smoke and sweat.
Asked careful questions in dim bars—stolen hood pulled low over scarred face.
"Looking for real training. No rules."
People shrugged.
Some laughed.
Some looked scared.
"Kid, those places don't advertise. If they want you, they find you. If not… you die looking."
No luck.
Doors slammed.
Contacts vanished.
Fights broke out when he pushed too hard.
He learned quick—keep mouth shut, ears open.
But no one led him to an underground master.
No black-market manual fell into his hands.
No hidden sect opened a door.
The forbidden paths stayed hidden.
Too deep.
Too guarded.
So Lian did what he could.
He practiced.
Alone.
Every night.
In abandoned warehouses.
On empty rooftops.
Under flickering street lamps in forgotten alleys.
He repeated the forms he had memorized from watching academy students.
Punches sharp.
Kicks high.
Blocks tight.
Footwork smooth.
He added his own twists.
Used the city.
Jumped between walls to build speed.
Climbed rusty pipes for grip.
Dodged rain pipes like enemies.
Smashed old crates with bare fists to test power.
Foundation Layer grew stronger.
Second Layer knocked at the edges—but he couldn't break through.
No Qi release.
No glow.
Just body.
Raw.
Hard.
Fast.
He developed new ways.
Combined forms he had seen from different students.
A Veyari four-arm block with a Dravok heavy punch.
A Sylphari spin-kick into a low Korrak sweep.
Made them his.
Fought shadows—ten at once in his mind.
Dodged invisible blades.
Struck weak points he imagined.
Sweat poured.
Knuckles bled.
Scars pulled.
But he got better.
Quiet.
Deadly.
The void eyes watched his own reflection in broken glass.
The spark inside burned steady.
Humans are weak.
Power is the only truth.
I'll make my own path.
Months more passed.
He stole better food—meat, real vegetables.
Grew taller.
Lean muscle filled his frame.
Scars faded to white lines.
Still no door to the underground opened.
So he went back to the academy.
Not to beg.
To watch.
One quiet night, he climbed the outer wall again.
Dropped into the gardens silent.
Hid in thick bushes near the outer training yards.
A class was late—students sparring under bright floodlights.
Ten of them.
Humans and aliens.
Paired off.
No instructors.
Just practice.
Real contact.
Fists flew.
Qi flashed.
One human boy threw a palm strike—blue energy wave knocked his partner back three steps.
A Veyari girl spun all four arms—created a wind shield that blocked a Brutari's heavy punch.
A Threnn boy darted fast—claws glowing faint, slashing air where his opponent had been.
Lian watched quiet.
Breath slow.
Void eyes taking every detail.
How they moved weight.
How they breathed before strikes.
How Qi built in the dantian then exploded out.
How they recovered balance after big moves.
He memorized new forms.
New combinations.
The spar ended.
Students laughed, wiped sweat, walked away talking.
Lights dimmed.
Yard empty.
Lian stayed in the bushes.
Replayed it all in his head.
Then stood.
In the dark empty yard, he began.
Copied the palm strike—body only, no Qi wave.
But the motion perfect.
Air cracked from speed.
Copied the four-arm spin—two arms only, but flow the same.
Twisted fast.
Copied the claw slash—fingers straight like blades.
Cut air silent.
He sparred the shadows again.
This time with new moves.
Faster.
Sharper.
Better.
The academy slept around him.
Guards patrolled far.
He practiced until dawn lights crept over the wall.
Then slipped out.
Back to the city.
Back to shadows.
But he took something with him.
More knowledge.
More tools.
The underground stayed hidden.
The masters stayed secret.
But Lian didn't need them yet.
He built himself.
Piece by piece.
Strike by strike.
Day by day.
The Scarred Ghost grew in the dark.
Stronger.
Smarter.
Closer.
Ready.