The Intermediate Soul Master Academy represented a fundamental shift from everything I'd experienced in Primary Academy. While the foundational curriculum remained—soul beast biology, soul ring theory, cultivation fundamentals—the emphasis had transformed completely. This wasn't an academic institution anymore; it was a military training ground.
Combat dominated every aspect of academy life. Daily physical conditioning, weapon drills, formation exercises, tactical scenarios—they were molding us into warriors, not scholars. The instructors carried themselves like veteran soldiers, and they expected the same discipline from their students.
The hierarchy became immediately apparent through simple observation. Attack-type and agility-type soul masters naturally excelled in the physical demands, their martial souls providing obvious advantages in speed, strength, and combat instincts. They moved through drills with confidence, their bodies already adapting to the enhanced capabilities their soul rings provided.
Control-type and auxiliary-type soul masters struggled more visibly. Their abilities weren't designed for direct confrontation, and the academy's combat-focused training highlighted those limitations. They consistently finished drills a step behind, their soul skills offering little immediate advantage in basic physical exercises.
After mandatory training sessions, I spent extensive time in the academy library. The Intermediate Academy's collection dwarfed anything I'd had access to previously—comprehensive treatises on advanced soul master theory, detailed analyses of rare martial souls, historical accounts of legendary battles, technical manuals for specialized techniques. I methodically copied everything to memory, building an internal database that would serve me far better than any single powerful soul skill.
Knowledge remained my greatest advantage. While other students focused on raw power development, I was accumulating the theoretical foundation that would eventually allow me to understand and counter whatever techniques they might develop.
Several months into the academic year, instructors began organizing students into combat teams. Standard seven-person squads, designed to simulate real-world soul master group dynamics. The composition typically included two or three attack-types for direct damage, one or two control-types for battlefield manipulation, one auxiliary-type for support and healing, and one agility-type for reconnaissance and targeted strikes.
I despised group projects. But the academy didn't offer alternatives, and I recognized the practical value of learning team coordination. Sometimes instructors allowed teams to remain stable for extended periods, building genuine synergy. Other times they deliberately shuffled compositions, forcing us to adapt to new teammates and combat styles on short notice.
My primary obstacle in these arrangements was managing perceptions of my soul skill. Bloodlust carried negative connotations that went beyond its actual effects. The berserk component made people nervous, even when I explained the controlled nature of the enhancement. Students already considered me eccentric. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as unstable.
I decided to address the issue directly with my assigned teammates during one of our strategy sessions.
"I understand my soul skill creates concerns," I began, gathering the team during a training break. "The berserk effect appears dangerous, and I don't blame anyone for being cautious. But I want to clarify how I intend to use it tactically."
The group listened attentively—they were all serious students, despite their youth.
"Bloodlust works best as a finishing move or emergency response. When enemies are clustered together, overconfident, or have exhausted their defensive options. The timing has to be precise, and I only activate it when the tactical situation clearly favors aggression over control."
Dax, our primary tank and the most straightforward member of the team, shrugged pragmatically. "Makes sense. Just give us warning before you go berserk so we can position accordingly."
The others nodded agreement, and I felt some tension leave my shoulders. Clear communication solved most coordination problems.
Even though my martial soul is a mental type, my skill makes me functionally an attack type, especially when cast on myself. The berserk effect has little effect on me—thanks to my high spirit power—and the buffs allow me to keep up with the vanguards. Bloodlust, combined with Overclock and Perfect Recall, lets me go toe-to-toe with frontliners.
Combat training revealed the gaps in my preparation starkly. I understood fighting principles theoretically and had practiced basic techniques, but soul master combat operated on an entirely different level. When opponents activated their martial souls, their physical capabilities increased dramatically. Speed, strength, reflexes, even durability—everything scaled beyond normal human parameters.
But the most important thing I realized? Fighting instinct.
People on the Douluo Continent—especially soul masters—loved fighting. It was like second nature to them. They thrived on combat, on competition. I didn't. I was a scholar at heart. But I wasn't blind to the truth. This world was anything but peaceful. From soul beasts to evil soul masters, danger was everywhere. If I wanted to survive—if I wanted to thrive—I had to step up.
I got thoroughly beaten during my first several sparring matches. Bruises, strained muscles, occasionally more serious injuries that required healer attention. It was humbling and necessary education.
Rather than simply enduring the beatings, I began analyzing them systematically. I used my Overclock technique—the technique I'd developed from studying Bloodlust—to accelerate my perception during combat. This allowed me to track fast-moving opponents more effectively and recognize attack patterns that would otherwise blur together.
However, enhanced perception only provided half the equation. My body still had to execute responses, and that physical component remained limited by normal human capabilities. No amount of mental acceleration could compensate for insufficient strength or speed. The physical buff from Bloodlust helps, but it's a skill that starts slow. The longer it's in effect, the stronger I get, but it also takes a lot of soul energy, so I can't last long.
So I shifted focus to predictive combat analysis. Using Perfect Recall, I memorized every detail of my classmates' fighting styles—preferred combinations, defensive habits, tells that preceded specific techniques, recovery patterns after major soul skill usage. This created a comprehensive database of behavioral patterns that allowed me to anticipate moves before opponents committed to them.
The strategic approach worked better than expected. When you know someone always follows a left hook with a right uppercut, or that they favor their dominant side when retreating, you can position accordingly regardless of raw physical disadvantage.
I also experimented with goofy applications of my abilities. Sometimes, instead of targeting my team, I would use Bloodlust on their team members. The berserk effect occasionally caused friendly fire incidents as affected individuals lost tactical awareness and attacked indiscriminately. This didn't work against well-coordinated teams with strong auxiliary support, as knocking me out ends the effect, but it created openings against less experienced opponents.
The breakthrough came during a particularly challenging match. My team faced a notably strong seven-person squad that had dominated most of their previous encounters. They opened aggressively—attack-types enhanced by auxiliary buffs, one launching elemental projectiles while another moved to flank our formation.
Li Mei, our control-type specialist, responded by summoning restrictive vines to contain the flanking maneuver while Dax positioned himself to absorb the main assault. Their auxiliary soul master boosted their agility-type, who immediately targeted me as the perceived weak link in our formation.
He was fast—genuinely fast, not just quick by academy standards. His martial soul enhanced both speed and precision, and he moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to overwhelming opponents before they could mount effective resistance.
I waited, controlling my breathing and tracking his approach vector. He closed the distance rapidly, obviously intending to eliminate me before I could contribute meaningfully to the engagement.
At the last possible moment, when he committed fully to his attack pattern, I struck.
The technique I'd been developing combined soul energy manipulation with precise biomechanics—essentially a one-inch punch enhanced by concentrated spirit power channeled through specific meridians. Instead of telegraphing with a long windup, I generated maximum force over minimal distance, making the attack nearly impossible to anticipate or dodge.
The impact was devastating. My opponent launched backward several meters, clearly stunned and temporarily incapacitated.
The first time I'd attempted this technique during solo training, I'd torn several muscles and spent three days recovering under healer supervision. The power output was impressive, but the physical strain was severe. I needed perfect stance, precise energy channeling, and ideal timing—all factors that made the technique difficult to execute under combat pressure.
But when it connected properly, the results spoke for themselves.
After our victory, the team regrouped to discuss the engagement.
Li Mei looked at me with obvious surprise. "That was incredible. I genuinely thought you were about to get overwhelmed."
"Same here," Dax added, grinning. "Didn't realize you were hiding that kind of firepower."
"Neither did I, honestly," I admitted, flexing my wrist carefully. The joint was already showing signs of strain. "The technique still needs refinement. My arm feels like I punched a stone wall."
"Maybe, but you dropped their ace in one hit. That's solid strategy."
As weeks turned to months, my role within team dynamics crystallized naturally. Perfect Recall proved invaluable for tactical analysis—I could remember every soul skill each opponent had demonstrated, track their preferred formations, analyze their reaction patterns under pressure. This information allowed me to predict enemy movements and suggest counter-strategies that maximized our advantages while exploiting their weaknesses.
I became our primary strategist, the analytical mind coordinating our collective strength. It wasn't the most glamorous role, but it was essential and uniquely suited to my capabilities.
More importantly, I'd found my place within the academy's hierarchy. Not through raw power or political connections, but through demonstrated competence and tactical value. My teammates respected my contributions, instructors acknowledged my analytical insights, and other students began seeking my advice for their own combat challenges.
The path forward remained demanding, but I was no longer struggling to establish my relevance. I had proven that intelligence, properly applied, could compete with natural talent and inherited advantages.
The next phase of my development would build on this foundation, expanding both my combat capabilities and strategic understanding until I could stand confidently among the academy's elite.