Lumora Academy for Excellence – Eastern Virelia

  The morning light filtered in through paper-thin blinds, casting symmetrical shadows across the lacquered floors of Room 2C—Advanced Battle Theory. Every desk was aligned to regulation spacing. The whiteboard glimmered faintly, pre-programmed to display the day’s schedule in perfect calligraphy.

  And yet, Bianca Liu-Zheng saw imperfection.

  A student—third row, left side—was slouching. Slouching. Pencil gripped like a loose branch in a storm.

  Disgraceful.

  She sat two rows ahead, spine rigid, eyes sharp as her Pawniard’s blades. Her uniform was pristine—no loose threads, no wrinkles, no excuses. The crimson ribbon tied around her ponytail was knotted in the traditional double loop—Liu-Zheng Clan style, passed down through generations. Her calloused fingers tapped in rhythm atop her textbook, already annotated twice in ink and once in red pencil.

  She had been up since 5:00 AM. Meditation. Kata. Sparring. A quick battle simulation. A perfect cup of oolong. A balanced breakfast, 410 calories, measured and intentional.

  Bianca’s day did not begin with uncertainty. It began with control.

  Yet even now—when she should have been absorbing the final practice lecture before the month’s evaluation exams—her mind burned elsewhere.

  68%.

  Her amber eyes twitched.

  That number had haunted her. It wasn’t failure. But it wasn’t perfection. And perfection was the only currency the Liu-Zheng firstborn daughter had.

  Worse? It wasn’t just any student who’d outscored her.

  It was her.

  Isabelle Moreau.

  From that rural village, with her soft voice and even softer resolve. The kind of girl who stumbled through morning sparring drills and would drop her Battle Studies folder in a pond.

  And somehow—somehow—she’d scored 100% on Professor Kotomine’s math evaluation.

  Impossible. Bianca didn’t believe in luck. She believed in effort. Discipline. Sweat. And not in a dainty girl with anxious fingers and some sob story about her mother vanishing into the wind.

  Bianca remembered. And she would not forget.

  “Alright, focus up, people.”

  Instructor Lutz’s voice cut through the restless hum of the lecture hall like a blade. Conversations dropped. Chairs straightened. Even the Orbital Clique—those four pastel-polished darlings of Lumora’s social circuit—quieted as the exam projections lit up across the holoboard. Rows of names, rankings, scores, and the bold red header: Final Evaluation Roster – One Month Countdown.

  Bianca’s eyes zeroed in immediately.

  Liu-Zheng, B. – Top Bracket.

  Expected. Anything less would’ve been disgraceful.

  Lutz adjusted his glasses, voice sharp and impassive. “As you all know, this coming month marks the final evaluation cycle. One chance. Pass, and you begin your official League journeys. Fail…” He let the silence stretch. “Well. You’ll enjoy another enriching year under our guidance. And yes, that includes retaking Combat Electives.”

  Groans sounded from the back row.

  Bianca did not flinch.

  Lutz scrolled down the honors bracket. “This year’s top bracket remains largely unchanged: Liu-Zheng, Kallisto, Lévesque, and—” he paused only for effect, though Bianca swore she saw the faintest arch of his brow, “—Moreau.”

  A wave of murmurs pulsed through the room.

  “Wait, Isabelle?”

  “She’s not even here…”

  “Skipping again?”

  “She ghosted class for like, three days straight—”

  Lutz cleared his throat with force. “Miss Moreau has already begun her journey.”

  Silence fell again—this time colder. Sharper.

  “She received early endorsement and departed under League supervision after achieving… certain qualifications,” he added, scanning the class with narrowed eyes, as if daring someone to question it. “No further discussion is necessary. Focus on yourselves.”

  Bianca blinked once.

  She what?

  Clara leaned sideways behind her, flipping her shimmering pink VireBand screen off with a satisfied smirk. “Guess someone didn’t get the memo.”

  Bianca inhaled slowly, biting back the growl crawling up her throat. Instead, she turned her head just enough to deliver her reply—cool, low, and laced with poison.

  “Elle n’a pas gagné. Elle a fui.” (She didn’t win. She ran.)

  Clara narrowed her eyes. “Say that again, princess?”

  Before things could escalate, Amélie was already sliding between them like a seasoned peacekeeper, one manicured hand resting lightly on Clara’s arm.

  “Not worth it, Clara,” she whispered with a wink. “Let it go.”

  Clara huffed but sat back.

  The tension fizzled out. Barely.

  Yet all around them, subtle glances drifted toward Bianca. Not fear, not quite. But awareness. A whisper of Oh. A subtle acknowledgment that maybe—maybe—this wasn’t just some honor student with a stick up her spine. Maybe that Liu-Zheng surname wasn’t just for show.

  She didn’t need to announce who she was.

  Her reputation was starting to speak for her.

  Even if, once upon a time, that reputation had stumbled. The memory clawed at her—the Growlithe demonstration during Gym Class. A flare. A scent. A sudden, involuntary step back.

  She had hesitated. She’d insisted it was nothing.

  After School — Lumora City

  Bianca walked.

  She always walked.

  Forty minutes from the academy gates to the Liu-Zheng private estate tucked in the upper-suburban stretch of northeast Lumora—an area where tradition still mattered more than neon towers or hovering trains. No glass-slicked skyscrapers. No echoing traffic. Just orderly stone paths, cherrywood gates, and tiered gardens carved into the city’s hillside.

  Her VireBand buzzed once—latest update. She flicked it open.

  The latest Dragonized theme animated across the sleek black display—emerald scales, serpentine design, a perfect reflection of control and power.

  Not that ridiculous Fairy-type aesthetic people spread rumors about. She would never wear something so… cloying. Disgusting.

  She silenced the screen, eyes already drifting back to the path ahead. Her thoughts lingered on Isabelle.

  The bitter edge in Bianca’s chest sharpened.

  No farewell. No announcement. No final match.

  She just slipped away.

  And somehow… she was ahead.

  Bianca passed through the front gate of her family’s estate. The stone dragons flanking the archway stood proud, as they always had. Inside, the walkway was lined with bonsai trees and carefully cultivated silence.

  Her home was immaculate. A reflection of her bloodline.

  Nestled in one of Lumora City's more reserved and affluent districts—far from the skyscraper sprawl and neon pulse of downtown—the Liu-Zheng estate stood as a defiant testament to tradition in a rapidly modernizing world.

  The property was walled. A tall, darkwood torii gate stands vigil at the boundary, its beams polished to an obsidian sheen. At its base, twin lion-like Pokémon statues—hand-chiseled from white granite—guard the passage, modeled after a fusion of Arcanine and Kommo-o. Each bears the Liu-Zheng crest etched into its flank: a coiled Eastern Dragon encircling a closed fan, symbolizing power restrained by discipline.

  Beyond the gate lies a stone pathway, winding through a minimalist Zen garden. Manicured bonsai trees, centuries-old, line the route, their branches shaped with surgical precision. Lanterns of frosted glass light the way at night, powered not by electricity, but by customized Litwick flames encased in glass—a subtle display of the family’s wealth and reverence for old customs.

  The main house is a low, sprawling structure, built in the architectural style of an Edo-period samurai mansion. The outer walls are made of whitewashed plaster, trimmed with dark-stained cedar and black tiled roofing that curves gently at the edges. The building rests on elevated wooden stilts, with broad, covered walkways surrounding all sides—shoji sliding doors framed by engraved wood panels open into each room with soft whispers, not clicks.

  Inside, the air always smells faintly of tea leaves and polished pinewood. The genkan (entrance hall) is floored in smooth stone, where guests must remove their footwear before stepping up into the main corridors.

  Bianca’s room is tucked in the east wing. It reflects her balance between modern ambition and ancestral loyalty—a black and crimson futon, a rack of battle uniforms, framed martial plaques, and a small meditation altar with a jade dragon statue watching over it. Her VireBand rests on a lacquered tray, charged each night beneath the dragon’s gaze.

  Surrounding the estate are tall bamboo groves and koi ponds, built into a natural rise in the land. There are no fences—only walls of polished stone and silence, and no security drones are needed. Not here.

  The Liu-Zhengs do not speak their power. They embody it.

  The heavy shoji door slid open with a smooth hush, revealing the sanctum beyond—the Liu-Zheng Dojo, revered and feared by those who knew of it.

  The scent of sandalwood and old sweat clung to the air, mingling with the earthy tones of aged wood and the faint metallic tinge of polished weaponry. The dojo stretched long and wide, its cedar beams darkened with time, the rafters above intricately carved with dragons and clouds—symbols of grace and violence in motion. Sunlight filtered through the high, rectangular paper screens, casting elongated shadows across the tatami mats that ran down the central sparring floor like the spine of a beast.

  Weapon racks lined the walls—glaives, spears, bokken, twin sabers, and staff-blades—each maintained with reverence and wrapped in silken cloth until use. To the east end, a raised platform housed the Family Shrine, where a lacquered scroll box held the ancient combat teachings of the Liu-Zheng ancestors. Above it, a vertical banner read:

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  風槍の舞 — The Dance of the Wind Spear

  Bianca stepped onto the floor barefoot, her posture already falling into rhythm. Her crimson training sash was tied tightly around her waist, her hair up in its habitual high ponytail, her expression cold but focused. She bowed low toward the shrine with silent precision.

  Someone was already there.

  A soft swish of movement signaled the presence of a woman in a muted brown yukata, sleeves rolled neatly, her greying hair tied in a functional bun. Madame Huian, the household’s senior attendant, and once a skilled martial artist in her youth. Now she served as a caretaker, sparring aide, and one of the few people whose presence didn’t ignite Bianca’s need to prove herself.

  She stood at the edge of the mat, her back straight, overseeing the Riolu in a training stance—low and balanced, its azure fur barely disturbed as it shifted weight from foot to foot, eyes closed in focus.

  “You’re late,” Madame Huian said quietly, with no judgment—just observation.

  “Apologies,” Bianca replied, bowing to her. “Academy kept long. Thank you for watching him.”

  Madame Huian nodded once. “He needed little watching. He’s more patient than you, perhaps.”

  Bianca nearly rolled her eyes, but thought better of it.

  She stepped forward. Riolu turned its head slightly, acknowledging her, but not bowing. Not yet.

  Madame Huian stepped back. “I will prepare your post-training meal. Jasmine rice. Steamed dratini root. Do not be long. The tea must not steep too long.”

  “Thank you, Madame Huian.”

  The woman nodded once, and her sandals clicked softly as she left the dojo.

  Now it was just her. And Riolu.

  They stood across from each other on the central sparring mat, divided by a chalk-drawn circle—the duel ring. Bianca stretched one arm, then the other, flexed her shoulders, and rolled her neck until it cracked.

  Riolu didn’t move.

  The small Fighting-type had the bearing of a seasoned warrior despite its size. Its eyes glimmered golden under the fading light, and the black mask-like fur across its face only heightened the illusion of calm judgment.

  Bianca exhaled. Bowed. Raised her hands. No words.

  She struck first—a lunge, a twist of her foot, and an open-palm feint to the left. Riolu side-stepped with a tilt of the hip that betrayed no wasted movement. Bianca shifted her center, swept low with a leg, and Riolu leapt—flipping overhead and landing behind her with a whisper of breath.

  She pivoted sharply and came in with a true strike this time—a high elbow meant to tag the shoulder. Riolu blocked with its forearm, absorbing the hit. Bianca felt the slight give of muscle and bone, then retaliated with a follow-up palm to its side.

  It dodged again. Always reading. Always measuring.

  This wasn’t just a spar. Riolu was analyzing her aura.

  The fight escalated slowly—a dance of flesh and focus. Bianca used everything she’d learned: her pacing was strong, her breathing sharp and measured between exchanges. She matched her stances to the core principles of the Liu-Zheng style—the Dance of the Wind Spear, adapted for close combat without a weapon. Wide stances, low center, flowing transitions between offense and evasion.

  But Riolu saw through it all.

  Every slight overreach. Every fraction of hesitation before a follow-up. Every exhale that came just a second too late.

  She wasn’t sloppy. She was good. But not worthy. Not yet.

  Riolu’s palm shot forward and tapped her stomach—not hard enough to bruise, but pointed.

  Bianca stepped back. She knew what it meant.

  "Not centered."

  Riolu tilted its head, offering no apology.

  Bianca clenched her jaw, trying not to scowl. She dropped her stance, arms slack at her sides, sweat beginning to bead along her neck.

  She bowed.

  Riolu bowed in turn, the first gesture of respect it had offered since she arrived.

  It hadn’t turned away. But it hadn’t stepped forward either.

  Bianca left the sparring ring without another word. She approached the rack of training spears, her fingers grazing the carved shaft of a wind-style spear replica—lightweight, single-edged, perfectly balanced.

  One day, she would wield the real one in battle.

  She looked back at Riolu. It sat, cross-legged now, eyes closed again, meditating. As if the battle hadn’t moved it in the slightest.

  Bianca exhaled, low and controlled.

  “I will earn it,” she whispered. “Even if it kills me.”

  And she meant it.

  The Tea Room was silent.

  Not just quiet—silent. In the Liu-Zheng estate, silence wasn’t an absence of sound. It was the presence of reverence.

  The sliding shoji doors whispered shut behind Bianca as she stepped onto the polished hinoki wood floor. A faint warmth radiated upward from the sun-kissed timber, infused with years of smoke, incense, and meditative stillness. The room was narrow but long, framed by clean-cut beams and open windows that looked onto a softly trickling koi pond beyond a bamboo screen. Soft wind chimes clinked now and then—clear, fragile tones lost in the distance.

  Everything was arranged in precision.

  A lacquered low table sat at the center, upon which a cast-iron kettle released small curls of fragrant steam. Set alongside it were two bowls of jasmine rice, a bamboo tray of dratini root and bitter greens, slices of pickled searfruit, and a modest lacquer box containing something else—something extra.

  Madame Huian knelt beside the table in her usual efficient grace. Her movements were economic, steady, and practiced to the point of ritual. Bianca, across from her, bowed with practiced formality before kneeling down in mirror posture.

  Between them, Riolu sat cross-legged, unmoving, still soaked in the scent of sweat and focus from the dojo. Its presence didn’t interrupt the setting. It completed it.

  This meal—this ritual—was part of Bianca's balance. Not indulgent, not optional. It was discipline, just like her training.

  And in a household like the Liu-Zheng’s, discipline was the highest virtue.

  She sat straight-backed, every movement measured. No wasted breath, no slouch in her spine. The warmth of the tea seeped into her palms as she lifted the cup in silence, sipped, and placed it down with a muted click. The world outside the tea room might burn with neon or ambition—but in here, time slowed. And order ruled.

  Across from her, Madame Huian observed in silence. She, too, was still—but hers was a sharper stillness, a blade sheathed but ever-present. The lines on her face were subtle, age held at bay through effort and ritual, yet her eyes were ageless—amber, like cooled resin.

  "You’ve improved your breathing," Huian said, breaking the silence at last. “Your footwork too. Less stagger at the third transition.”

  Bianca nodded once, expression unreadable.

  “And yet,” Huian continued, tone never rising, never falling, “your energy is disordered. You’re thinking too much again.”

  A pause. Bianca didn’t respond.

  Huian sipped her tea. Her robes shifted only the barest amount. Everything about her was calculated: the crispness of her yukata, the precise coil of her bun, the way even her silence commanded a room. She was not Bianca’s mother. Nor her mentor. She was something more dangerous:

  A keeper of the flame.

  “I told your father I would oversee your refinement,” she said. “Not coddle it. This obsession with outward perfection is dulling your instinct. You are trying to win your aura, child. You cannot force what must be invited.”

  “I’m not trying to win it,” Bianca said, voice low.

  Huian raised an eyebrow.

  Bianca looked down at her tea. “I’m just... doing what’s expected.”

  “Expected by whom?” Huian’s tone remained even, but the air in the room shifted. “Your clan? Your name? That Riolu?”

  Bianca’s jaw tightened.

  Forty years. That’s how long Riolu had been in her family. Passed down. Fought alongside greats. Had meditated through storms, wars, generations of heirs. It had trained with her grandfather. Her uncles. Her father.

  And now?

  It sat with her. Watching. Waiting.

  But not choosing.

  She had done everything right.

  She’d mastered the forms. Scored highest in all sparring matches. Broken two fingers in winter trying to perfect the Liu-Zheng lunge without flinching. Her school records were pristine—except for one.

  One exam. One ridiculous, impassable math final.

  68%. The day Isabelle Moreau got 100%.

  Bianca still remembered the sound of the class. The way it quieted when the names were read aloud. The way she stared at the paper until the numbers blurred. That creeping, nauseating realization:

  She was better than me.

  No. Not better. Just... chosen.

  And that made it worse.

  Madame Huian’s voice cut through again, calm but razor-sharp.

  “You’ve let your upper node falter again. The one just below the heart.”

  Bianca’s shoulders stiffened.

  “When it clogs, your movements become rigid,” Huian continued, setting her cup down with a quiet clink. “Like a current blocked at the bend of a river. It flows still—but only with effort.”

  “I’m fine,” Bianca muttered.

  “You are imbalanced,” Huian corrected.

  Bianca pressed her lips into a line, forcing a breath in through her nose.

  “I’m not weak.”

  “I never said you were. I said you were unaligned.”

  Silence.

  Riolu remained still. Its ears twitched once—then stilled again.

  This was her truth: Riolu was her test.

  A test handed down by her family, wrapped in tradition and fire. They said: If it accepts you, your path begins. Until then, she could not officially begin her journey—not in the eyes of the Liu-Zheng.

  The professors at the Academy didn’t understand. The League didn’t care. They had rules. She could always register, get a Pokémon from the labs like everyone else. Pass the exam, start traveling.

  But the Martial Clans didn’t play by League rules.

  Not for their heirs.

  And certainly not for their daughters.

  If she had been born a son…

  She might already have Lucario at her side.

  She might already wear the family crest in silver.

  She might not need to prove herself over and over just to be taken seriously.

  They told her: If you win Riolu’s respect. Then you may go.

  But what they never said—what she was only starting to suspect—was that Riolu doesn’t reject her because she’s weak.

  It rejects her because her aura is fractured.

  Because she doesn’t know what she’s truly fighting for.

  Freedom?

  Yes. That was part of it.

  Not marriage. Not obedience. Not another cage wrapped in silk and duty.

  But also… vengeance.

  Not a loud, theatrical vengeance. Not the kind you boast about.

  No. A quiet, burning one.

  The kind that tightens your throat every time you hear her name.

  The kind that flares in your palms when you remember 68% vs 100%.

  The kind you won’t ever admit—not even to yourself—but that your aura bleeds, even as you try to hide it.

  Riolu sees that too.

  Bianca finished her meal in silence, each bite mechanical. She rose, bowed to Madame Huian, to Riolu, and took the lacquer tray to the kitchen herself. Every step was straight-backed, respectful, in control.

  But her aura flickered.

  And Riolu, sitting in that stillness, opened its eyes just long enough to watch her go.

  Later That Night…

  The wind outside the estate whispered through the bamboo, soft as breath, stirring the hanging wind chimes in the courtyard with a low crystalline echo.

  Bianca sat alone in her room now, her knees folded beneath her, the faint scent of incense curling upward from the jade dragon burner at the edge of her meditation mat. She’d taken off her training wraps, set them down neatly beside her spear case. Her ribbon, too, lay coiled on the table like a snake at rest.

  She was supposed to be still. She wasn’t.

  She tried to trace her aura paths as she'd been taught—center node, breath, lower gate, pull upward, refine the energy into discipline. Push the doubt out.

  But the tension never left.

  It stayed in her chest. Tight. Cold.

  Her fingers curled slightly on her knees.

  They told her to be perfect.

  They told her Riolu would come to her when she was ready.

  They told her this was the path to become heir.

  But they never told her what to do when she’d done everything right… and it still wasn’t enough.

  Outside, the night deepened.

  Drawn by a sensation she couldn’t name, Bianca rose, slipping into her sandals. Her feet padded soundlessly down the polished wood halls of the estate. Past the tea room. Past the family shrine. Into the darkness of the main dojo.

  She didn’t light a lantern.

  She didn’t need to.

  The moonlight found its way in, casting pale white over the mats, and illuminating the center circle where the trials were always held.

  And there, as expected—

  Riolu.

  Seated alone in the sparring ring, back straight, legs folded, paws resting on its knees.

  Eyes closed. Breathing even. Still meditating. Still waiting.

  Just like the night before. And the night before that. And the months before that.

  She stood at the edge of the circle. Watching it. Wanting to step forward. To scream. To demand why?

  Why didn't it acknowledge her? Why her efforts still didn’t matter. Why she—after everything—was still not enough.

  But she didn’t. Because deep down she already knew. It wasn’t her strength, technique, clan, or even the 68% score. It was the one thing she hadn’t mastered yet.

  Herself.

  And then, finally, turned and left the dojo—her footsteps quieter than the wind behind her.