<h4>Chapter 231: The Supreme Grandmaster</h4>


    The union of Prince árd-Greimne of the Tuatha Dé Danann and Derbáil, the mortal princess of Dál Riata, was a quiet rebellion against the order of both their worlds. He, a being of radiant light and ancient power, and she, a woman of fleeting beauty and indomitable spirit, carved out a life together not in the splendour of a court, but in istion on the mist-veiled Isle of Skye. There, at the edge of the world, they raised their daughter... Scáthach.


    Scáthach was born as a mortal human, like her mother. She bore her mother’s delicate features but none of her father’s innate, immortal power. Yet árd-Greimne did not awaken her dormant bloodline. Instead, he trained her, moulding flesh and spirit until she could stand toe to toe with his own kind. He felt the spiritual energy of Midgard thinning, draining away like sand through a ss, leaving his people wan and faint, their forms bing little more than echoes. The age of the Tuatha Dé Danann was ending. Soon, they would be forced to depart for realms where their kind could still endure.


    Knowing this, árd-Greimne set himself to a single purpose... forging his human daughter into the weapon that would guard the world they must abandon. He was not merely her father, but her unyielding master of arms. He ced a sword in her hands before she could read, taught her the spear before she knew the weight of rtionships. He drilled her in the strategies of the Tuatha Dé, the breaking of formations, the unravelling of armies... knowledge meant for god-generals, not mortal children. Her childhood was not one ofughter or y, but of ceaseless discipline. Her body became a de honed to perfection; her mind, the sharp edge of amander’s will.


    Then came the day of the Great Exodus. The spiritual energy in Midgard grew still and thin as thest of the Tuatha Dé Danann gathered, their figures wavering like candle mes in a dying wind. árd-Greimne stood before his daughter one final time. Before him was the supreme warrior he had forged, a masterpiece of mortal flesh and unyielding spirit. But he knew it was not enough. To guard Midgard against the horrors that woulde crawling from the void, she would need more. She would need to be more.


    cing his hands upon her shoulders, árd-Greimne did not speak farewell. Instead, he reached into the zing core of his divine essence and ignited the dormant bloodline within her. The transformation was agony... an unmaking and remaking. Scáthach’s mortal frame cracked under the pressure of divinity, then reformed in glory. Her skin shimmered with an inner light, her hair cascaded in streams of pale gold and silver, and her once-human eyes deepened into orbs that mirrored the void between stars. Supreme power, the inheritance of the Tuatha Dé Danann, surged through her veins like a flood.


    He named her Protector of Midgard, Warden of the Last Defence, the Fortress of Shadows. Then, without a backward nce, he turned and walked among his fading kin. Together, the Tuatha Dé Danann dissolved into brilliance, their procession vanishing into the veils of eternity.


    Scáthach stood alone upon the silent ramparts of Dún Scáith. Thest of the old gods was gone. In their ce remained the first... and only representative of the new. No longer merely a daughter, no longer merely a warrior, she was shield and sword both, oath and inheritance incarnate. She was Midgard’s final promise of the Tuatha Dé Danann.


    Her domain, Dún Scáith, became the outpost of the old order’s memory. There she did not wither into legend but fought against it. She gathered disciples... human, other races of this world... and shaped them into warriors. The exalted doctrines of the Tuatha Dé, once reserved for immortals, she re-forged into a curriculum mortal could bear, so their hands might wield god-born arts.


    Her purpose was singr and unyielding... to remain the eternal Warden of Midgard. She foresaw the’s thinning spirit as more than decay; it was a beacon, a lure for predators from the outer voids. A world stripped of its gods would be easy prey. In solitude, she became the architect of Midgard’s defence, transforming her fortress into an academy, and her students into the first andst line of resistance.


    For centuries, Scáthach’s fortress produced generals and warlords who held Midgard’s borders against prowling threats from the void. Yet even she, eternal and unyielding, felt the weight of repetition. Restlessness stirred within her. To sharpen herself beyond the limits of her own doctrine, she departed on a world-spanning expedition.


    Across the world, countless ces and races she wandered. She studied the martial traditions of supernatural races, fought with their champions, tested herself in their arenas, and refined her art with every duel. Where she went, she left not only mastery but wisdom, reshaping the warriors she encountered. By the time she returned, she was no longer merely Midgard’s Warden. She had be the teacher of worlds... the Supreme Grandmaster.


    When the supernatural races finally set aside their rivalries to unite against the looming invasion from beyond the stars, Yggdrasil itself petitioned her. It called for Scáthach to lead as General of the Allied Midgard Army. But she refused without hesitation. Her oath was older than Yggdrasil’s plea... she had sworn to her father that she would remain in Midgard as its final bastion, not march to Molgrath for open war. Her promise was iron.


    Later, when the great academy was raised in Kvernheim to forge the next generation of defenders, the allied forces begged her to serve as Principal. Yet she surprised them. Scáthach did not hunger for crowns or thrones. She wished only to instruct, to find and shape the next prodigy who might inherit the legacy she carried. Thus, the academy yielded, naming her instead as the Head of the Department of Combat, a master among masters, free to teach as she willed.


    At Yggdrasil’s decree, the ancient fortress of Dún Scáith was bound to Kvernheim by a living link, so that Scáthach might dwell in her domain yet step into the academy at will. And so, the Witch of Dún Scáith, immortal teacher and Warden of Shadows, became part of the academy’s beating heart.


    ***


    While Scáthach was a master of all arms, a few weapons clung to her legend more tightly than others. Her most famous was the spear, the Gáe Bolg, a weapon said to pierce destiny itself. She was also renowned for the ideb, the ssic double-edged sword. But Eleanor knew that Scáthach’s art was never only about weapons. It was about mastery—precision, psychological warfare, and techniques so advanced they seemed supernatural.


    Though the world remembered her for her spearmanship, Eleanor suspected that the Grandmaster’s true passion had always been something else: the raw, unadorned struggle of Mixed Martial Arts. Her father had trained her not to rely on inherited power, but to hone her mortal body until it transcended its limits. And Eleanor understood a truth few spoke aloud: the ultimate form of spearmanship was not wielding a spear—it was bing one.


    Her choice was clear. She enrolled in the School of Mixed Martial Arts, with a quiet resolution to take extra sses in the Spear School as well. Afterpleting the formalities, she checked her updated course list:


    [Course Selection: Primary Term]


    Mandatory Courses:


    1. Basics of Cultivation


    2. Introduction to Supernatural Ethics & Law


    Major Course: Department of Combat (School of Mixed Martial Arts)


    Optional Courses: Two selections pending within five days


    1. Introduction to Alchemy


    2. Basics of Forge


    3. Cultivation History and Paths


    4. Healing Arts


    5. Introduction to Formation and Arrays


    6. Wilderness Survival


    7. Fundamentals of Psionics


    8. Magical Botany & Herbology


    9. Music of the Spheres


    10. Familiar Handling & Care


    The receptionist’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. "Please proceed to room 205 on the second floor. Your school office will provide further instructions."


    Closing the screen and thanking the receptionist, Eleanor climbed the stairs. Room 205 stood at the end of the corridor, its door unremarkable, its interior strangely deste. Dust and silence greeted her. The ce felt abandoned.


    "Am I in the right room? Why isn’t anyone here?" she muttered under her breath.


    "You are," Nora answered in her mind. "But you are not alone. Someone is in the side chamber, meditating."


    Eleanor cleared her throat and spoke into the emptiness. "Hello? I’vee to enrol in the School of Mixed Martial Arts. Is anyone here?"


    For a moment, nothing stirred. Then came the sound of movement, and a figure emerged from the dark room. An old man, draped in a violet robe, who seemed to ripple with vtile power, stepped forward. His bronzed skin stretched over muscles knotted like ship’s rope. His face bore the history of violence... a ttened nose, a cauliflower ear, scars like rivulets of old battles. Yet it was not his scars that chilled Eleanor for an instant... it was his eyes. Calm, calcting, and predatory. Eyes that had measured countless opponents and ended more than a few.


    He rolled his shoulders, the motion smooth, feline, almost careless, and then smiled. But the smile did not reach his words.


    "A cadet in her primary term, enrolling here? Unusual. If you want to learn about our school, go to the library. I have better things to do."


    Eleanor bowed her head slightly, her voice respectful yet steady. "Forgive the intrusion, sir. I’ve already enrolled. I came to report."


    This time the manughed, and it was real. Deep, booming, unrestrained. "You’ve got spirit, girl. But are you certain? These days, nobody touches this school until their return from Molgrath. Everyone wants swords, spears, shy things. Why would you choose bare hands over shining steel?"


    Eleanor met his gaze without wavering. "Because I don’t want to wield a weapon. I want to be one. And I believe this is the right ce."


    The man’s eyes softened, though his presence remained sharp as a drawn de. He gave a slow nod. "Good. Good. That’s the answer I wanted to hear for many years." He straightened his robe and spoke with deliberate weight. "I am Arrichion, Instructor of the Primary Term. Wee to the school."


    Eleanor’s breath caught. She spoke before she could stop herself. "Arrichion of Phigalia?"


    The man’s grin returned, this time with a spark of nostalgia. "I didn’t think, after so many centuries, that anyone would still remember that name. Surprising."