Percy turned his eyes to Ava, who had recovered from the force of his spatial blast and now stood firm again, blade in hand.
"Now then…" he said, voice light but electric with anticipation,
"You're more a swordswoman than a mage—let's settle this with blades."
The glimmer in his golden-blue eyes wasn't mockery.
It was joy. Unrestrained. Genuine.
Ava steadied her breath.
"Why?" she asked, blade drawn defensively.
"You could finish me with one spell. I know what you are… a Fifth Circle Mage."
Percy tilted his head.
He didn't deny it.
Didn't confirm it.
He just smiled and shrugged.
"You flatter me."
Then his tone sharpened.
"Let's just say I need a sparring partner.
And you happen to be perfect right now."
Ava inhaled deeply and slid back into stance. Her eyes narrowed, heartbeat syncing with her sword.
(Let's begin.)
"Imperial Swordplay."
Percy vanished in a blur—his movements slicing like threads across the air.
Every step carved space.
Every swing closed an exit.
He wasn't attacking—he was pressuring, controlling terrain with impossible elegance.
(Damn… he's not giving me even a second to reset!) Ava gritted her teeth, sliding beneath one strike, leaping over the next.
His blade never missed by more than an inch. Not once.
He wasn't going for the kill.
He was watching.
(She's getting frustrated…) Percy noted inwardly.
(Now's the perfect time. Come on—unleash something new.)
Ava's brow twitched.
(Fuck! He's reading me like a book… cutting off every route…)
(It's like he sees the flaw before I even swing.)
She forced herself to breathe.
(Stay calm. Don't let it get in your head—)
But it was too late.
It was already in her head.
(No one can analyze a style this quickly. No one can perfect counters like this after just one clash…)
Then her eyes widened.
(Unless—)
A quiet dread took hold.
(Unless he's reached the final stage of Sword Intent.)
(No… that liminal space between Sword Intent and the Embryo Stage…)
A stage so rare that most sword saints had never even touched it.
(Even if you've mastered Sword Intent... I've begun something even deeper. Let's see how you handle this.)
Her stance changed.
Weight forward. Muscles tensed.
"Tsurugikin Style – Fifth Form: Cheetah's Onslaught!"
A flash.
She launched like a streak of gold lightning—pure motion.
Her speed tripled—a blur that sliced the wind with every breath.
Percy's feet shifted back, just barely keeping ahead of the strikes.
(Her speed… just surged exponentially. Reflex, muscle control, breathing—it all changed.)
A rare look of interest crossed his face.
(Interesting… very interesting.)
His katana flicked out, narrowly deflecting her first slash—but the second was already coming.
And the third.
And the fourth.
For the first time in the battle—Percy gave ground.
Not out of fear.
But out of respect.
{Analyzing sword style...
Stance patterns memorized.
Flaws discovered. Creating perfected stances...}
The system's voice echoed softly in Percy's mind—but he barely noticed.
His focus was locked.
His heart was thundering—not from fear, but awe.
(Damn… Ava's swordplay is incredible.)
Each movement she made was refined. Calculated.
A dancer's grace guided by a soldier's will.
(It's clear. She's spent years honing every step. Every fault she once had—polished.)
Percy exhaled.
(And I still have a long way to go.)
The realization didn't discourage him.
It ignited him.
(Overhead slash. Horizontal cut. Finishing with a thrust—)
They moved as one.
Their voices whispered the sequence at the same time, their blades clashing like a choreographed symphony.
Percy adjusted mid-flow—using his encyclopedic memory of form to divert Ava's strikes with precision, not force.
Strike. Parry. Shift.
Each motion felt like an answer to a question they hadn't spoken aloud.
Their blades locked, edges grinding in a friction-filled pause—eye to eye, breath to breath.
Percy smirked.
"Well, I've really enjoyed playing around with you," he said, tone drenched in playful mockery.
Ava's grip tightened.
"Who are you?!" she snapped, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with the strain of being pushed this far.
Percy tilted his head, brow raised.
"Why the sudden interest?"
Ava's glare didn't soften.
"Because—besides Aria Klingenhart, the eldest successor of the Klingenhart Familia…
And Jason Lunarae, the forbidden child of the sun...
You're the third person I've ever truly struggled against."
Her words fell like a confession and a warning wrapped in one breath.
Percy's eyes narrowed slightly, the grin fading.
"That's flattering. But I'm not stopping.
I can't. There's too much on the line."
He pressed forward.
His strikes shifted—faster, deeper, no longer playful.
Ava gritted her teeth, feeling the full weight of his momentum crash into hers.
(Well—fuck. I didn't want to show this yet.)
Her aura swelled suddenly, and even Percy stepped back on instinct.
The air around her changed—no longer wild.
Still. Measured. Heavy.
Ava inhaled, closed her eyes, and lowered her stance.
"Sky-Severing Scalor…" she whispered,
"Hear my plea."
Her blade pulsed white-gold.
Light gathered at its edge—not as radiant fire, but living clarity.
Her dark brown hair shimmered with mana as her body fused with the weapon's intent. The air within three feet of her became silent.
No breeze. No sound. No hesitation.
Only stillness.
(She's synchronizing…) Percy realized.
(That's not just swordsmanship.
That's legacy.)
{SYSTEM ALERT – DANGER!!}
A shrill tone pulsed in Percy's mind.
For the first time since his transmigration into this world, every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A chill traced his spine like the edge of a divine blade.
(What… is this pressure…?)
"Sky-Severing Sword Style – First Form: Heaven's Downfall!" Ava declared, voice ringing like a war bell.
She raised her blade high—and the skies answered.
Behind her, a luminous mandala of transparent swords bloomed, encircling her in perfect geometry. The air thickened. A gray aura draped her like a veil, humming with unstable might.
A single pulse radiated outward—
BOOM.
The air around her warped. Cracks spiderwebbed across the terrain. Percy grunted, bracing himself as the sheer force of her release bore down on him like a collapsing sky.
His boots dug into the stone beneath him.
"Whoa…" he muttered, breath caught.
"This sword is no joke…"
But Ava didn't hear.
She was gone—submerged in singular focus, her body one with the blade.
Beta's voice rang out, sharp and reverent.
"Oh wow… she's already at the Sword Embryo Stage. A prodigy… no, a monster."
Percy's eyes narrowed.
"The hell is the Sword Embryo Stage?"
"That's… a subject for another day," Beta replied cautiously, voice laced with tension.
"But here's what matters: in sword cultivation, each realm represents a deeper union between mind, body, and weapon. The Embryo Stage is when a swordsman begins to fuse with their blade—when sword and soul resonate."
Percy's gaze flicked to the swirling gray aura around Ava.
"And that fog?"
"A blessing in disguise," Beta replied, her tone brightening.
"It means her breakthrough isn't stable. Her control isn't refined yet. Her strikes will be powerful, yes—but not fully mature."
Percy's lips curled into a smile.
"In other words, she's got the skill but not the consistency."
"Fortuna hasn't abandoned us," Beta added, her voice hushed.
"The gray aura is her sign—a symbol of imbalance and potential. Use it."
"Fortune favors the bold," Percy echoed.
Beta's voice sharpened.
"Don't get cocky. Those swords can still kill you."
Percy nodded, jaw set.
"Noted."
Ava's eyes opened.
Her pupils shimmered with light and steel.
"Experience true skill."
Her voice was calm, absolute.
She thrust her Sky-Severing Scalor forward.
And in that instant—the lead sword from the mandala flew forward, piercing the space between them with speed too fast for sound to follow.
It wasn't a spell.
It wasn't a technique.
It was a verdict.
"Ohhh fuck!" Percy shouted, eyes wide, body reacting before his brain even caught up.
One of Ava's spectral blades had broken away—screaming through the air like a divine arrow.
He watched it fly.
And then—
{Sensory Field Proficiency ↑ Increased}
{Proficiency: 50% Achieved}
{Innate Spatial Element detected... Alteration in progress.}
{Converting: 'Sensory Field' →'Tactical Matrix'}
Percy's breath hitched.
A new interface bloomed in his vision—lines of light crisscrossing his world, snapping into place around every object, every motion.
{Tactical Matrix v2.0 Activated}
{Runic Algorithm: Processing... 1% → 25% → 50% → 79% → 99%...}
Complete.
The world around him changed.
{New Passive Skill: Tactical Matrix v2.0}
"Allows the user to perceive reality through a multidimensional lattice framework. Visual-spatial data is analyzed with high-speed, rune-encoded precision. All movement, all threat vectors, all structural shifts are visible—projected before they occur."
Percy's mind surged.
He could see the field.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Lines of glowing light webbed the space around him—nodes sparking at projected impact points. The world was a grid, and in it, Percy was not lost.
He was the architect.
Suddenly—a sword appeared.
Only three feet away.
Its speed was blinding. Its weight, pressure, and magic screamed with lethal intent.
{Incoming threat detected.}
{Angle: 45°
Velocity: 102 mph
Kinetic Impact: Comparable to a Class-C demolition burst.}
Percy's pupils narrowed, heart calm.
(To anyone else, this would be death.
But to me... it's just another thread in the lattice.)
The sword's trajectory danced across the matrix like a comet on rails:
From (0,0,0) → to → (0.707, 0.707, 0)
Arc descent predicted to pass through (0.5, 0.5, -0.5)
He watched as secondary energy threads surged along the perimeter—a classic feint. Designed to anchor his movement and open him for a second strike.
(Nice try.)
(Despite what people say about violence… combat is communication. Every move is a word. Every feint is a pause. Every attack... a declaration.)
Percy exhaled.
"Imperial Sword Style – First Form: Empress Moon Dance."
His blade moved—not with force, but with grace.
The katana carved through the lattice in a crescent arc, perfectly timed to intercept the spectral sword's pressure point at—
(0.6, 0.4, 0.2)
It wasn't strength versus strength.
It was precision against pressure.
Redirection over resistance.
Elegance over brute force.
The tip of his blade kissed the sword's edge—and turned it.
Slightly. Deliberately.
Just enough.
The spectral sword deflected, spinning off-course and burying itself into the earth meters away with a shriek of dissipating mana.
Percy stood tall, wind tugging at his coat.
Eyes glowing faintly—not with power, but clarity.
He was no longer reacting.
He was composing.
The clash of steel rang out—sharp, fleeting, like the exhale of a drawn breath.
Percy's deflection had been effortless—a whisper through the lattice.
Each step he took was deliberate. The matrix of light surrounding him shifted in tandem, recalculating the angles of threat as Ava's momentum overextended her guard.
"Imperial Sword Style – First Form: Emperor's Swift Thrust."
His stance shifted.
From Empress to Emperor.
From fluid redirection to focused aggression.
The lattice guided his katana in a flawless thrust—targeting (0.8, 0.3, -0.2), the exact moment Ava's flank opened.
(Since it's sword to sword, let's add a little something extra for her—) Percy thought, and his star spell ignited in his mind.
"Spatial Blast."
A second later, space warped, folding inward on itself before detonating outward in a silent wave of power.
The ground cracked.
Percy stepped back, blade returning to neutral, his breath steady—his gaze still fixed on the glowing battlefield grid.
The lattice flickered, recalibrating in real-time.
Meanwhile—
Ava was airborne.
The blast hurled her sideways, slamming her against the edge of the dimension space.
For a heartbeat, the arena fell into silence.
Then—a massive crater erupted, only ten feet from where she landed. Dust surged. Magic sizzled in the air.
"Are you kidding me?!" Ava gasped, her body trembling.
Her eyes darted between the crater, the blade pointed at her, and the figure standing tall across the battlefield.
"This is… this is impossible. I—I—"
Her voice faltered, drowned by disbelief.
From above, Percy approached slowly.
Ava's limbs refused to move. Her breathing was ragged.
His black steel katana was already beneath her chin, its edge unshaking.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. Blue-gold met verdant amber.
And for the briefest moment—
(It felt like something was looking through me.)
"What… are you?" she whispered.
But there was no answer.
Only a smile.
He reached down, picked up her badge—
"I admired your swordplay," he said.
"Let's spar again in class—deal?"
CRUNCH.
The badge shattered in his hand.
"Ava Tsurugikin – Final Rank: 9."
Helen's voice rang with finality.
Ava vanished in a flash of light.
"Ethan Stride – Final Rank: 8."
Helen's voice echoed through the arena.
Percy blinked in mild surprise, then instinctively turned toward Dalton.
The silver-haired swordsman was already walking toward him, eyes focused, expression unreadable.
The crowd buzzed—no, roared—as the two boys stepped onto the battlefield.
Spectator 1: "Is this really happening? Percy and Dalton? I thought they were gonna team up!"
Spectator 2: "Team up? Did you see how they look at each other? That's not alliance energy. That's rivalry."
Spectator 3: "More like a cold war. Remember how Percy analyzed Dalton during the prelims? That wasn't friendly."
Spectator 4: "Grudge or not, Dalton's no pushover. He crushed Soo-min like it was nothing."
Spectator 5: "Sure, but Percy's… Percy. Dude moves like he's playing chess in four dimensions. Dalton's good. Percy's dangerous."
Spectator 6: "Dangerous? Try terrifying. He's been studying everyone. I guarantee you he already knows Dalton's entire build."
Spectator 7: "Then why fight each other? They could wipe the floor with the rest."
Spectator 8: "Maybe they want to prove who's better. Maybe it's personal."
Spectator 9: "Dalton's way too calm. You think he's got something hidden?"
Spectator 10: "Even if he does, Percy probably saw it six moves ago."
Spectator 11: "Unless this is all an act… maybe they've been faking it."
The moment Percy and Dalton locked eyes in the center of the field, the chatter stopped cold.
Spectator 1: "Nope. Look at that. That's not alliance. That's the look of two guys about to go to war."
Spectator 3: "May the best one win…"
Spectator 5: "My money's still on Percy."
Spectator 6: "Never count Dalton out."
The arena tensed—buzzing with raw anticipation.
But just as the pressure peaked—
both boys burst into laughter.
"Haha—dang, bro. Took you long enough," Percy teased, flashing a cocky grin.
His voice carried, slicing through the tension like a blade through fog.
"Hey! Not fair!" Dalton shot back, mock-offended. "It was a little more difficult this time, alright?"
"Sure it was," Percy smirked, tapping his shoulder. "Bet you rehearsed that comeback the whole walk over."
Dalton rolled his eyes but grinned wide. The air between them shifted—from menace to mirth, but the challenge remained.
Spectator 1: "Wait… are they laughing?"
Spectator 2: "Did they just break character?! I thought this was supposed to be serious!"
Spectator 3: "This has to be psychological warfare. No way they're suddenly best buds."
Spectator 4: "Honestly? I'm here for it. Who needs brooding when you've got banter?"
Spectator 5: "Dalton's trying to play it cool, but Percy's roasting him alive. That 'took you long enough' line? Savage."
Spectator 6: "Is this a duel or a sitcom? I can't tell anymore."
Spectator 7: "Calm before the storm, mark my words. They're lulling everyone in."
Spectator 8: "Maybe… or maybe they're just two dudes who love the fight."
As the laughter faded, both boys returned to stillness.
Their swords didn't move—
but the battlefield shifted.
Because everyone in the arena knew—
When Percy and Dalton fought, it wouldn't be personal.
It would be legendary.
Dalton cracked his knuckles, flashing a smug grin—but Percy's deadpan stare shut it down immediately.
"Really?" Percy said flatly.
That one word carried the weight of ten.
His mouth drew into a tight, unimpressed line.
"I took out two Sacred Family heirs," he added, voice low but laced with biting sarcasm.
"And you picked off your guy right after mine."
The insult wasn't subtle.
Dalton winced.
"Hey, timing's everything," he muttered.
They dropped the banter quickly—both turning to scan the battlefield.
Two distinct clashes had emerged.
On one end: Mei and Aria, still locked in their high-speed martial-arts duel.
On the other: Jason, Lyra... and Marcus.
"We've got an odd number," Percy observed, arms crossed.
"And I hate imbalance. Mei and Aria need one of us—Jason already has his hands full with those two."
Dalton nodded slowly.
"You know what? I actually agree with you."
But inside, both of them hesitated.
(Who should go where?)
A silent calculus churned in both their minds.
That was when Lyra's voice shattered the air.
"MARCUS, YOU MORONIC IMBECILE!!"
Every eye turned.
And what they saw wasn't a battle.
It was an execution.
Jason floated high above the ground, calm and expressionless, with Marcus held aloft in one fist like a rag doll.
His body was already battered—bruises blooming violet across his skin, blood dribbling down from his nose and mouth.
Despite Lyra and Marcus's dual assault, Jason hadn't budged.
Not once.
He moved with surgical efficiency—raw power wrapped in control.
Every spell was calculated.
Every strike… devastating.
Then—
CRACK.
Jason smashed Marcus's skull into his knuckles with bone-snapping force, and with a flick of his wrist—
BOOM.
Marcus was launched backward, vanishing into a flash of light.
"Marcus Vestalyn – Final Rank: 7."
Helen's voice announced with chilling clarity.
Dalton blinked once, then turned quickly.
"I'm taking Jason and Lyra," he said, voice clipped.
Percy arched a brow.
"What? Just calling dibs now?" he muttered.
"Damn… fine."
He sighed, brushing imaginary dust from his coat.
"Guess that means Mei and Aria are mine."
Without another word, Percy stepped forward—his body shifting from relaxed to razor sharp, his eyes already calculating the rhythm of the next encounter.