Jon breathed deeply. Sweat ran down his forehead, his muscles tense after three consecutive victories. When the announcement for the fourth match echoed, he walked back to the center of the arena—each step heavy, yet firm. The crowd no longer saw him as just a promising student. There was now a mix of expectation and disbelief.
His opponent this time was a human swordsman, tall, with a hardened expression. Veins bulged across his arms as he spun his reinforced iron blade, testing its weight. Unlike the previous challengers, he didn't seem shaken by Jon's growing reputation.
Jon raised his sword. The glow of the Mystic Eyes flickered in his mind, but faded just as quickly.
Mana: 1200 — ▰▱▱▱▱▱▱▱▱▱ (≈12.7%)
He frowned. There wasn't enough energy left to maintain the ocular ability.
Without the Mystic Eyes... I'll have to rely on the six years of swordsmanship I learned in Riverwood.
The sound of the bell cut through the silence.
Ding!
The opponent struck first. His blade sliced through the air in a downward arc. Fwooshhh!
Jon blocked firmly. Clang! The swords collided, echoing through the entire arena.
The swordsman stepped back half a pace, then spun the blade horizontally, aiming for Jon's waist. Jon slid his left foot back, his body moving with fluid precision, and parried with a quick counter. Shhhhk!
Steel clashed again and again. Clang! Clang! Clang! Each strike was followed by a calculated step. Jon didn't need mystical vision to read the rhythm of battle—his body moved on pure instinct.
But the mental fatigue weighed on him. His vision began to blur at the edges, dark spots flickering in his sight.
Focus... don't slip now.
He raised his free hand to wipe the sweat, but froze when he looked at his fingers. It was blood.
Drip... drip... The crimson liquid streamed down from his left eye.
The crowd gasped.
"He's injured?" someone shouted.
"Look—he's bleeding!"
The opponent saw it and smiled. To him, that was the opening he needed. His movements gained a second wind, as if reborn.
He lunged from the side—the same side where Jon's blood ran.
Jon lifted his sword and blocked effortlessly. Clang!
His fatigue was mental, not physical. His body still responded with precision. But then he realized.
It was a feint.
The opponent had faked desperation, only to prepare a follow-up strike. The sword recoiled—then a sharp kick slammed into Jon's stomach. Thummp!
"Ughhh!" Jon was thrown backward, sliding through the sand of the arena.
The swordsman didn't hesitate. With distance gained, he gathered all his strength into one final strike. His blade shone with concentrated mana as it descended in a deadly arc.
Fwooooshhh!
Jon clenched his teeth. His eyes burned, but his body moved on its own. He raised his sword in a precise motion, meeting the enemy's blade midair.
Clang!
The impact echoed like thunder.
With a twist of his wrist, Jon disarmed his opponent. The sword flew several meters away, embedding itself into the ground with a metallic thud.
"Khhaaahhh!" The swordsman cried out in pain as Jon's blade slashed across his chest, cutting deep.
Jon dropped to one knee, using his sword for balance. The world spun. The weight of his mental strain was crushing.
But he couldn't collapse there.
He reached into his inventory, pulled out a small red sphere, and tossed it into his mouth, swallowing it whole.
The crowd froze in confusion.
"What did he just do?!"
"It was a pill—he took a pill!"
The sphere dissolved quickly, and a surge of warmth spread through Jon's body. The split on his lip healed, his breathing steadied, and his vision began to clear.
Phoenix Blood Revitalizing Pill — Activated.
The medicinal power coursed through his core, restoring his energy and cleansing his mind of pain.
Jon slowly rose, his body growing steadier by the second. The audience watched in absolute silence. To them, it looked as though Jon had been reborn before their eyes.
"Impossible…" the defeated swordsman muttered, still on the ground, the wound on his chest burning yet already beginning to close.
And then, amid the murmuring crowd, a feminine figure rushed down the stands to the edge of the arena. Elara.
Her golden hair fluttered in the wind, blue eyes wide with worry. "Jon!"
She leaped into the arena, ignoring the instructors' protests. Running up to him, her expression was filled with panic.
Jon looked at her—but to everyone's surprise, there was no trace of pain on his face. His stance was firm, his gaze calm.
He smiled faintly. "You don't have to worry. I'm perfectly fine."
The crowd erupted into cheers and shouts. Jon's fourth consecutive victory wasn't just a fight—it was a spectacle.
The sun was already dipping below the horizon when Jon finally left the arena. His steps were steady, though the weight of consecutive battles still lingered in his body. Beside him, Elara walked silently, her blue eyes fixed on him as if any misstep would make her rush to catch him.
"You're insane," she muttered, breaking the silence, her voice laced with concern. "Four fights in a row without rest. You nearly passed out in there, Jon."
He chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I needed to test my limits."
"Your limits?" Elara stopped, crossing her arms. "You were bleeding from your eyes! If I hadn't seen it myself, I'd have thought you were dying."
Jon looked away, the faint smile still on his lips. She doesn't understand... if I don't use every opportunity, I'll fall behind.
"I'm fine now," he said calmly, but firmly. "What matters is that I learned something from every match."
Elara sighed, resigned, but still didn't leave his side until they reached the dormitory. Every gaze they drew along the way was filled with admiration, curiosity, or envy. Whispers spread through the corridors. Jon's name was no longer unknown.
As the two disappeared through the dormitory entrance, high in the stands, a pair of hateful eyes followed them.
Nolan kept his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His eyes burned—not from exhaustion, but from sheer indignation.
"Jon Woodmoon…" he growled between his teeth.
Memories of their last duel resurfaced with cruel clarity. Nolan had always relied on his artifacts. They were his strength, his advantage—the proof of his status and power. But during that fight, facing Jon, he'd realized something that had haunted him ever since: if not for his artifacts, he would have lost.
Back then, he'd believed Jon had used everything he had. But now, seeing him crush opponents in the arena—sword, bow, and magic alike—Nolan finally understood the truth.
"He made a fool of me…"
The thought festered like poison.
How could someone from nowhere—someone without name, power, or lineage—surpass him so easily?
"Sir," a low voice called behind him. One of his subordinates approached, bowing respectfully.
Nolan didn't turn his gaze from the arena. "Is the information confirmed?"
"Yes," the subordinate replied steadily. "A student from his class said he's leaving for Riverwood this weekend."
For a moment, Nolan's rage seemed to cool. His breathing steadied, and a cold smile crept onto his face.
"Riverwood, huh?" he murmured. "Far from the academy's eyes… perfect."
He turned at last to face his subordinate. His gaze was glacial, sharp as a blade. "Make sure everything goes as planned. Have the assassin lie in wait. He is to follow discreetly and strike the moment he gets a chance."
The subordinate nodded. Nolan, however, remained motionless, watching the sunset beyond the arena. Inside him, the flame of hatred burned hotter than ever.
"Jon Woodmoon… no matter how fast you grow, I'll make sure your end comes before you even realize it."