Silence gripped the battlefield.
All around the clearing, students who had gathered to witness the duel held their breath. The chaotic sounds of the survival trial had long faded—replaced now by a tension so thick it was almost suffocating.
Up on the instructor's platform, four elite eyes followed the two figures below with growing interest.
Ignis Vaelthorn moved first.
His sword sang through the air, a silver blur under the high noon sun. Each strike he made was crisp, trained, and masterful—a perfect execution of the sword styles drilled into him since childhood. He was the kind of prodigy who graced textbooks, raised to be noble, refined, and deadly.
But Lucien wasn't fighting by any textbook.
He moved like water slipping between cracks. No wasted movements. No wasted breath. He flowed through Ignis' strikes with eerie precision—parrying with ease, sidestepping like he saw each swing a moment before it happened.
Ignis lunged again—an overhead slash meant to force a retreat.
Lucien leaned just enough to let it graze past his ear, then tilted his wrist to deflect the blade's edge with the flat of his own. The sound of steel against steel rang out, sharp and clean.
Not a single bead of sweat lined Lucien's forehead.
He wasn't just fighting.
He was observing.
Studying.
And slowly dismantling.
Ignis's frustration began to boil.
> "Why?"
"Why can't I touch him?"
He clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth. Mana surged through his body, flowing into his arms, legs, and blade. The ground beneath his boots cracked as he poured more strength into every swing.
Faster. Heavier. Desperate.
His blade blurred as he unleashed a flurry of blows.
But Lucien kept slipping through his reach—untouched, unbothered.
Those crimson eyes looked at Ignis not like an opponent…
…but like prey struggling before the inevitable.
Ignis felt something inside him snap.
Anger drowned out reason. His pupils sharpened. His right eye turned silver, leaking wild, volatile energy.
A dormant trait—hidden in his blood—had awakened.
Mana exploded around him. Heat. Pressure. Rage.
He roared and lunged, no longer a noble swordsman but a beast with a blade. His swings lost discipline and technique, replaced by raw power and killing intent.
He didn't want to win anymore.
He wanted Lucien to fall.
Lucien's eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in interest.
> "So this is your breaking point."
He had already expected this.
From the moment their eyes met, Lucien had seen the cracks beneath Ignis's pride—the brittle ego, the obsession with power, the desperation for acknowledgment.
This berserk eruption was inevitable.
Lucien moved with minimal effort, dodging rabid strikes with surgical precision. He dipped under a savage slash that tore through a tree behind him. He deflected a horizontal sweep with a flick of his blade, sending sparks into the air. He spun past a lunging stab and landed silently behind Ignis.
Ignis was no longer fighting Lucien.
He was fighting a ghost.
And the ghost was growing tired of dancing.
Lucien finally stepped in.
He feinted left.
Ignis bit.
He overextended, throwing his weight behind a wild swing—
And Lucien struck.
A flat blow to the solar plexus. Clean. Brutal. Precise.
The impact stole the air from Ignis's lungs. His berserk energy shattered. His eyes widened—then rolled back as his knees buckled.
Ignis Vaelthorn collapsed.
Unconscious.
Defeated.
He hadn't landed a single proper blow.
The system's announcement echoed through the arena, final and absolute.
> "End of Survival Trial!"
"Top Ranking Points:"
"1st Place: [Lucien Arkanveil] (C Rank)"
"2nd Place: Liana von Dragora (C Rank)"
"3rd Place: Ignis Vaelthorn (C Rank)"
On the instructor platform, reactions rippled like waves.
Gorath Bloodfist let out a rare smirk.
> "Perfect adaptation under pressure. He read the boy like an open book."
Selena Vermillion chuckled, fingers drumming on her chair.
> "Another weapon for the battlefield. Sharp… but calm."
Fenrir Blackmane tilted his head back and let out a low, appreciative howl.
Even the Headmaster, Leon Caelum, who rarely spoke without necessity, gave a faint nod and whispered more to himself than anyone else—
> "A monster… wearing the skin of a human."
Back in the clearing, the dust settled.
Lucien stood alone, sword still resting lightly in his hand.
Ignis lay at his feet, unmoving.
The wind picked up, rustling Lucien's golden hair, carrying the scent of scorched earth and broken pride.
From the tree line, Liana von Dragora approached.
She moved with elegance, her silver hair flowing behind her like moonlight on water. In her hand, she held a water bottle, the cap already off. She stopped beside Lucien, a teasing smile on her lips.
> "Well fought, fiancé," she said, voice lilting with mischief and pride.
Lucien didn't react to the title. He simply accepted the bottle with a small nod, eyes still distant.
Already thinking ahead.
Already planning his next move.
Because this was just the beginning.
And the true battlefield was still far ahead.