The crowd was still murmuring from the spectacle of the last match, some whispering about Kenneth's monstrous instincts, others glancing at the arena as if half-expecting him to appear again. The officials, trying to maintain order, took deep breaths before announcing the next match.
"Next bout," came Master Rhelgar's voice, loud and commanding, slicing through the tension like a blade. "Aeron Vale versus Rook Blademane."
A ripple passed through the audience. Excitement. Anticipation. Fear, even. Aeron Vale—the unrivaled top student of Class S, the one said to be untouchable. And Rook Blademane, the silent phantom of Class A, a wielder of spectral weapons, precise and deadly in every sparring match he'd ever entered.
The two opponents stepped into the arena. Rook's presence was sharp and focused, his spectral blades already forming in both hands—light-bending scimitars of pure psionic energy. Aeron walked with the poise of a king, no weapon in hand, his expression unreadable. His silver hair caught the sunlight, and his eyes glowed with the strange sheen of active foresight.
Cassian Veyne leaned forward from the Class A stands. "Rook's good," he muttered, watching intensely. "But against Aeron? Not even a hundred weapons will matter."
"This is going to be brutal," Lira Voss said quietly.
"He's our top guy," Darien added, nodding toward Rook. "He'll hold his own."
"Maybe for a minute," Zarek quipped.
Master Rhelgar raised his hand. "Begin."
Rook moved first, launching three of his spectral daggers forward with deadly accuracy. But before they left his hands, Aeron had already moved. One step, a sidestep, then a flicker—teleportation—and he was behind Rook, fist cocked.
Rook spun with a parrying slash, but Aeron wasn't there anymore. He had seen the dodge coming before it happened. Another teleport, and his elbow crashed into Rook's side.
The sound echoed. Rook stumbled, gasping. His armor shimmered, trying to reassert control. He summoned a broadsword of spectral blue light and charged with a flurry of feints.
Every movement, every swing, every breath—Aeron saw them all.
Not just saw. Predicted.
Thirty seconds of perfect precognition might as well have been a lifetime against someone who didn't have it. Rook lunged—and Aeron leaned back, twisted, then caught him under the chin with a brutal uppercut that sent the swordmaster flying.
"It's like he's dancing," Elara whispered from Class A's stands. "Like Rook's just... guessing."
Kael adjusted his glasses, analyzing the data streaming across his wrist console. "It's not just the foresight. It's how fast his brain reacts to it. No latency. Like he's fighting someone five seconds in the past."
Rook rose, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, eyes blazing with frustration. He summoned a spectral whip this time, cracking it forward in wide, looping arcs to control space. Aeron didn't flinch. He teleported over the arc, dropped from the sky like a meteor, and slammed into Rook's chest with his fist wrapped in kinetic force.
Rook hit the ground hard. The arena cracked.
Silence reigned.
"Yield," Aeron said calmly.
Rook struggled to rise, spat blood, and summoned a blade—only for it to flicker out before it could fully form. His energy was gone.
"Yield," Aeron repeated. Still calm. Still terrifying.
Rook groaned, then forced the words out. "I... yield."
The barrier fell.
Cheers erupted, but it was tinged with awe more than celebration. Aeron turned his back and walked off the platform like he'd done nothing more than warm up.
"Rook got turned into a rookie," Zarek said, half laughing, half wincing.
Cassian smirked. "You've been waiting to say that since the match started."
Kenneth watched silently, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"He's strong," he murmured.
Kael looked over. "So are you. You all are. But Aeron? He's what we have to aim for."
Lira Voss let out a low whistle. "I swear he barely even tried."
Master Rhelgar raised his staff. "Winner: Aeron Vale."
The medics helped Rook up, his expression bitter but respectful.
Aeron stopped at the edge of the arena, glancing briefly at Kenneth. Their eyes met—gold and blue. There was no animosity, only a flicker of interest.
Then he turned away, stepping back into the shadows of Class S like a ghost disappearing into mist.