The arena grew silent as the instructor's hand dropped.
"Begin."
Eryndor wasted no time. He lunged forward, sword flashing, his movements fueled more by arrogance than skill. The blade sliced the air toward Kuro's shoulder.
Kuro barely raised his practice sword in time. The clash rang out, metal vibrating against his arms. The force nearly knocked him back, but he steadied himself, sliding a foot into the sand for balance.
"Tch," Eryndor sneered. "You can block? Not bad—for an elf. Don't get excited, though. This ends quickly."
He pressed forward, strike after strike, each swing meant not just to win, but to humiliate.
From the sidelines, whispers rippled through the students. Some laughed, others jeered, egging Eryndor on.
[Look at this f***ing clown, swinging like he's chopping wood. Pathetic form. Overconfident stance. He thinks looking scary makes up for actual skill.]
{Elvastia…}
[No, no, you need to hear this. That ugly-a** face is trying to convince himself he's a warrior. Truth? He's got nothing. All money, no talent. Just a pampered s*** with a blade.]
Kuro tightened his grip, staring through Eryndor's wild swings. Elvastia wasn't wrong. The boy's movements were sloppy, predictable. He wasn't trained to fight—he was trained to dominate.
Eryndor slammed another blow down. Kuro sidestepped, sand spraying beneath his boots.
"What's wrong?" Eryndor jeered. "Run out of courage already? Or maybe you're just realizing your kind will never—"
Kuro cut him off. His sword shot forward, quicker than Eryndor expected. The strike grazed his opponent's arm, enough to sting but not to wound.
The crowd gasped.
Mika's lips twitched into the faintest smirk, though his eyes stayed locked, sharp and cold, on Kuro's every move.
"You little—!" Eryndor snarled, his face twisting with rage. "How dare you!"
He came at Kuro harder, his fury replacing what little control he had. The arena rang with violent clashes as sparks flew from the steel. Each swing was heavier, sloppier.
And Kuro? Kuro wasn't running anymore. He was watching, waiting, weaving between the attacks.
[Yes… that's it. Let him burn himself out. He's already unraveling, can't you see? He's showing everyone exactly what he is—trash with a big mouth.]
Eryndor slammed down again, overextending.
Kuro's body moved before he could think. He twisted, brought his blade around, and knocked Eryndor's sword wide. With his opponent off balance, Kuro stepped in and drove the wooden edge of his practice blade against Eryndor's chest, forcing him back into the sand.
The arena went silent.
Eryndor blinked up at him, shocked, his sword lying useless at his side.
Kuro breathed hard, lowering his blade but keeping his eyes locked on the fallen boy. "You talk too much."
The silence broke into a wave of murmurs, gasps, and even a few cheers.
From the sidelines, Lucien smiled faintly, his blue eyes glittering. "Not bad," he murmured, approval in his voice.
Mika's jaw clenched at that, though he said nothing. His gaze, however, never left Kuro—sharp, proud, and burning with an emotion he refused to name.
[Hah! Did you see his fing face when you dropped him? PRICELESS. I'd frame that expression and hang it on the fing wall.]
Kuro, still panting, just stared at the sand, half in disbelief at what he'd managed.