Within Trinity Academy existed a strange organization known as the Duel Management Committee. Unlike rules that normally restricted conflict, this body formalized it, turning personal disputes into official battles. The academy, teeming with students from countless races, nations, and classes, could not avoid clashes—so instead, the committee regulated them.
That Sunday morning, Connor McCloud found himself standing before its leader, Professor Scarlett Dreadx, a Rank 72 martial expert who carried the dual role of teacher and chairman. Despite the solemn atmosphere of the committee room, Scarlett's wild energy and anticipation betrayed her delight. She eagerly confirmed what Connor already suspected: a duel had been scheduled.
The application listed his challenger as Sina Pallen, a young noble of the kingdom. The duel was approved, recorded officially, and set to take place at one in the afternoon inside the academy stadium. The rules were simple—disarm your opponent or force them to surrender. Refusal was not an option; the time limit for objection had already passed.
By the appointed hour, the indoor arena overflowed with spectators. Students filled every seat, voices buzzing with speculation. Many spoke not of Connor, but of Sina, curious why she had dared to challenge the Highlander who had already made waves since the semester began. Representatives of nations, nobles, and even Professor Scarlett herself gathered to watch.
Standing at the center of the arena, Connor held a dulled iron sword crafted for dueling. Opposite him stood Sina, flushed with nervous determination. Her stance was stiff and awkward, more suited for archery than swordplay, yet her spirit burned brightly.
Before the match began, both recited the sacred oath of fair combat, their voices carrying across the hushed arena. Then the duel began.
It ended in two heartbeats.
Connor's blade struck Sina's wrist in a precise motion, and her sword fell from her hand. The silence that followed was deafening. Even Connor himself was unsettled by how quickly the duel had finished, as though his body had moved beyond his own will. Whispers spread through the crowd—astonishment at his overwhelming skill, doubt at his sudden growth, and murmurs of ridicule directed toward Sina.
From the noble students of the kingdom came the harshest voices. They dismissed her as a fraud, claiming her title had been bought, and mocked her weakness. Though she tried to remain composed, Connor saw the tremor in her shoulders as their words cut deep. His own anger boiled over.
Connor turned to the sneering nobles and challenged them directly. Cowards, he called them, hiding behind whispers instead of facing him openly. The arena grew cold as his words cut through the crowd. For a moment, none moved—until one stepped forward.
The challenger was Galea Grog, eldest son of Count Grog, a Hall Rank 12 fighter. Broad-shouldered, towering, and brimming with arrogance, he declared that a Highlander commoner insulting kingdom nobles could not go unanswered.
He strode to the weapon rack and returned not only with a dueling sword but also with a battered wooden blade. With mocking fairness, he tossed the wooden sword at Connor's feet, demanding he fight with it instead. The crowd of kingdom nobles erupted in laughter, their scorn echoing through the arena.
Connor picked up the weapon calmly, but his composure hid sharp intent. With deliberate motion, he broke the wooden blade in half, letting the pieces fall at his feet. He announced coldly that he would fight barehanded, for against someone like Grog, he would not even need a weapon.
The insult struck like fire. Magic flared from Grog's body as his pride shattered. His fury promised that the duel ahead would not be a simple clash, but a storm born of arrogance and defiance.