After his duel, Noah slipped back into the circle of spectators. The murmurs about his victory still clung to the air, but already they were fading, swallowed by the rhythm of the next matches. That was the way here—today's shock was tomorrow's forgotten bruise.
'Not the first time someone left with a dislocated shoulder. …I hope it's just that, anyway. A clean break would be a hassle.'
Injuries were part of the drill. Every week, at least one trainee ended up limping to the infirmary. Luckily, the Academy had no shortage of healers who worked both with medicine and magic. As long as no one lost a head, most were patched up within days.
A voice broke his thoughts.
"Was that really necessary?"
Noah glanced sideways at the boy beside him—Trevor, arms crossed, lips curved in disapproval. Noah let a grin slip.
"Want me to show you the same treatment?"
Trevor immediately lifted his hands in surrender. "I'll pass." His gaze shifted toward the ring. "What about him? Think you could handle that?"
Two new contenders had just climbed onto the platform. One was a mountain of a trainee—broad, towering, with forearms like carved stone.
"Reinhardt?" Noah tilted his head. "I heard he inherited the Bulwark Discipline."
Every martial art had its own Discipline, and Bulwark was one of the oldest. Its Aether circulation hardened the body until even steel could be turned aside barehanded. They were living bastions—slow, heavy, but lethal if you met them head-on.
Trevor shook his head. "Not the bulldog. The other one."
Noah followed his finger—and paused.
The boy across from Reinhardt wasn't broad, but he carried himself like he belonged in that ring more than anyone else. The air around him was taut, measured, like a veteran sizing up his next kill. His frame was no larger than Noah's, but it pressed against the limits of human conditioning, every movement lean and controlled.
Atlas. Son of the Northern Duke.
Noah had heard the name before, but seeing him now was something else entirely.
'So that's the difference between us.'
It wasn't just talent. Being born to one of the strongest houses in the empire meant endless elixirs, tailored training, mentors who cost fortunes, and the perfect Discipline to match it all. Everything stacked, generation after generation, to build heirs like him.
By comparison, Noah's parents had been a teacher and a midwife. Good, honest work—but they couldn't buy him shortcuts or feed him pills worth more than their home. His strength came from sweat and stubbornness, not legacy.
And standing there, he felt the weight of that gap like a hand pressed on his chest.
Before Noah could answer Trevor, their instructor's voice cut through the air.
"Begin!"
The two trainees surged forward.
Reinhardt struck first, lowering his massive frame to drive a fist straight for Atlas's chest. The punch was heavy, deliberate—slow enough to see, but backed by the kind of weight that would cave ribs if it landed.
Atlas slipped past it by a hair's breadth. A sidestep, a shift of balance—and then he was inside Reinhardt's guard. His hand clamped the taller boy's head, and his knee snapped upward. Bone met bone with a sickening crack.
Reinhardt staggered, dazed, blood streaming from his nose. Atlas released him, already stepping back, stance lowered, weight centered, as if nothing more than a rehearsal.
It all happened in the space of a blink. Around Noah, most of the spectators gasped only after Reinhardt wiped the blood from his lip and straightened again. But Noah's gut tightened. He'd seen the precision—the way Atlas had drawn out Reinhardt's momentum, then punished him for it in a single, ruthless strike.
The clash resumed. Reinhardt swung again, desperate to use the bulk and power that should have been his advantage. But Atlas's movements were water against stone: each strike was brushed aside, redirected, twisted until Reinhardt's strength collapsed under its own weight.
The longer it went, the clearer the picture became. Reinhardt was on the defensive now, his wild counters meeting only air. Atlas pressed forward, measured, unhurried—like a predator toying with its prey.
'He's not even fighting seriously. He's just… showing us the difference.'
Noah's jaw clenched. The gap wasn't raw power—it was skill, discipline, an entire upbringing sharpened to this single point. Reinhardt's famed Bulwark might have made him untouchable against most, but against someone like Atlas, it only made him a stationary target.
Seconds later, Reinhardt stumbled back across the edge of the ring. His nose was shattered, his face streaked red—yet the rest of his body bore not a single mark.
The instructor's call came sharp and final.
"Victory, Atlas."
Atlas turned, descending the platform. For the briefest instant, his gaze flicked toward Noah. Not a glare. Not even curiosity. Just the faintest curl of disdain in his eyes, as though measuring something—and finding it wanting.
Noah exhaled through his nose. "Guess we'll never know." He clapped Trevor's shoulder and forced a grin. "I'm gonna see what the nerds are up to."
Without waiting for a reply, he slipped out of the crowd, heading toward the mages' grounds.
The sun was high, pressing its heat down through the wide stone corridors as Noah made his way toward the mages' grounds. Students passed in clusters, some laughing, some whispering, a few flicking quick glances at him when they thought he wouldn't notice.
It gnawed at him more than he liked to admit.
'What are you staring at? Like I grew horns overnight?'
He kept walking, shoulders squared, trying not to let the prickling behind his neck show. The duel with Atlas was still fresh in his mind. Not the fight itself—that was simple enough to explain. It was the look. That half-second flicker, like Noah had already been measured, weighed, and filed away as irrelevant.
'Strong because he's skilled, skilled because he's rich, rich because he was born into it. Some empire, huh?'
Noah exhaled sharply, shaking his head. No point wasting energy. Still, a part of him simmered. He hated being underestimated more than he hated losing.
The path curved, separating into the two halves of the Academy. Knights on one side, mages on the other. The air shifted with it too: the clang of practice swords and thud of sparring dummies gave way to murmurs of incantations, the faint buzz of Aether, and the scent of chalk and burnt ozone.
By the time he reached the mage arena, sweat prickled at the back of his neck. Not from the walk, but from the heat.
'Whoever decided to cancel drills today, I hope you're blessed for the rest of your life.'
The arena sprawled before him, easily twice the size of the knight dueling grounds. Instead of raised platforms, the mage rings sank deep into the ground, their stone walls etched with glowing runes. Rows of seats circled them like an amphitheater, tiered so no movement went unseen. High above, the Aether-powered lamps pulsed with steady light, bright enough to banish every shadow.
Noah frowned. 'That wasn't here last time.' The lighting reminded him uncomfortably of the Imperial Palace—cold, clinical, too perfect.
As duels flared one after another, he wove through the crowd, scanning for Arnold. Most of the knights weren't here—just a scattering of seniors, the kind who liked to observe how mages fought, either out of curiosity or rivalry.
Spotting Arnold, Noah climbed a row higher and took a seat. He leaned forward on his knees, letting his eyes roam the ring below.
A rustle at his side. Someone sat down quietly on his right.
He didn't even need to turn. The air shifted differently around her, as if the crowd noise fell a degree lower.
"Elira," he muttered, keeping his eyes forward. "Spying on your juniors?"
Her cloak shifted as she crossed one leg over the other. "If I'm spying, doesn't that make you an invader?"
Noah huffed through his nose. "Fair." He wanted to add something sharper, but instead he leaned back, pretending the arena held his full attention.
Silence stretched between them—not heavy, but taut, like two threads refusing to knot.
Down below, another duel began. Sparks of Aether lashed the air, blue and gold streaks crackling against the stone wards. The crowd oohed and winced with every burst.
Elira spoke again, her voice low, even. "You seem… restless."
That caught him off guard. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Restless? I'm sitting perfectly still."
Her gaze didn't move from the ring. "Not your body. Your eyes."
Noah turned back, jaw tight. He hated how easily she saw through him. "Guess I've just got a lot to prove."
"For whom?" she asked.
He didn't answer. The question sat between them like a pebble dropped in a pond, rippling outward.
Below, the mage trainer barked a name. Arnold stepped into the ring, snugging white gloves onto his hands. The insignia stitched across them shimmered faintly, marks Noah didn't recognize.
His opponent, Nico, held a polished wand that caught the light with a metallic gleam. The crowd murmured, leaning forward.
Elira's gaze narrowed. "Is that him? The one you came to watch?"
"Yeah," Noah said, voice firmer now. "Also gives me an idea how to fight a mage if I ever have to."
"It isn't that hard," she replied, her tone clinical. "If a mage lets you close in, they've already lost. Destructive spells aren't safe at close range. Collapse the distance, and you'll win."
Noah smirked faintly, leaning back as the trainer's voice rang out. "I'm not so sure about that."
This time, he let his eyes stay on Arnold, but his thoughts tugged elsewhere. Toward Elira's words, the distance between them, and the unanswered question hanging in his chest.