From the noble stands, the noise was deafening.

Lord Torvares was on his feet again, cane raised high, his voice booming over the crowd like thunder. “Excellent! That’s how you fight!” The aura he gave off radiated so strongly that even neighboring nobles shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some muttering under their breath but none daring to speak against him outright.

Beside him, Arslan whooped loud enough to shame half the spectators, waving his arms as if he were leading a festival. Harold pounded the railing with his fists, grinning like a madman. Aleia gave a sly whistle, amused and impressed in equal measure, while Selene crossed her arms but allowed herself the barest smirk. Cor adjusted his spectacles, nodding with calm approval, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his pride.

Ludger, down in the ring, resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. If Lord Torvares yells any louder, people might start thinking we’re storming the capital.

The referee’s flag dropped, signaling the end of the round. Viola twirled her dulled sword once before striding confidently toward the exit tunnel, her eyes glowing with triumph. Ludger followed, steady and quiet, ignoring the lingering whispers of spectators still marveling at the seven-year-old boy who had stood firm under a spear barrage.

Outside the arena, the group reunited in the sunlight. Viola looked flushed with victory, practically bouncing on her heels, while Ludger kept his arms crossed, expression neutral.

“You fought well,” Selene said curtly, though her nod was one of genuine acknowledgment.

Harold slapped Ludger’s shoulder hard enough to rattle his teeth. “You lifted that girl into the air like a sack of flour! Ha! Didn’t think you had it in you, boy!”

Aleia smirked at Viola. “And you—are you trying to scare your future suitors off by breaking weapons and ribs at the same time?”

Viola only laughed, puffing her chest proudly.

Lord Torvares arrived a moment later, flanked by his guards, still radiating the heat of a furnace. “That was worthy of the Torvares name,” he declared, eyes sharp as he looked between them. “But it’s only the beginning. Hold this momentum until the finals.”

Viola grinned and nodded eagerly. Ludger, however, exhaled through his nose, his thoughts quieter. Two matches today. Four more to go. If we keep this pace, it’ll be a miracle if Viola doesn’t burn herself out halfway through.

Still, as he glanced at the gleaming crest on his armguards, he knew one thing for certain: for the sake of the old man’s pride, and for the family’s name, retreat wasn’t an option.

The Torvares estate was loud that evening, though not in the way Ludger preferred.

The long dining hall glowed with lamplight, the smell of roasted meat and spiced wine filling the air. Servants hurried about with trays, the table set for a feast that seemed almost too grand for what was, in the end, just the second round of a children’s tournament.

Lord Torvares sat at the head, his cane leaning against the arm of his chair. His face was stern as ever, but his booming laugh filled the room like a war drum. Every remark he made about Viola’s victory—every swing, every broken spear, every step Ludger had taken—was punctuated by the crash of his hand against the table, rattling the plates.

“Did you see her stance?” he barked, pride vibrating in his voice. “Even under pressure, unshaken! That is Torvares blood!”

Another clap of his hand. Another round of nervous laughter from the servants.

Viola practically glowed under the praise, sitting straighter, eating with a smug little smirk that said she’d happily replay the fight blow by blow until sunrise.

Arslan raised his cup in echo, though his grin was more sheepish than proud. Harold shouted agreement with every word, Aleia added teasing comments whenever she could, and even Selene managed a short toast.

Ludger, meanwhile, chewed quietly, eyes flicking between Viola’s grandfather’s thunderous mood and the others. If he celebrates this hard after two rounds, what’s he going to do if we actually win the whole thing? Shatter the table with his cane? Call for a parade? Dance naked and drunk in the capital?

He sighed inwardly, poking at his food. Maybe it’s a good thing Mother isn’t here. Her aura plus his would’ve made the estate explode.

Cor, seated beside him, caught his glance and adjusted his spectacles with the faintest smile. “Don’t worry. He’ll settle once the wine runs out.”

Ludger smirked faintly. Doubt it.

Still, even he had to admit—watching Lord Torvares bask like this, flushed with a pride that seemed to peel years off his face—it wasn’t the worst way to end the day.

The clamor of the dining hall rolled on—Harold laughing loud enough to rattle the walls, Aleia making sly comments about Viola’s “dramatic flair,” and Lord Torvares booming with every toast. Viola basked in it all, practically preening under the flood of praise.

But Ludger stayed quiet. He ate steadily, eyes lowered, speaking only when someone addressed him directly.

Eventually, the booming voice at the head of the table cut through the noise.

“Ludger.”

The boy looked up, meeting Viola’s grandfather’s sharp gaze. Lord Torvares leaned slightly forward, cane tapping once against the floor. “Why so quiet, boy? You fought as well as any today. Do you not feel pride in what you’ve done?”

The whole table seemed to hush for a moment. Viola glanced at him, curious, while Arslan shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as though he already suspected the answer.

Ludger set his fork down and straightened slightly. “It’s not that I’m not proud,” he said evenly. “I just don’t think there’s much point in celebrating too hard after the first day.”

A ripple of surprise passed down the table. Even Selene paused mid-drink, raising an eyebrow.

Lord Torvares’ eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Ludger met his gaze without flinching. “We’ve only had two matches. There are still more left. If we lose tomorrow, all this noise will just feel… hollow. Better to save the celebrations for when it’s really earned.”

The silence stretched, heavy enough to make the servants freeze mid-step. Viola frowned, looking ready to argue, but for once she held her tongue.

Then Lord Torvares barked out a laugh so sharp and sudden it made the tableware rattle. “Hah! A boy with sense! You may be young, Ludger, but your head is steady.”

He lifted his cup high. “Caution and restraint are virtues. Pride without patience is just arrogance. You’re right—there will be time enough for true celebration. For now, we sharpen ourselves for the battles ahead.”

The hall eased into noise again, though more measured this time. Viola pouted faintly, stabbing her food a little harder than necessary, while Arslan let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Ludger leaned back, faintly smirking to himself. Good. At least someone in that family understands the point of keeping expectations in check.

Morning sunlight spilled across the capital as the Torvares carriage rolled through the crowded streets, banners fluttering overhead. The city buzzed louder than the day before—merchants hawking wares, nobles filling balconies, commoners lining the roads to watch the competitors pass by.

Inside the carriage, Viola sat with her dulled sword propped across her knees, eyes sharp with focus. For once, she wasn’t bouncing with restless energy. Instead, she turned to Ludger with a serious look.

“So,” she asked, “do you have any strategy for today?”

Ludger, who had been staring out the window at the crowds, slowly turned to her, blinking once. Then his brow furrowed as if he were studying her for signs of injury.

“…Wait. Did you actually sleep last night?” he asked dryly. “Or did you fall out of bed and hit your head?”

Viola’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m being serious. That is why we are inside the carriage.”

“Exactly why I’m worried,” Ludger shot back, deadpan. “You asking about strategy before a fight is like Harold asking about table manners—it means something’s wrong.”

Her lips twitched, caught between irritation and the urge to smirk. “Tch. Fine. Forget I asked.”

Ludger leaned back against the seat, arms folded. “I didn’t say I don’t have ideas. I just assumed you’d ignore them and charge in like usual.”

She huffed, turning her face toward the window, though her ears were faintly red. “Maybe I’ll listen. Depends on how good your ideas are.”

Ludger smirked faintly, shaking his head. Well, at least she’s thinking about it. That’s… progress, I guess.

The carriage wheels clattered to a stop outside the arena. The roar of the crowd surged even louder than the day before, spilling into the streets. Their third match was about to begin.

The waiting room was thicker with tension than the day before. Dozens of kids lined the benches, their uniforms sharp, weapons dulled but polished to a shine, their family crests stitched where everyone could see. Yet despite the chatter and posturing, almost every pair of eyes kept drifting to the same corner of the room.

To Viola and Ludger.

Yesterday’s victories had shifted the atmosphere entirely. The whispers weren’t mocking anymore—they were hushed, cautious, edged with wariness. A few of the older kids avoided looking directly at them, while others stared openly, studying every twitch and movement like they were already calculating counters for the ring.

Ludger felt it like heat pressing against his back. So much for keeping a low profile. At this point, I might as well be glowing.

But it wasn’t him drawing the most attention.

In the far corner, Viola sat with her arms crossed and her eyes closed, back straight against the wall. She wasn’t fidgeting. She wasn’t smirking. She wasn’t even talking.

She was still.

The same girl who usually radiated the energy of a firecracker looked like she was meditating before battle.

And that unsettled the room more than any grin or boast could have.

Some kids exchanged uneasy glances. One boy whispered, “She’s conserving energy.” Another muttered, “No—she’s focusing. Getting sharper.”

Ludger, sitting nearby, let his gaze drift to her. Her breathing was steady, her expression calm—an almost dangerous calm.

He smirked faintly. Well, that explains the stares. Hyperactive Viola is predictable. Focused Viola? That’s terrifying.

The waiting room doors creaked as an attendant entered with the next bracket list, and all the whispers cut off at once. The crowd of children went tense, all waiting for their names to be called—but the weight of their gazes still lingered on the quiet corner where Viola sat like a coiled flame.

The hour dragged on like a taut bowstring.

Children came and went from the waiting room, some returning pale and battered, others strutting with forced bravado after a victory. The air buzzed with whispers and nervous energy, but in one corner, there was only silence.

Viola remained seated, arms crossed, eyes closed, her breathing steady and deliberate. She didn’t twitch. She didn’t smirk. She didn’t boast. She was a statue carved in emerald and fire, and the longer she stayed that way, the more the room seemed to shrink around her.

Ludger sat nearby, equally quiet, his arms folded, gaze flicking between the other competitors as if daring them to make something of it. He could feel the weight of the stares—kids trying to peek without being obvious, whispering behind their hands. By the end of the hour, their silence was louder than any taunt could have been.

Finally, the attendant stepped in, voice ringing out. “Next match—Viola Torvares and Ludger, to the ring!”

The room exhaled all at once. Viola’s eyes snapped open, gleaming sharp and clear, and she rose smoothly to her feet. No smirk. No boast. Just quiet determination. Ludger followed, his steps steady, the red-and-silver armguards catching the lamplight.

As they walked toward the tunnel, the other children leaned forward, eager to watch. Their curiosity wasn’t just about the fight—it was about that silence. Viola not being Viola had unnerved them, and they wanted to see what it meant.

The sunlight hit as they stepped into the arena, and the crowd’s roar rolled over them. But it wasn’t the usual cheer. There was hesitation—murmurs rippling through the stands as people realized the same thing the waiting room had: Viola wasn’t acting like herself.

No proud smirk. No bouncing energy. Just calm, poised focus.

The announcer’s voice boomed their names, and the noise swelled, but even their opponents on the far side of the ring shifted uneasily. Two boys—older, taller, carrying dulled swords—tightened their grips, exchanging a wary glance.

They could feel it too.

Something was off.

And it made them restless.

The referee raised his hand, voice booming over the arena.

“Begin!”

The bell rang, sharp and metallic.

Across the ring, the two boys moved in unison, their dulled swords glowing faintly as mana wrapped around the blades. The edges shimmered, humming with condensed power. It was a simple but deadly technique—Weapon Enhancing. The same that Viola used.

The crowd stirred at the sight. Not every child their age could manage it; it required magical control as much as martial practice. For both to wield it meant they weren’t amateurs.

Ludger narrowed his eyes, his boots scraping against the stone as he stepped forward—deliberately.

And that made them falter.

The two boys frowned, their focus wavering for a heartbeat. They had expected Viola, the infamous firebrand of House Torvares, to come barreling in first. That was her style—reckless, aggressive, proud.

But this time, it was Ludger who took the front.

His arms lifted, forearm guards gleaming in the sunlight, stance steady and compact. Viola followed a half-step behind, her dulled blade faintly glowing but her posture calm, reserved.

The switch in roles threw their opponents off-balance. The crowd noticed it too—murmurs rising as nobles leaned forward. “Why’s the younger one taking point?” “What’s Torvares planning?”

Ludger smirked faintly. Confused already? Good. Let’s keep it that way.

The first boy lunged, sword flashing in a downward arc, mana hissing along its edge. The second angled to flank, hoping to catch Viola when she stepped in.

But Viola didn’t rush. She stayed just behind Ludger, her eyes sharp, watching as he met the first blow head-on.

CLANG!

The impact rang like a bell, mana sparking against the Torvares crest on his armguards. His bones rattled, but he held firm, bracing as if the ground itself backed him.

The boy’s eyes widened. Ludger hadn’t just blocked—he’d absorbed the hit.

And in that instant, Viola’s smirk finally returned.

The instant Ludger caught the first strike, Viola moved.

Her boots slammed against the stone, propelling her forward like a gust of wind. Her dulled sword flared, mana coursing along its length until it gleamed like molten steel.

With a cry that split the arena, she swung.

The boy’s eyes went wide—he barely had time to leap back, dragging his glowing blade up to meet hers.

CRACK!

The clash split the air like thunder. His sword bent under the force, the mana around it sputtering as he was driven back, boots skidding furrows into the stone until he lost his balance and rolled until he fell from the ring thanks to Viola’s power.

At the same time, the second boy lunged at Ludger’s flank, his sword shimmering with mana as he aimed for the opening. Ludger pivoted, forearm guards rising just in time.

CLANG!

The impact burst with sparks—steel against enchanted steel. But then a sharp snap echoed.

The boy’s dulled blade shattered clean in two.

“—ugh!”

He was launched off his feet, flying backward across the ring before crashing over the boundary with a brutal thud. His broken weapon clattered uselessly beside him.

For a heartbeat, the arena went still.

The cheering died mid-roar. Thousands of eyes locked on the ring, wide and disbelieving.

A single swing from Viola had broken her opponent. And Ludger—calm, steady Ludger—had turned a counter into a devastating counter that broke the opponent’s weapon.

The silence stretched, heavy and electric, broken only by the sound of Viola’s boots scraping as she reset her stance, her grin sharp and feral.

In the stands, nobles leaned forward, whispers hushed. No jeers. No laughter. Only the stark realization that the Torvares pair wasn’t just surviving the bracket.

They were crushing it.