CHAPTER 25: EX 25. THE DUEL

The Feran training grounds were a vast open-air arena, an intentional contrast to the elegant, marble-floored indoor training chambers of the Kael estate.

Under a sky streaked with Natural moonlight and artificial floodlights, the arena spread wide—its perimeter lined with runic fencing to contain mana overflow.

At the side of the field, raised a few steps above the ground, was a stone podium reserved for the Rank 2 noble families—lords and ladies seated with barely concealed anticipation. Their gazes were locked onto the two figures standing at the center of the arena.

Seated higher above them, under a sheltered royal pavilion, were the Rank 1 noble families: the Queens, the Kaels, and the Ferans. Their eyes were focused.

All except for one.

Eden Feran, the youngest son of the Feran household, sat with arms crossed and a deep scowl carved into his youthful face.

He didn’t hear the murmurs of the crowd.

He didn’t see the duelists on the field.

All he could think about was the insult from earlier.

"Did he... call me a piglet?" Eden thought, his fists clenched tight in his lap. "Who does he think he is? If Father hadn’t agreed to this stupid duel between him and my brother I would have taught him a lesson myself."

Tears threatened to pool at the edges of his eyes, but Eden blinked them away furiously.

"Fucking bastard," he cursed under his breath, the words a silent vow.

Meanwhile, on the field, the duel had already begun—at least in spirit.

Leon Kael stood a dozen paces across from Dayton Feran, utterly unaware of the emotional havoc he’d left behind in the younger Feran’s heart. But even if he had known, he wouldn’t have cared.

Right now, his entire focus was on one thing:

Burying Dayton’s face in the dirt.

Dayton took a step forward, eyes narrowed, and pulled a sleek staff from his inventory. It gleamed with mana inscriptions—a D-rank Tier III magic staff.

He held it casually and confidently.

"This is your last chance to call off the duel," Dayton warned. "Because I won’t be responsible for what happens next."

Leon didn’t answer.

Instead, he summoned his sword. The blade shimmered into his hands, and without a word, he shifted his stance—two hands gripping the hilt, blade drawn backward over his shoulder, body coiled like a spring.

Dayton raised a brow, then smiled.

"Suit yourself," he said coolly.

’I swear I’m going to enjoy rubbing that arrogant face of yours into the ground.’

Suddenly, a loud horn blared through the estate, signaling the official start of the duel.

Mana exploded outward from Dayton’s body as he lifted his staff, its runes glowing bright blue. Lightning began to crackle in the air, summoned from a rapidly forming magic circle adorned with intricate runes. Energy screamed from the circle—raw, destructive, merciless.

"Blame yourself for your arrogance," Dayton said coldly.

Dayton’s Extraordinary talent was called Drunkard’s Mana the talent fueled his spells in proportion to his intoxication. It was the reason he was called the "Drunken Mage" on the battlefield.

At that moment the spell activated.

The circle hummed.

As unrestrained Lightning surged forward—a jagged lance of destruction, hurling toward Leon.

And yet...

Leon didn’t move.

Not at first.

Only when the lightning was inches away did his eyes flicker with life.

In a split second, Leon burned 20 attack points into Speed. The system silently acknowledged the request—200 temporary stats surged through his body like molten fire.

In that very moment—

He vanished.

A blur of movement cut through the battlefield as he slid past the lightning bolt, the blast exploding behind him with a deafening CRACK raising a dust cloud. But Leon was already gone.

He was too fast.

Dayton’s eyes widened in horror.

On the podium, Luke Feran muttered aloud without thinking:

"Is that... the speed of an F-rank?"

Gasps followed.

The weaker nobles strained their eyes, but Leon was barely visible. But just as the dust cleared, he appeared beside Dayton with his sword drawn as he slashed out.

Dayton was to slow to react as his red eyes widened just as Leon’s sword came close to his neck but suddenly Leon disappeared.

And in just an instant he appeared behind Dayton, sword outstretched.

BOOM.

The sonic boom from Leon’s dash shattered the silence.

The entire training ground went still.

Not a single noble spoke.

Not a single breath was drawn.

The silence was finally broken by a voice from the rank 2 seats.

"That... that isn’t the speed of an F-rank."

Another voice followed quickly, stunned:

"I didn’t even see him activate a skill. Could this be... his actual stats? But how?"

"Don’t be foolish," came a sharper voice.

"It must be his talent. A trial taker can’t exceed their stat limits. That’s common knowledge."

The first noble flushed red, realizing how absurd his earlier thought had been.

No one believed Leon Kael was an underachiever anymore.

Not after that.

Because in what world does an underachiever accomplish such a feat.

Back on the field, Dayton hadn’t moved.

He stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly as his staff trembled in his hand. Behind him, Leon stood calmly, sword held at his side.

Then, without a word, his sword returned to his inventory. And the moment it did, the energy in the arena dissipated.

****

As Leon slid his sword back into his inventory, the sleek shimmer of the blade vanishing into thin air, a ripple of confusion spread through the crowd.

Many of the weaker nobles, especially those seated in the lower tiers of the podium, gawked in disbelief.

"Why would he put his sword away?"

"Is he underestimating Dayton?"

"Did he miss?"

Their murmurs echoed softly through the tense air, their eyes darting between Leon’s relaxed posture and Dayton’s motionless figure.

But the stronger nobles—those with sharper eyes, honed instincts, and years of battle experience—said nothing.

Because they knew.

They had seen it.

They had followed the speed.

And to say they were terrified would be a gross understatement.

In that single flash of motion, Leon hadn’t merely closed the distance.

He had struck—not once, not twice, but dozens of times.

A barrage of slashes, too fast for the untrained eye to catch.

Too precise.

Too controlled.

Too inhuman.

Even the nobles that witnessed it felt a chill crawl down their spines.

Dayton stood frozen, his body trembling slightly, his face blank.

Then, finally, his lips parted as he uttered one broken word:

"...How?"

The question hung in the air.

Before blood suddenly exploded from his body.

Dozens of crimson lines opened at once across his arms, legs, chest, and back—clean, shallow cuts, like red ribbons unraveling across his skin. His pristine coat shredded to ribbons as the wounds painted it a gruesome red.

His knees buckled.

His face turned ghostly pale.

His staff slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly onto the ground.

Then—

He collapsed.

His body hit the ground with a wet thud, his blood pooling beneath him in a widening circle. He wasn’t dead—Leon had made sure of that—but the pain would haunt him for weeks.

Every cut had been intentional.

Every strike had been perfectly placed.

Not to kill.

Not to cripple.

To humiliate.

And in the end, that was far more terrifying.

The entire field was silent.

Not a whisper from the nobles.

Not a rustle from the wind.

Not even the hum of ambient mana.

Just stunned, breathless stillness—as the realization settled over the crowd.

This was not the power of an F-rank.

This was not the strength of a mere Trial Cadet.

This was a monster in human skin.

And tonight, under the stars and the stone arches of the Feran estate, every noble watching would remember one truth:

Leon Kael wasn’t someone to underestimate.

He wasn’t a footnote in another family’s legacy.

He wasn’t a joke.

He wasn’t weak.

He was something else entirely.

And the world had just caught its first glimpse.

****

Dayton Feran’s stats

[STATS]

Strength: 250

Speed: 200

Vitality: 250

Stamina: 200

Senses: 150

Mana: 450

Talent: Drunkard’s Mana(Extraordinary)

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A/N: Please send power stones and leave reviews.

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