CHAPTER 249: RANKING MATCHES [8]

The air shifted.

It wasn’t like before—with cheering or noise. In fact, it was the opposite. A kind of hush settled over the arena, thick and heavy, like the atmosphere right before a storm breaks.

Leona—or Leon, as the roster read—stood tall. Unmoving.

She wore a standard combat uniform. No ornamentation. No flair. Her short, dark-hair was slicked back, and her gaze was... focused. Not cold, not arrogant. Just precise.

She wasn’t trying to intimidate.

She didn’t need to.

Across from her, standing at the far edge of the arena, was Professor Reddin—the same instructor who oversaw close-quarters training in second year.

Tall, lean, and deceptively laid-back... until he wasn’t. Reddin was known for his brutal counterattacks and relentless pressure. A lot of cadets considered him sadistic. They weren’t wrong.

But even he wasn’t smiling.

Across from him, Leona gripped her sword—Frostveil.

She didn’t look tense.

She didn’t look fired up, either.

Just... calm.

Focused.

Like she’d been here before.

And the truth was—she had. Not in this exact arena, maybe, but she’d fought serious battles. She knew what it meant to have all eyes on you, and more importantly, what it meant when no one was looking your way.

Most of the spectators were still buzzing about Leo’s fight. His lightning. His spear. His thunderstorm-in-human-form theatrics.

Compared to that?

Leona was just the quiet third-place cadet.

No divine relics. No grand tales from dungeons. No glowing write-ups in the student bulletin.

Just the name Leon Harper written on the ranking list, sitting silently below Leo and Ryen.

To most people, she was just "also strong."

But Leona wasn’t here for "also."

And while the spotlight hadn’t found her yet, she knew exactly how to step into it.

If she delivered a blow too clean, too sharp, too surgical to ignore?

They’d have no choice but to look.

Professor Reddin, her opponent, didn’t underestimate her. That much was obvious from the way he sized her up—quietly tapping the hilt of his longsword with one gloved finger.

His stance was textbook perfect. No wasted motion. No laziness.

He wasn’t going to go easy just because she was a student.

"Ready?" the referee called, his voice cutting across the arena.

Leona nodded once.

Reddin did the same.

The whistle blew.

FWHHHT!

And they moved.

Not with wild charges or dramatic openings, but like two seasoned warriors who knew better than to waste energy.

Reddin took the first step—smooth, measured, sword held steady.

Leona matched it with a side-step, light on her feet, Frostveil angled low in a defensive stance.

Then, in a blink, he was in front of her.

CLANG!

Steel met steel. The force of the clash echoed through the arena like a drumbeat.

Leona didn’t budge.

Not an inch.

Reddin’s brows twitched. Just a little.

His next strike came faster, sharper—aimed for her shoulder.

She pivoted—not backward, but forward, inside the strike.

SSHHK!

Her blade scraped past his guard, grazing the side of his coat. A clean opening.

But she didn’t press it.

Not yet.

Because this was just the beginning.

Reddin stepped back, reassessing.

"You’re precise," he said.

Leona didn’t reply.

She didn’t need to.

Her eyes spoke enough: You haven’t seen anything yet.

He came again.

This time faster. A flurry of strikes, each one designed to test her footwork, her timing, her calm.

And she—

SHINK! CLANG! TAP!

—answered every strike with just the right motion.

No wasted effort.

Every dodge was close, but not desperate. Every parry carried just enough force to redirect, never more.

It was clinical.

Cold.

Controlled.

But then came the shift.

Her pure white sword began to glow, and it didn’t stop...the blade continue to glow until ...it pulsed.

A soft, steady rhythm—like a heartbeat.

But it wasn’t warmth it radiated. It was cold.

The kind of cold that didn’t bite.

It silenced.

A thin mist trailed from its edge, curling around Leona’s wrist like breath in winter air. The temperature in the arena dropped. Slightly. Barely noticeable—but the veterans in the stands, the instructors, the hero’s—they felt it.

Reddin blinked.

His expression didn’t change, but his grip on the hilt adjusted—subtly.

He wasn’t fighting a student anymore.

He was fighting a swordsman.

Leona stepped forward—not rushed, not hesitant. Just... forward.

And Frostveil moved.

SHHHNK!

A diagonal slash.

Reddin caught it. Barely. His blade locked with hers, the impact ringing loud and high—almost shrill.

But there was weight in it.

Not strength.

Intent.

The moment their blades met, a layer of frost formed along the edge of his sword. Not thick. Just a whisper-thin sheen that glinted in the light.

Then came the follow-up.

Leona pivoted, using the locked blades as leverage to spin, dragging Frostveil in a low, sweeping arc.

Then—everything blurred.

Too fast for most eyes to follow.

One second they were exchanging measured blows.

The next, Professor Reddin’s stance broke.

A heartbeat later—Leona was behind him.

And then it happened.

A single, fluid draw-slash.

Not reckless. Not flashy. But sharp. Clean. Absolute.

If the arena hadn’t been laced with protective enchantments, and if Reddin hadn’t instinctively activated his own defenses at the last second—

His head would’ve rolled.

The white blade came to a stop just inches from his neck.

Silence followed.

The whole match hadn’t even lasted five minutes.

Sure, Reddin had been restricted by rules. Sure, it hadn’t been a fight to the death.

But even with those facts in place—

Leona Harper had just outdueled a battle-hardened instructor.

Without breaking a sweat.

Without a single scratch.

And now?

Now, no one was talking about Leo’s lightning.

No one was whispering about Ryen’s dungeon clear.

All eyes were on the Leona who, until five minutes ago, was just a quiet third-place cadet with a sword that didn’t glow or crackle or explode.

She stepped down from the platform, the cold mist from her blade still faintly trailing behind her like fog at dawn.

And she was smiling.

Not smug.

Not arrogant.

Just a small, satisfied grin—like she’d finally reminded the world what it forgot.

Watching from the stands, I let out a low whistle.

"Damn..."

Ryen. Leo.

You guys are really screwed now, aren’t you?