CHAPTER 40: FIRST CLASS (6)

Chapter 40: First Class (6)

Elara Moonshade’s Turn

Finally, Elara rose. Her longbow appeared with a soft shimmer, crafted of ancient elven wood, vines woven into its frame.

The cadets whispered immediately.

"An elf archer..."

"They say her people never miss."

Elara nocked an arrow, her green eyes calm, serene. Mana of earth gathered along the shaft.

"Etlanic Bow Art—Form One: Piercing Root Arrow."

THUNK—!

The arrow flew true, shattering through the dummy’s chest plate with ease, as though the mithril armor were paper.

Then, with a smooth pull, she drew again—this time splitting her mana across multiple arrows.

"Form Two: Earth Arrow."

SHHHHK-SHHHHK-SHHHK!

Three arrows loosed at once, each glowing with hardened earth essence, pinning the dummy to the wall behind it.

The hall murmured, impressed at the control.

But Elara wasn’t done. She raised her hand, glowing faintly green.

"Healing Bloom."

Her palm radiated gentle life mana, a soft aura blooming like petals. Even those standing near her felt their fatigue ease slightly.

The cadets sighed in faint relief, whispers carrying awe.

"A healer...?"

"An elf with that kind of precision... no wonder the elves are feared."

Alastor let out a low hum.

"Your aim is flawless. An elf’s gift. But you lean too much on support if you want to survive war, sharpen your arrows until they can kill, not just heal."

Elara bowed slightly, serene as always, and returned to her seat.

---

Alastor rested his greatsword on his shoulder again, scanning us all. His grin returned, sharper than ever.

"Not bad. Not bad at all. You’re still brats, but at least you’re not hopeless brats."

His eyes flicked to me, holding for just a second too long.

"And some of you... will need extra breaking in."

A chill ran down my spine.

’Great. Guess who just made it onto the Sword Hero’s personal hit list.’

---

10 minutes Later

Alastor’s gaze swept over us, heavy as an iron blade.

"All right, brats. Sitting time is over. Let’s see what you’re actually worth."

He slammed the blunt side of his greatsword into the floor.

THUD.

The air shivered.

At first I thought it was just his aura again, but then the walls rippled.

Like liquid, the training hall dissolved before our eyes.

Benches sank into the ground with a low grind of stone. The dull grey floor cracked open, glowing veins of golden script spreading out in concentric circles. In seconds, the cracked tiles rearranged into polished obsidian stone, smooth as glass, etched with runes that pulsed with a heartbeat rhythm.

The ceiling stretched higher, impossibly higher, until the old wooden rafters were gone—replaced by a dome of faint starlight, as though the night sky itself had been drawn down to crown us.

And around the edges of the hall, translucent mana barriers rose, humming faintly, sealing us in.

Whispers broke instantly.

"W-what the hell—"

"The training hall... transformed?!"

"It’s like a real dueling colosseum..."

Even Eric’s cocky grin faltered for a second, replaced with awe.

Alastor laughed, a deep booming sound that rolled like thunder. "You thought this was just some academy hall? Fools. This entire chamber was built as a crucible. It bends to my command!"

He swung his greatsword to rest lazily on his shoulder, eyes glittering with amusement.

"This... is your dueling ground. No running. No excuses. Only strength will decide if you stand tall or eat dirt."

The pressure of his words pressed down on us, thick enough that even breathing felt heavier. Yet beneath that pressure, I felt something stir in my chest.

Excitement.

’So this is what a real battleground feels like... a place built to measure worth.’

Alastor’s gaze cut across the rows, finally stopping on Leon and Eric. He jabbed a finger toward the circle’s glowing center.

"You two. Step forward. Show me if you’re cubs worth raising... or if you’re fit only for the butcher’s block."

The runes beneath the floor pulsed once, resonating with his voice.

The first match had been chosen.

And the arena of the Sword Hero demanded blood and fire.

---

The arena’s runes flared once more, forming a glowing circle at its center.

Leon and Eric stepped inside, steel practice swords in hand.

The tension was thick enough to slice. Cadets leaned forward in their seats behind the shimmering mana barrier, whispers buzzing like flies.

"Leon, the outcaster from the Lionheart bloodline."

"And Eric—he’s the one who’s been stirring trouble since the entrance exams."

"Heh... I bet Eric takes this."

I leaned back in my seat, arms crossed.

’No matter how this goes, the result will ignite more rivalries.’

Alastor’s booming voice cut through the noise.

"Begin."

---

Eric grinned like a predator, his stance loose, blade tilted casually. His golden eyes gleamed with arrogance.

Leon, in contrast, tightened his grip, his posture textbook—Lionheart Sword Style’s ready stance, both feet firm, blade slightly angled forward.

"Try not to cry when I break your pride," Eric mocked, before exploding forward.

CLANG!

Steel shrieked against steel as Eric’s first strike landed. Sparks flew under the mana-dome. His blows came fast—reckless but furious, each swing powered by raw muscle and wind-infused mana.

"Wind Gale—!" Eric twisted mid-swing, a sudden burst of air exploding from his blade, forcing Leon back a step.

Leon dug his heel into the rune-carved floor, raising his blade just in time. "Lionheart Sword Style: Form One—Rising Fang!"

SHRIIING!

His blade cut upward like a lion’s pounce, knocking Eric’s strike away and throwing sparks between them. The cadets gasped as the clash reverberated against the mana barriers.

---

Eric laughed, not even winded. "Not bad. But you’re too stiff!"

He lunged again, weaving wind around his legs, his dash quick as a blur.

"Gale Strike!"

The impact rattled Leon’s guard, forcing him back three steps. His boots screeched against the smooth obsidian floor.

Leon’s jaw tightened. His mana flared, faint traces of flame dancing around his blade. He slashed down with force.

"Form Two—Crimson Fang!"

BOOM!

A downward strike crashed against Eric’s blade, flames cracking outward. Eric snarled, teeth gritted, barely holding the block. The mana-barrier rippled from the shockwave.

---

Eric shoved him back, a grin splitting his face. "That all, lion cub?"

He drew mana again—wind swirling violently around his sword.

Then with a sudden pivot, he unleashed—

"Gale Storm!"

A flurry of rapid thrusts, each carrying a burst of air pressure, like invisible bullets pelting Leon from all sides.

D-D-D-DANG!

Leon staggered. His guard shook. A shallow cut appeared along his cheek as one thrust grazed past.

Cadets roared from behind the barrier.

"Eric’s overwhelming him!"

"Leon can’t keep up—he’s too rigid!"

Even I frowned, analyzing.

’Eric’s raw aggression is breaking rhythm... Leon won’t last unless something changes.’.

---

Eric’s aura blazed with arrogance as his blade glowed with a faint golden hue.

Light mana wrapped around his steel, forming a thin radiance that shimmered like the dawn.

"Watch closely, Leon," Eric sneered, "this is the difference between bloodlines and true talent."

With a fluid twist, his blade cut downward—

"Light Arts: Radiant Slash!"

A blazing crescent of light erupted from his sword, tearing across the arena like a searing blade of sunlight.

SHOOOOOM!

Leon braced, slamming his sword into the ground and pouring mana into his guard. Flames burst outward, colliding with the radiant slash. The clash detonated in a shower of sparks, a deafening crack splitting the air.

BOOOM!

Smoke rolled across the arena floor. Leon staggered out of it, one knee nearly buckling. His arms trembled from the force, his breathing ragged.

But Eric wasn’t done.

"Too slow!" he barked, his form blurring as wind exploded under his feet.

"Gale Strike!"

CRACK! He shot forward like a bullet, sword drawn back. Leon barely raised his blade in time—

CLANG!

The impact threw him back several steps, his boots screeching across the smooth obsidian floor until his spine smacked against the mana barrier.

Cadets shouted from the seats.

"Eric’s overwhelming him!"

"Leon can’t breathe—he’s finished!"

Eric’s golden eyes gleamed with superiority. He twirled his sword once, light gathering again.

"Light Arts: Flash Slash!"

His body vanished in a burst of speed, a blinding arc of light slicing through the space Leon had occupied.

For a moment—everyone thought it was over.

But Leon ducked at the last second, the blade of light screaming overhead and slamming into the barrier instead, where it sparked harmlessly against the protective dome.

"Che," Eric clicked his tongue, annoyed.

Leon’s chest heaved, his fingers tightening desperately on his sword. His flames flickered weakly, the heat unstable.

’I can’t match his speed... his power’s overwhelming...’

Eric advanced again, spinning his blade, confidence oozing.

"You fought well for a cub. But I’ll show you what real pride looks like."

He lunged

But then it happened.

As Eric dashed forward, pouring both wind and light into his speed, one of the arena’s runes flared unusually bright beneath his boot.

The sudden surge of energy made his footing falter for just a fraction of a second his blade arm swinging just a little too wide, his momentum leaning forward past balance.

A tiny, almost imperceptible error. But at this level, in this duel—

It was fatal.

Leon’s eyes sharpened. The lion within roared awake.

"NOW!"

Mana surged through his veins, flame erupting along his sword’s edge. He pivoted hard, channeling every last shred of strength into a desperate counter.

"Lionheart Sword Style—Form One: Rising Fang!!"

SHRIIIIIING!

His blade cut upward with flawless timing, catching Eric’s weapon at the hilt. The sheer momentum of Eric’s overextension carried the sword upward, torn from his grip.

The weapon spun in the air, clattering across the arena floor.

CLANG—CLANG—CLANG!

Eric froze, eyes wide, hand empty.

Leon stepped in, sweat dripping, his chest heaving like a man on his last breath. He thrust the tip of his flame-kissed blade at Eric’s throat, voice hoarse but resolute.

"It’s... my win."

---

Aftermath of the Luck

Silence.

Then the arena erupted with gasps and shouts.

"He—he disarmed him!"

"Leon actually turned it around?!"

"Eric had him on the ropes the whole time!"

Gasps and whispers rippled through the stands.

Eric’s chest rose and fell heavily, golden eyes widening with disbelief before narrowing to sharp slits. His knuckles whitened as he retrieved his blade, but the glowing barrier had already declared his defeat.

Leon staggered back, lowering his sword. His breath was ragged, sweat dripping from his chin. Even he looked dazed, as though stunned by the result.

I leaned forward in my seat, narrowing my eyes.

’No... Leon didn’t win. He survived by the skin of his teeth. One misstep from Eric, and he capitalized on it. Sheer, dumb luck. But to everyone watching? It looks like the Lionheart Rise toppled a giant.’

Alastor’s voice broke through the tension, cold and uncompromising.

"Barely passable. Leon, you seized victory, but don’t delude yourself. You relied on luck, and luck alone. In war, luck runs out."

Leon dipped his head respectfully, though the twitch of his lips betrayed both relief and pride.

Eric turned sharply, striding back toward the benches. His face was calm, too calm—but as he passed, I caught it.

A whisper, low and venomous, escaping clenched teeth.

"This isn’t over... Leon. I’ll burn that smile off your face next time."

The air around him seemed to tighten, mana prickling faintly before he forced it down. He walked stiffly to his seat, sitting in silence, jaw locked.

Eric retrieved his sword silently, golden eyes burning with humiliation as he stalked back to his seat.

And then Alastor’s gaze swept the arena, locking on me.

To be Continue

"Next match—. Michael Vs ???

The atmosphere shifted instantly.8