After Rosalin’s match, whatever polite illusion had once veiled this session as a joint training exercise dissolved completely. Whatever civility remained now rang hollow, trampled by the boots of Class A.

The matches that followed could no longer be mistaken for lessons.

Each round unfolded with a kind of cold inevitability, less like competition and more like a ritualistic display of power.

If this stage had once been designed as a platform for mutual growth, then Class A had redrawn its purpose entirely—turning it into a tribunal of dominance where mercy held no jurisdiction.

Seven matches in total.

Seven trios of Class E scholars marched forward, walking into something they could not win.

And waiting for them, sharpened and polished, stood the next carefully chosen blade from Class A’s armory.

There were no bows exchanged before battle. No subtle nods of respect. No encouragement passed from one side to another.

Only Delila’s detached voice, echoing across the arena like a verdict, followed by the sound of worn boots stepping onto the platform.

The silence before each match was a living thing, dense and pressurized, wrapped around the room. It hung in the air, until movement or violence finally gave it form.

The second match was over before any of the Class E scholars could finish their chants.

The third match saw fire—a sheet of flame, drawn like a curtain across the ground. It swept forward with calculated reach, forcing the Class E trio to scatter backward and leap from the platform altogether.

And from the upper seats, the laughter that followed was sharp, brittle, and cruel in its delight.

Then came the fourth match.

This time, the opponent was no mage, but a brawler—an unarmed specialist who moved with confidence. There were no incantations or dramatic gestures. Only fists struck, fast, brutal with the methodical of a craftsman.

The three scholars from Class E never had a chance to breathe, let alone respond.

They were dismantled—their bodies folded in on themselves from sheer exhaustion or pain. When the medics came, the scholars were lifted and carried off the stage like broken tools. Discover more novels at N()velFire.net

By the time the fifth match concluded, the gallery reserved for Class E had fallen into a silence that didn't resemble attentiveness anymore, only resignation.

The flicker of awe that had briefly ignited during Rosalin’s match, born from a rare sense of respect and recognition, had long since been extinguished. Smothered by the merciless grind of one-sided combat.

That same quiet dread lingered through the sixth and seventh matches. Each ended within the span of two minutes—swift, efficient, without room for resistance or learning.

Not a single student from Class A had bothered to pull their punches. There was no feint of holding back or illusion of parity.

Polite applause followed each round, but it rang false, mechanical, as though emerging from mouths detached from the hands that clapped. Only the faint rustle of formal approval, as if etiquette demanded it.

Ruvian watched his classmates more closely than he watched the matches themselves. The platform, after all, no longer surprised him.

He saw how the earlier energy in their eyes had begun to fade, replaced by disorientation. Uncertainty clung to their expressions like fog.

Some blinked too slowly, caught in the attempt to swallow down the tears pressing behind their eyes. Others stared straight ahead, their gazes unfocused, as if trying to find themselves somewhere in the broken shape of the battlefield.

Ruvian did not blame them.

They had never been written to win.

‘This is to be expected.’

They were not protagonists destined for greatness. They were the extras conscripted into a tale that had never intended to remember their names.

Every one of them had been placed here with intention—carefully outlined, meant to be forgotten.

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And yet, Ruvian felt no compulsion to accept that truth as final.

‘It’s still too early to give up yet.’

‘One chance is all it needs to ignite them back.’

His gaze lingered on the stage, just for a moment, before shifting to the woman who had constructed this entire theater of humiliation.

Delila had remained silent through each match, offering no commentary. After every result, she simply gave a single nod, restrained and composed.

But Ruvian had seen the flicker behind her eyes. The satisfaction barely concealed beneath her practiced restraint. She did not wear her pride openly, but it was there, nestled in the small, silent triumphs of a task well executed.

She must have believed she had done her part. Played her role as instructed by the above, to maintain the hierarchy.

‘This must have been ordered by her senior, and I can already tell who it was.’

And perhaps Delila had done her job well. However, that didn’t mean she would go unchallenged.

‘She must be feeling satisfied now.’

Ruvian sighed, steadying his thoughts.

‘She accomplished precisely what she was told to do. A performance of superiority disguised as an exercise in cooperation.’

And yet, for all her control, the script had not played out exactly as she intended.

Because Ruvian had already altered the board.

She might have thrown the strikes, but she would not be the one to define the aftermath. The demerits, the quiet, bureaucratic penalties that could quietly sink a student’s future without notice—had already been removed.

That safety net did not come from mercy. It had not been born out of sympathy or compassion.

Ruvian had built it as an act of refusal. Not to protect his classmates, but to deny her the authority to wound them in ways that lasted.

Still… playing defense left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Minimizing the damage was not satisfying to him. Ruvian was the type of man who would strive for a total victory. But for now, this was all he could do.

His fingers brushed the wand hidden beneath the sleeve of his uniform, the motion instinctive, grounding. His thoughts narrowed, sharpening into colder than rage.

A promise, whispered so silently, that the next match would not follow the same pattern.

‘I won’t let you have your way.’

His eyes flicked to Delila once more, just enough to let the curve of his mouth rise.

Ruvian had not spent the last hour merely watching. He had not sat idle, letting his mind drift while his classmates were paraded across the ring.

No. He had been studying.

Every movement, every pulse of mana, every stutter of breath from Class A’s golden candidates—he had taken it all in, layered it like thread into a lattice of rhythm and repetition.

Their patterns, their choices, even their subtle arrogance, he had memorized it all. Not just stored, but internalized.

And beyond observation, he had already taken steps.

Before Delila could announce the final match with that same sterile poise, he had found the two classmates chosen to stand beside him and spoken with them.

He had activated [Character Sheets] on each of them, one after the other, not with the intention of pointing out their flaws or measuring their worth, but with the silent hope of understanding and planning.

“Are you sure you want to be the tanker? I mean, I never heard any mage act as one before.” Jareth, his teammates said.

“Trust me. I’ll be fine.” Ruvian replied with a calm smile.

And now, as Delila’s voice rang out across the arena, Ruvian let his hand fall from his sleeve at last. The smooth leather of his glove brushed softly against the dark fabric of his combat attire.

“The ninth and final match,” she announced, her voice slicing cleanly through the stagnant hush.

“Ruvian Castelor, Noelle Dorne, and Jareth Wynn of Class E—step forward.”

She let their names linger in the air, as though daring someone to laugh. But instead…

His name rippled through the upper rows almost immediately. Whispers spread in hushed waves, slithering from mouth to mouth.

The boy who had questioned authority, who had challenged the instructor, was finally stepping onto the stage.

All eyes followed him now with a different kind of attention. (+20PP)

Ruvian moved first.

Every step suggested a complete lack of hesitation.

To his left, Jareth Wynn followed at a slower pace. He was broader, heavier, his footsteps resonated faintly through the platform beneath them.

He tried to appear deferential, perhaps even mildly reserved, his spear tapped against the ground. He did not bother to smile. The expression on his face was enough to make it clear that fear had not taken root in him.

Noelle Dorne came next.

She moved gracefully, barely stirring the air as she advanced behind them. Her twin daggers, curved and gleaming with a subtle edge, hung easily from her fingers.

Her stance was light, almost delicate. The look in her eyes was calm as if she had already begun mapping the space, cataloguing angles and trajectories—a few steps ahead.

And then came Ardyn Renhart.

He emerged onto the platform with a poise, polished into the bone through years of careful grooming and entitlement.

His posture radiated confidence, but it was the kind that needed no proving. The light caught in his gold-dusted hair and his broadsword rested against his back.

In one fluid motion, he drew it.

The blade moved as though it weighed nothing, sliding free with ease. He did not bother to look at his opponents. He had already made his judgment long before the match began.

The contrast between the two sides could not have been more stark. It was a clash of what each side had come to represent in the eyes of the watching crowd.

On one end stood a trio bound not by natural synergy but makeshift of desperate pragmatism. There was no illusion of perfection in the way they stood. Only resolve, and the slow-burning strength that comes from refusing to fold.

And across from them, alone and unbothered, stood a boy who had never needed to struggle for the light to find him.

Ardyn Renhart was not just a combatant. He was a pedigree made flesh. Every movement, every careless tilt of the chin, bore the polish of someone raised to believe that victory was the natural conclusion of his presence.

What the audience now witnessed was, at least on paper, a mercy kill dressed in formality.

And yet, Ruvian smiled confidently.

It was a small thing, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But inside, something else tightened—his resolve. It lived in a space where confidence met spite and refused to bow to anyone.

Because for all he cared, Ruvian had no intention of playing the victim in any hunt.

'Let's see how much I have learned and progressed from previous 2-day training sessions with Leon.’

PP = 880

ME = 180