Reid stared at Maxim with a mix of confusion and unease. Something in the boy’s smile didn’t feel right.

  Maxim’s eyes were closed, his expression frozen in a mask of innocence so perfect it felt wrong.

  “Good luck, Reid,” Maxim whispered, the words oddly gentle — almost rehearsed.

  A small smile slipped from Reid’s control. “Good luck to you too, Maxim,” he replied softly.

  For a moment, Maxim’s smile faltered — just slightly, as if that answer wasn’t the reaction he’d expected.

  Before Reid could think more, the examiner’s voice boomed through the arena.

  “Everyone who’s seen their matchups, please return to your seats. You’ll be called when your duel begins.”

  The crowd of participants began to disperse. As Reid climbed the stairs back to the upper stands, he and Maxim exchanged one last glance — silent, uncertain.

  Back in the stands, no one sat beside him. The empty space around him felt heavier with each minute that passed.

  Then, the examiner’s voice returned, echoing across the entire arena.

  “The first match of the Combat Trial: Flint Stanz vs. Maverick Lester. Participants, take your positions!”

  The air shifted. Everyone leaned forward.

  Unlike the controlled training sessions Reid had experienced, this was different — no guardian bubble, no safety barrier. This was real. A wrong move could break bones, maybe worse. The thought sent a chill down his spine, but also a strange thrill.

  He watched as two boys stepped into the dueling field. One — Maverick — was broad-shouldered and built like a seasoned brawler, easily older and stronger. The other — Flint — looked frail, his limbs thin, his frame small, as if the world had already taken too much from him.

  No weapons. No armor. Only their will.

  The examiner raised his hand. “Begin!”

  Maverick charged immediately, closing the distance in a blur. He swung hard, aiming to end it in a single blow — but Flint slipped aside with uncanny precision. His eyes flashed.

  A beam of white flame burst from his palm.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd. Maverick twisted at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the strike, the heat brushing past his cheek.

  “I underestimated you, kid,” Maverick grunted, his stance shifting lower, more cautious now.

  Flint didn’t answer. His expression stayed calm — almost distant.

  He raised his hand again. Fire bloomed between his fingers, not wild, but controlled. There was no wand, no focus crystal — only sheer will.

  The spectators whispered.

  “Is he casting bare-handed?”

  “No focus, no staff…”

  “That’s high-tier control!”

  Flint’s body trembled with the strain, but his eyes burned bright.

  Maverick’s jaw tightened. “You’re not the only one who can fight.”

  He lunged again. Flint released another blast — this time a fireball that roared through the air like a meteor. Maverick ducked and charged straight through the smoke, landing a solid hit to Flint’s chest.

  The smaller boy flew back, slamming into the arena wall. Dust scattered.

  Reid flinched in his seat. He’s finished…

  But Flint moved. Slowly. Painfully. He stood — blood trailing from his mouth, but defiance in his eyes.

  His hands glowed again, brighter this time — the fire no longer shaping a spell, but something else.

  It curved. Extended. Hardened.

  A sword.

  The crowd erupted.

  “He’s doing Armatria!”

  “Impossible! He’s just a child!”

  Armatria — the art of weapon conjurement. A technique that even intermediate mages struggled to control. For a boy of thirteen to manifest it was nothing short of genius.

  The flaming blade crackled as Flint steadied himself, the heat curling around him like an aura.

  Maverick hesitated. His confidence faltered, but his pride held. He let out a battle cry and charged once more.

  The two collided — flame and muscle. Flint spun, his fiery sword slicing through the air. Maverick barely dodged, retaliating with a strike to Flint’s shoulder. Flint twisted, countered, and sparks scattered like stars.

  Then came a moment that froze the entire arena.

  Maverick lunged forward and caught Flint by the shoulders, forcing him still. For an instant, they locked eyes — Maverick towering over him, a wall of power and rage; Flint glaring back from below, his smaller frame trembling, but his gaze blazing with unbroken fire.

  The crowd went silent.

  Flint’s teeth clenched. With a shout, he turned sharply, unleashing a whirlwind of flames from his sword. The fire roared like a living beast, forcing Maverick to leap backward to avoid being consumed.

  Gasps echoed through the stands.

  The fight raged on — a battle of endurance and will. Each strike grew slower, each dodge heavier, until both boys’ bodies could take no more. Flint’s flaming sword flickered weakly, its light fading.

  Finally, both collapsed, too exhausted to stand.

  The examiner raised his voice above the stunned silence.

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  “The match is over… Draw!”

  The crowd erupted in disbelief. Draws were unheard of in Academy exams.

  Healers rushed to the arena. As they lifted the boys onto stretchers, Maverick turned his head and managed a weak grin. “Good match,” he said.

  Flint smiled faintly back, his lips cracked but proud. “Yes… it was.”

  Reid sat frozen in his seat, heart pounding.

  If this was the level of strength he’d have to face—

  He tightened his grip on the seat’s edge, his pulse drumming with both fear and excitement.

  Because this was only the beginning.

  Reid turned around and caught sight of Maxim.

  The boy was watching him with a faint, amused smile — as if he found Reid’s fear of the powerful opponents entertaining. But Reid saw through it. Beneath that grin, Maxim’s hands were trembling. His shoulders stiff. He was scared, too.

  He was just better at hiding it.

  The next few fights passed one after another, none as brilliant as the one between Flint and Maverick. Some duels felt almost dull in comparison — two boys clashing with plain iron swords, fighting as if they were training for ordinary knighthood schools rather than the prestigious Academy of Aquilonis.

  Only one match stood out.

  A tall boy of fourteen with long dark hair and a refined, confident expression faced a tiny girl who looked no older than twelve. When the examiner signaled the start, the boy drew his sword and dashed forward with terrifying speed — far too fast for someone of his age.

  Before his blade could strike, blue light exploded across the arena.

  The man with the enchanted binoculars appeared in an instant, his body glowing with mana as he intercepted the attack. His voice thundered:

  “The winner is Corbin Monz!”

  A chill spread through the stands. Even Baranor’s eyes narrowed slightly. The fight had ended before it began.

  Aside from that, none of the other matches left an impression. And then — finally — came the one that did.

  The examiner’s voice boomed through the arena.

  “Reid Corvane and Maxim Zodiak! Please step into the arena!”

  Reid’s heart started pounding. This was it — his first real duel. His palms were slick with sweat, his breath shallow. Until now, all his fights had been sparring matches, protected by guardian bubbles or fought in friendly jest.

  This was different. This was real.

  He stepped into the arena, taking the left side as Maxim approached from the right. They bowed to each other — a mark of respect — though Maxim pulled a silly face mid-bow, mocking him.

  Reid ignored it.

  The examiner raised a hand. “The rules are simple: no killing your opponent. No fleeing the arena. Are both sides ready?”

  Reid gripped his Genusrosa, its blades glinting faintly under the afternoon light. Maxim lifted his wand, smirking confidently.

  Both nodded.

  “Begin!”

  Maxim moved first. The air crackled with mana as he leapt back, chanting under his breath. Lightning split the sky, striking down toward Reid.

  Reid rolled aside, the bolt exploding against the stone where he had just stood.

  “Fast…” Reid muttered, eyes narrowing.

  Maxim’s smirk faltered for half a second — then returned. “Not bad.”

  He raised his wand again. “Let’s see you dodge this!”

  A torrent of water burst from the ground, crashing forward like a tidal wave. Reid barely escaped, his boots skidding across the soaked stone. The fight continued like that — spell after spell, Maxim attacking relentlessly, Reid dodging every one.

  But Reid wasn’t countering. Not once.

  Maxim sneered. “What’s wrong? Scared?”

  “I’m just waiting for the right moment,” Reid said.

  But that wasn’t true. He wasn’t waiting — he was lost.

  He’d never faced someone who cast this fast. Lucius always needed long chants, long breaths. Maxim’s speed defied everything Reid thought he knew about magic.

  As he hesitated, a sudden flash of light erupted behind him — a lightning strike from his blind spot. It hit him square in the back.

  Reid’s body jerked, thrown forward by the impact.

  Maxim laughed, triumphant. “Got you!”

  The strike hurt, but it wasn’t fatal. Reid gritted his teeth, forcing himself up — only for a second spell to form.

  A fireball came flying straight at him.

  He didn’t have time to move.

  The explosion rattled the arena, flames and dust filling the air. The crowd gasped. Maxim’s laughter echoed through the smoke.

  “Too easy!” he shouted, grinning like a madman.

  But then the laughter stopped.

  The dust began to clear.

  A shadow stood in the center of the smoke.

  It was Reid — bloodied, burned, and panting, but still standing. His hair was scorched at the edges, and blood trickled from his lip, but his eyes… one of them gleamed gold and fierce. His beast eye flared to life.

  The temperature seemed to drop.

  For a moment, everyone went silent.

  Then Reid moved.

  He sprinted forward, faster than before, Genusrosa in hand. Maxim froze, his smirk shattering into panic.

  From the judges’ stand, the examiner started to raise his hand to stop the match — but Baranor caught his arm, shaking his head.

  “Wait,” he said. “Look closely.”

  The examiner’s eyes widened. Reid wasn’t holding the bladed edge of his weapon — he was striking with the blunt side.

  In that instant, Reid slammed the Genusrosa into Maxim’s stomach. The impact sent Maxim flying backward, his wand scattering across the arena floor.

  He didn’t get back up.

  The crowd erupted.

  Reid stood frozen, chest heaving, the weapon still humming faintly from the strike. He looked up toward the stands. Harven was grinning ear to ear, giving him an exaggerated thumbs-up, pride glowing in his face.

  The examiner stepped forward, raising his voice.

  “The match is over! The winner is Reid Corvane!”

  The cheers thundered through the arena.

  Healers rushed in to carry Maxim away, while the examiner approached Reid. “Good work, Reid. Go to the infirmary to have your injuries checked. You fought well.”

  Reid nodded, breathless but smiling faintly. He couldn’t celebrate yet — not until he had truly earned his place in the Academy.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of ordinary matches. Nothing compared to the fire of the first fights.

  After his treatment, Reid returned to the stands, just in time to hear the examiner’s final announcement.

  “All fights for today are concluded. The next rounds will continue tomorrow. Rest well, candidates.”

  Reid stood, stretching his aching arms, and headed for the exit.

  Before he could reach Harven, a boy with soft blue hair and a calm, gentle expression stepped in front of him.

  “Hello,” he said warmly. “Good job on your win today. I’m Quill Lance.”

  “Reid Corvane,” Reid replied.

  “I know,” Quill said with a smile. “You were amazing. Would you… spar with me tomorrow, after my duels? I could use someone sharp to test myself against.”

  Reid smiled, instantly agreeing. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

  “Thank you,” Quill said, his tone sincere. “I’ll see you soon, Reid.”

  As Quill left, Harven waved from across the hall. His grin was softer now — almost proud in a quiet way.

  “Oh, my little Reid is growing up,” he teased as Reid approached. “Look at you — making friends already.”

  Reid rolled his eyes. “You’ve only known me for a few days, you weird knight.”

  “Hey! I’m not weird,” Harven protested, laughing.

  Their voices faded into the evening air as they walked down the marble steps, the sunset painting the sky in gold.

  For the first time, Reid truly felt it — the path of knighthood wasn’t just a dream anymore.

  It had begun.

  Far away from the laughter and the cheers of the arena, rain fell quietly over a narrow, forgotten road.

  Two figures walked side by side, cloaked in black. Their hoods hid their faces from the cold and from the world.

  The smaller one — a girl — trembled as she walked, her voice breaking through the sound of falling rain.

  “I hate him,” she whispered. “I hate him… I hate him!”

  Her words cracked, raw with anger and tears.

  The taller figure stopped and turned to her, his gloved hand tightening around hers. Slowly, he pulled her closer and let her cry against his chest.

  “Don’t worry, Lexy,” he said softly, his tone calm but heavy — too calm for the storm around them.

  Lightning flashed across the sky, revealing his face beneath the hood — faintly, for only an instant.

  Lucius.

  Alive.

  His expression was colder now, sharper than before. But his eyes — those same eyes that once taught Reid mercy — held something new: purpose.

  “Don’t worry,” he repeated, brushing the rain from her hair. “Everything will be better.”

  Lexy looked up at him, tears mixing with the rain. “How can you say that? He’s still alive.”

  Lucius gave a faint, almost sorrowful smile — the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Then we’ll make the world remember,” he said quietly. “The day mercy was mistaken for weakness.”

  He placed a hand over his heart.

  “And this time, Lexy… we won’t make that mistake.”

  The rain fell harder, drowning their footsteps as they disappeared into the dark.