The announcer's voice, once booming with excitement, now came out thin and uncertain—echoing across the stunned arena like a whisper that didn't belong.
"I-It's confirmed. Edward Brightwill is unable to continue the match."
A thick, heavy pause followed, unrelenting. It was the kind of silence that dragged its weight across every chest.
"According to tournament rules… the winner of this round is Leon Ashborn."
But no one reacted.
No cheers. No boos. Not even a murmur.
Just silence.
A full minute of stunned, breathless stillness, as if the crowd itself was trying to comprehend the savage spectacle it had just witnessed.
And then—
A single clap.
Soft. Hesitant. It echoed louder than it should have.
Then another. And another.
Applause slowly rippled through the stands, cautious at first, then growing. It wasn't the roar of victory, nor the wild celebration of a triumph—but something more raw. Something almost reverent. No one had expected a match like this. No one had expected that outcome.
Within the growing sound of clapping and murmurs, a team of medics and healers rushed into the ring. White tunics quickly soaked in red as they knelt beside the two collapsed fighters—one broken, the other unconscious.
Leon was in bad shape.
But Edward—Edward was worse.
Unmoving. Pale. Blood still trickling from the wound at his side.
The medics wasted no time. Healing spells flickered, hands pressed into wounds. A stretcher was called.
They carefully lifted Edward's limp form, beginning the delicate task of stabilizing him for transport to the academy's hospital.
Leon watched the scene unfold in a daze, still kneeling, eyes locked on Edward's body as if trying to process something invisible, something beyond comprehension.
He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. He just stared.
"Can you stand?" a voice gently pierced the haze.
Leon blinked. Slowly, he looked up. A male medic stood over him, concern etched into his face.
"Huh? Yeah… I can try," Leon muttered hoarsely. He shifted—but the pain screamed through him.
"I think…" He winced, managing a tired, crooked smile. "I might need a bit of help."
The medic nodded.
Two medics came to his sides, carefully lifting him. Leon leaned into their support, limping off the bloodstained ring.
"Leon!" A sweet voice, laced with frantic worry, cut through the noise.
He turned, groggy, aching—and saw his friends rushing toward him. Selene reached him first, her voice tight. "Leon—are you alright? How badly are you injured?" Her eyes scanned him, anxious, flicking from wound to wound.
He gave her a weak, half-smile. "I'll be fine. Just a check-up or two, I think…"
"You think I'm a fool?" Her voice trembled, sharp but cracking beneath the weight.
"Don't give me that hero act, Leon. Not when you're like this…"
She looked away for a second, then back.
"Was it really worth it? Letting it go this far? Hurting yourself just to prove a point?"
Leon lowered his gaze. "…I'm not sure how to answer that."
"You're really frustrating, Leon," she muttered, scolding him, quiet but relentless.
For once, he didn't fight back. He let her words wash over him like cold rain. She was right. He had gone too far. And now, he stood, beaten, bleeding, and scolded—while Edward lay unconscious on a stretcher, mere meters away.
Leon let out a tired, rattling breath. His friends hovered nearby, concerned yet silent, unsure whether to be proud or worried. All eyes had turned toward the next phase of the tournament, but Leon's gaze lingered. He looked at Edward one last time as they carried him away—his bloodied figure still and silent.
There was uncertainty in Leon's eyes. Not just about the duel. But about everything that had led to this.
What had he just fought?
And what had he truly won?
---
Faculty Divisions.
Inside the faculty stand where instructors monitored the duels, a different quiet had settled. The preparations for the fourth round were underway, but the lingering weight of the previous match remained, a thick tension in the air.
Instructor Crimson's deep, dark gaze was locked on Ring 22 as the medics carried the two students away.
"You've got quite the students, Professor Crimson."
He turned slightly to his side. Standing there was a gorgeous beauty with flowing purple hair and striking amethyst eyes. Her presence was commanding, her voluptuous form drawing gazes regardless of gender.
She was Vanessa Rossi, the instructor of Class A, and the youngest Awakened to ever reach S-rank in Lumina history.
"I could say the exact same for your student as well, Professor Rossi," Crimson said, his voice a low rumble.
"Well, I kind of expected that answer. But you know, Professor..." she gave a soft chuckle, a playful glint in her amethyst eyes. "I've always been a little envious of your class."
"Why so? Doesn't Class A have the most talented students of all time?" Crimson replied, a hint of challenge in his tone.
"Kuku, you're right about that," she conceded with a dismissive wave. "But that's not why I'm envious. You see, talent means nothing without ambition. Even the most gifted genius is just a lazy, arrogant fool if they lack drive—someone who thinks they're above the rest."
"So, you're saying your students lack ambition?"
"Hmm, not entirely correct… but not entirely wrong either," she replied with a half-smile. "What I can say is—your class has something rare. That drive. That hunger to stand on equal footing, no matter the odds."
Her gaze lingered on the arena for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face.
"You have Yelena—easily the most talented and ambitious student of the entire year. And now..." she trailed off, her voice thoughtful, "It seems there's one more name to add to that list."
Crimson's gaze remained fixed on the arena, which was beginning to fill again for the next round, the hum of anticipation slowly rising.
"I don't completely agree with you, Professor Rossi," he said, his voice calm but firm, a stark contrast to her playful air. "For me, discipline comes before anything else."
He paused briefly, watching as students shuffled into new vantage points with growing energy.
"This academy was built not to forge tyrants, but to shape protectors. We don't train students to revel in strength—we train them to wield it with purpose. With clarity. With restraint."
His tone sharpened, not out of anger, but deep conviction.
"And I expect my students to follow that same path. I don't train savages—never have, never will. I make sure each one of them understands exactly what we
fight for… and how we fight for it."
A silence settled between the two professors, thicker now, imbued with their opposing philosophies. No more words were exchanged. Both turned their gaze to the arena as the next round began.
The crowd's focus shifted again—this time to Ring 43, where two powerful forces were about to collide: Rank 1, Yelena Valeblanc, and Rank 2, Selene Mooncrest.
Yet, despite the formidable names, the atmosphere was subdued. The raw, visceral aftermath of the previous duel still lingered in the air like smoke after a storm, a grim residue.
Would this match match the last? Or perhaps… surpass it?
Expectations had climbed beyond reason, and now all eyes watched with bated breath, wondering if this duel would reach those same brutal heights.
And then—the chime rang.
The duel began.
A sharp rapier met a fierce spear, slicing through the air as steel clashed against steel.
New fight.
New tale.
New opponents.
The duels never stopped.
The standards never dropped.
Not here.
---
The glorifying afternoon, once radiant with the clash of steel and roaring cheers, had slowly faded. Its brilliance gave way to the soft, golden hues of evening. The violent rhythm of weapons had quieted, replaced now by gentler sounds—the sweet twitters of birds and the hurried flutter of wings as they returned to their nests, eager to feed their young. A different melody filled the air now. One not of battle… but of closure.
Just beyond the arena grounds, nestled within the academy's sprawling campus, stood a grand hospital—vast enough to hold thousands, yet quiet in its solemn duty. Inside one of its many wards, tucked away in a corner bathed in soft evening light, lay a boy.
He rested on a hospital bed, his body wrapped in clean bandages, wounds already treated with care. Though still asleep, his breathing was steady… calm. There was no pain on his face—only the quiet expression of peace.
Slide. A soft sliding sound broke the quiet. The door eased open, its motion gentle, yet the stillness of the ward made even that seem loud. Click. Click. The distinct sound of boots echoed with each step, steady yet faintly uneven.
Bathed in the warm hue of the evening, a figure approached—a mesmerizing beauty, her presence like a whisper in twilight. Long hair, black as midnight, framed a face pale and unreadable. Her ruby-red eyes shimmered with a quiet fire, catching the last light of day.
But her steps… They held a slight falter. A subtle limp. A quiet testament to the injury in her right leg—one she hadn't let stop her from coming here.
She stepped closer to the bed, each movement careful, quiet. With a tender hand, she reached out and brushed a few strands of brown hair away from his face. Her fingers lingered for a moment, as if to memorize the warmth of his skin.
"…How've you been, Ed?" Yelena's voice was barely above a whisper, soft and uncertain, but steady. Her gaze never wavered from his face.
"You know," she said after a short breath, "your little spar ended up costing us a lot."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Because of you… the bar's been set way too high. Everyone expects the rest of us to deliver that same level of spectacle."
She paused again, her fingers still lightly resting at his temple. "Everyone's chasing that match now. The tension… it hasn't gone away."
"Our class ended up winning somehow." She gave a quiet, amused huff, the corner of her lips twitching into a smirk. "Well, I suppose that was expected—I was leading, after all."
A soft chuckle escaped her, but it faded just as quickly.
"You know, Ed… Leon was scheduled for five matches." She tilted her head slightly, watching his sleeping face. "But thanks to you and that little stunt of yours… he couldn't continue. They had to swap him out after the match."
She didn't sound upset. Just… thoughtful. Maybe even a little impressed.
"But honestly… was that really necessary?" She sighed, her fingers pausing in his hair, a faint tremor in her touch. "You could've let it go. Lost that match. Maybe just… won the next one."
A bitter chuckle left her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. The sound was edged with a frustration only deep affection could produce.
"But no. You and your stubbornness." Her gaze softened, though the edge in her voice lingered, a complex mix of fondness and exasperation.
"I've known you long enough to see the signs, Ed. But even now… I still don't fully understand you."
She looked down at him—so still, so quiet—and whispered, the confession a private plea.
"You disappear. Reappear. Go cold. Change. Disappoint. And then… suddenly, you surprise me again." A pause, quiet and long, filled with unspoken history.
"You're always just beyond my understanding, Ed. Always.
So close I could reach out… and yet somehow, I've never felt further from you."
Yelena held his gaze for a long moment, then slowly withdrew her hand, the warmth of his skin a lingering echo on her fingertips. With one last, wistful glance at his peaceful, sleeping face, she turned.
The soft click of the door closing behind her was the only sound, leaving Edward to the quiet of the fading light and his healing sleep.