The courtyard behind the main tower was buzzing with noise.
Students lounged on marble benches, clustered beneath shade-giving trees or around the practice dummies in the training circle. The air was filled with chatter, laughter, and bursts of mana flickering from casual spell practice.
Noel had just stepped out from the main hallway when he heard his name.
Loud.
Too loud to be coincidence.
"—so it's true, then? They actually let that guy into Class A?"
A few heads turned. A small group of students had gathered near the center path, their eyes locked on a tall boy standing with arms folded, voice sharp and smug.
Callen Draive.
Son of House Draive—a lesser noble house with a big ego. Black uniform worn a little too perfectly. Sword on his hip. Blond hair slicked back. And a smile that begged to be punched.
"I mean, everyone knows House Thorne fell off," Callen continued, loud enough to carry. "But putting someone like him here? What did you do, Thorne? Beg? Buy someone off?"
Noel didn't even break stride.
He walked right past the group, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed ahead.
That only made Callen laugh louder.
"Look at that! No spine either! Typical."
Noel stopped.
Turned.
Tilted his head slightly.
"Do I… know you?"
The smirk on Callen's face twitched.
"I'm not surprised you don't remember," he spat. "You were always beneath notice."
Noel blinked once.
Then smiled—calmly. Almost lazily.
"Then why are you so desperate for mine now?"
A few students chuckled.
Callen's face darkened.
"I challenge you to a duel."
The crowd stirred.
Noel raised an eyebrow.
Before he could reply, Marcus stepped forward from behind the crowd.
"Whoa, whoa—Callen, really?" he said. "Come on. Don't do this."
Callen scoffed. "Back off, commoner. This isn't your stage."
Noel raised a hand, palm open, eyes still locked on Callen.
"It's fine," he said to Marcus.
Then he turned to the challenger.
"I accept."
And smiled, just a little.
'Let's give them a show.'
They made their way to the official dueling arena—a circular platform set into the stone floor of the southern courtyard. It was lined with glowing wards and etched runes, designed to contain both magic and momentum.
Students followed in droves.
Whispers spread faster than footsteps.
"Isn't that Noel Thorne?"
"The one they say bought his way into Class A?"
"I heard he couldn't even use proper spells…"
Noel ignored them all.
He walked at an even pace, wooden training sword slung loosely under one arm. His expression didn't shift, not even as Callen strutted ahead like he was already victorious.
The crowd lined the outer ring.
At the far end of the platform stood Professor Daemar, arms folded, violet eyes watching both boys like a falcon watching prey.
"No casting unless I say otherwise," Daemar said, his voice carrying without needing to shout. "Standard format. First disarm or direct surrender ends the match."
Callen saluted with an overdramatic flourish of his wooden blade.
Noel just gave a slight nod and stepped into the ring.
Callen sneered. "You always were slow to respond. Fitting."
Noel yawned—genuinely.
"I'm sorry, are you still talking?"
The crowd reacted—some gasped, some laughed.
Callen's grip on his sword tightened.
'Good,' Noel thought. 'Keep getting mad. Makes you sloppy.'
Daemar raised one hand, his tone flat.
"Begin."
Callen moved first.
He lunged, fast and aggressive, his wooden sword cutting through the air with practiced precision.
Noel didn't even parry.
He stepped aside.
The blade missed by inches.
The crowd roared—at first, thinking Noel had flinched. But as Callen spun to recover, Noel was already repositioning, calm, unreadable.
Callen snarled and came again—faster, this time with a feint and upward slash.
Noel leaned back.
The blade passed just in front of his face.
Then again—Callen launched into a combination of strikes: diagonal, side, overhead.
All missed.
Not because Noel was backing away. He wasn't.
He simply wasn't there when the blade arrived.
He moved with minimal effort. Just enough. Efficient. Calculated.
From the sidelines, cheers rang out.
"He's cornering him!"
"Come on, Callen!"
They didn't see it.
But Callen did.
He was sweating now.
Breathing faster.
Noel hadn't swung once.
Not once.
And yet—he hadn't been touched.
"You—" Callen spat. "Stand still!"
Noel smiled slightly.
"Why? You're doing such a great job hitting the air."
Callen's next strike came with fury, not form.
A wide horizontal slash meant to knock Noel off balance.
This time, Noel stepped in, not away.
He twisted his body, letting the blow glance harmlessly off his shoulder, and with a flick of his wrist—
Crack.
His wooden blade slammed into Callen's sword at the perfect angle.
The weapon flew from Callen's hand, clattering across the arena floor.
Gasps echoed around the platform.
Noel took one step forward.
Raised his sword.
And pointed it directly at Callen's face.
"The duel is over."
Silence.
The crowd, the professor, even Callen—still.
The match had been clean.
Precise.
And completely one-sided.
Callen stood frozen.
Chest heaving. Face flushed. Fingers twitching as if still trying to grip the sword that now lay several feet away.
Noel didn't move.
His wooden blade hovered just inches from Callen's forehead.
His stance was perfect.
Relaxed shoulders. Balanced footing. Unshaken grip.
He could hold it like that all day.
'Kendo classes were for something after all.'
He lowered the sword.
Turned.
Started walking off the platform.
But Callen wasn't done.
"No—NO! I'm not finished!"
The shout came with a surge of mana—hot, uncontrolled, furious.
Noel spun just as Callen raised his hand, arcane symbols flickering into life along his arm. Fire coiled at his fingertips, twisting into a dangerous, unstable conjuration spell.
The crowd shouted in warning.
But before Callen could cast—
A sharp crack echoed through the arena.
The fire vanished in an instant, ripped from his core by a wave of nullifying magic.
Standing beside him—Professor Daemar.
One hand gripped Callen's shoulder.
The other hovered just behind his neck, mana humming in a dense violet coil.
"That's enough." His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
"You used magic without permission. In violation of rule two, line four, subsection three."
Callen opened his mouth.
"Save it," Daemar snapped.
With a flick of his wrist, a mana seal clamped around Callen's wrist like a glowing cuff.
"You're done for the day. If I see you attempt one more spell, your spot in Class A is gone."
Callen's face twisted in frustration, but he said nothing else.
He was escorted from the platform under silence.
Noel watched it all with the same expression he'd worn since the start.
None.
Up above, on one of the upper walkways that overlooked the dueling arena, Lady Elyra von Estermont stood with her arms crossed, gaze fixed on the platform below.
She hadn't cheered.
Hadn't moved.
Hadn't spoken a word.
But she had seen everything.
From the moment Noel stepped into the ring, she watched the way he moved—disengaged but deliberate, casual but controlled.
He never showed off.
Never played to the crowd.
But every action had intent.
And when he disarmed Callen?
Effortless.
'No wasted motion. No hesitation. And no need for applause.'
Her gray eyes narrowed slightly.
'So that's the "useless noble."'
She tilted her head, braid falling over one shoulder.
'Interesting.'
Then, without a word, she turned and walked away.
Noel never even saw her.
The crowd had begun to disperse.
Some students whispered. Others laughed. A few cast lingering glances Noel's way—half curious, half confused. He ignored them all, calmly stepping off the platform and retrieving his coat from a bench nearby.
He didn't expect anyone to speak to him.
So when a hand clapped him on the shoulder, he tensed—just slightly.
"Dude," Roberto said with a grin, "that was art."
Noel blinked.
"Art?"
"Yeah! You made him dance like a headless chicken for five minutes. That was better than class."
Noel shrugged. "I was just… stretching."
Behind them, Marcus approached. He looked more serious—but not cold.
"Thanks for not letting me get dragged into that," he said.
Noel glanced at him. "Didn't seem fair to ruin your reputation with a duel."
Marcus chuckled. "You've got a sharp tongue. And a sharper sword."
Noel didn't answer. Not right away.
He wasn't used to this—praise that didn't come with expectation or condescension.
But the air around them was light. Genuine.
Roberto bumped his elbow. "You always that chill, or was that just for effect?"
Noel gave a faint, almost reluctant smile.
"I get bored easily."
The three walked back toward the main building.
Noel still felt a little out of place in their presence—like a ghost at someone else's party.
But he didn't walk away.
And that, maybe, was a start.