The next day dawned heavy with tension.
The Academy grounds were silent in the early hours, a stillness hanging in the air as if the world itself awaited what was to come.
Eryon stood alone in one of the empty training courtyards, his sword unsheathed, his hands tightening around the hilt with every breath. His mind replayed Alice's battered form, the cruel smile on Vaen's face, the helpless fury that had burned him from within.
Today would be different.
Today, he would fight not just for himself—but for all those Vaen trampled without a second thought.
He raised his sword, breathing deeply, feeling the weight of it become a natural extension of his being.
Kael and Ryn found him just before the match.
"Ready?" Kael asked, though the answer was obvious.
Eryon gave a short nod.
Ryn studied him carefully. "Don't lose yourself in rage. Use it."
No other words were needed.
Minutes later, Eryon stepped into the arena.
The stands were packed again. More students, more instructors, even more elders watched from high balconies. Ardan Dawnmere sat among them, his arms folded, expression unreadable.
At the far end, Vaen Solarius entered.
He walked with the same supreme arrogance, the same golden hair catching the sun. His blade was sheathed casually across his back, a king descending to mock the ants beneath him.
Vaen's lips curled into a cold smirk.
"You came after all," he said loudly, his voice carrying across the arena.
The crowd murmured.
Vaen tilted his head mockingly. "Tell me, little insect... will you be worth drawing my sword? Or will you crumble like the delicate doll from yesterday?"
Eryon froze.
The words sliced deeper than any blade.
The image of Alice's broken body flashed before his eyes—and the slow, searing rage inside him burned hotter.
Kaelen's hand fell.
"Begin!"
Eryon lunged.
Fueled by fury, he attacked with wild, furious strikes, his sword flashing again and again. But Vaen danced around each blow with lazy ease, sidestepping, dodging, parrying with casual movements of his bare hands.
"Is that it?" Vaen mocked, chuckling. "You're not even entertainment."
Eryon gritted his teeth and swung harder, but Vaen caught the flat of his sword with two fingers, forcing him back with a contemptuous shove.
Laughter rippled through some parts of the crowd.
Vaen advanced, his expression growing colder. "You should have stayed hidden in whatever hole you crawled from. You are weak."
Another strike—deflected easily.
"You are nothing."
Another strike—Vaen stepped aside, making Eryon stumble forward.
"You are no one."
But Vaen failed to notice one thing.
With every insult, with every shove, with every cut to his pride—
The skin along Eryon's arms, his neck, his cheeks—began to take on a faint, reddish hue.
A faint, angry crimson glow began to emanate from deep beneath his flesh, not dark, but radiant.