Chapter 182
Competition
The arena fell silent as the next pair was called. From opposite sides of the stage stepped Tomas, a lanky boy with a wooden baton in hand, and Mira, a girl with a short wooden sword. Neither had been mentioned before—no one in the crowd knew much about them, and their classmates cheered half-heartedly, unsure what to expect.
Hobbie raised his arm and shouted, "Ready? In three… two… one—Go!"
Tomas made the first move, charging forward with a wild swing of his baton. Mira ducked low, rolling to the side and slashing upward at his legs. He jumped back just in time, narrowly avoiding the blade, and spun on his heel to bring the baton around in a wide arc, aiming for her shoulder.
Mira parried with her sword, the wood thudding against his baton with a sharp clack.
The two circled each other, bouncing lightly on their feet. Tomas's reach was longer, but Mira's agility was remarkable. She darted forward, thrusting at his midsection, only for him to sidestep and counter with a sweeping leg sweep. Mira leapt over it, landing behind him, spinning to deliver a reverse strike.
He barely blocked it, and the momentum of the clash made them stumble back a few paces. Both were breathing harder now, their movements slightly less precise, but their focus never wavered.
"Keep your distance! Watch his swings!" a classmate shouted.
Tomas grinned through the strain. "You think you can outrun me?" he yelled, charging again. This time, he faked a high strike, then swung low. Mira anticipated it, ducking and rolling forward, coming up directly beneath him. She thrust upward, grazing his ribs.
He staggered, letting out a small grunt, but recovered immediately. The crowd murmured. No one had expected such an even fight from two random students.
Minutes passed, the match becoming a blur of quick strikes, dodges, spins, and blocks. Mira managed to knock Tomas's baton aside twice, but each time he recovered instantly. Sweat dripped down both of their faces, wooden weapons smacking against each other with growing intensity.
Finally, Mira feinted a strike to the left, drawing Tomas's guard, then spun on her heel and swept low, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, his baton clattering to the ground, and before he could recover, Mira's sword was pointed at his chest.
"Yield!" she shouted.
Tomas raised his hands, breathing heavily. "Okay! Okay, I yield!"
Hobbie jumped in, raising his arms. "Winner! Mira of the red class!"
Each class had been assigned a color for identification—blue for Kevin's class and red for Hobbie's.
The crowd erupted in cheers, and Tomas gave a tired but respectful nod to Mira before retreating. She smiled, waving slightly to her classmates.
As the platform reset for the next pair, the audience buzzed with excitement. This match had been unexpectedly thrilling, a reminder that even random students could produce unpredictable, entertaining duels.
However, there was one person who was far from entertained—IAM. He could only sit and watch as match after match unfolded.
By the seventh match, the scoreboard was not in their favor. Blue—IAM's class—was trailing badly, four to two against Hobbie's red class, with one match having ended in a draw. The results didn't bother IAM in the same way they did others; his mind was elsewhere, weighed down by the precarious situation he was in. The pressure of potentially being called up next was mounting with every passing second.
"Oh, for Knight's sake! How can our classmates be so useless? Getting wiped like that!" Reuel's face flushed red with frustration. "At this rate, I might as well volunteer to go next!"
"Calm down," Henry said, his tone laced with annoyance. "It's not that big of a deal. Just focus on our own match when it comes."
IAM continued to watch the duels. His mind was racing, weighing his limited options, calculating how he might navigate the looming challenge without revealing the truth of his new level. Every match that ended was another reminder that time was slipping by, and the spotlight on him was inevitable.
The next two students stepped onto the combat platform, weapons in hand. One wielded a wooden club, the other a staff, and both tensed, eyes locked on each other as the translucent shield hummed around the edges of the stage.
Kevin's voice rang out. "Ready? In three… two… one—Go!"
Immediately, the student with the club swung a wide arc toward their opponent. The one with the staff leapt back, narrowly avoiding the blow, and jabbed forward with a quick strike. The club met the staff with a loud thunk, the force vibrating through both arms.
After a series of strikes and blocks, they both paused mid-step, chests heaving, arms trembling slightly from exertion. For a moment, neither advanced; instead, they simply watched each other, waiting for the next move.
A sudden feint from the club-wielder forced a quick sidestep, and a low sweep from the staff-wielder narrowly missed the club, grazing the edge of the platform. Both had sweat beginning to bead on their foreheads.
The crowd murmured with excitement as attacks and counters flew faster and more aggressively. The staff twirled overhead, aiming for a shoulder, while the club swung horizontally in a desperate attempt to catch the staff-wielder off guard. Wooden weapons collided repeatedly, sending reverberations through the platform.
The match dragged on, a tense stalemate where neither gained the upper hand, yet neither conceded. It was a dance leaving the audience on edge as the fight continued without resolution.
By the seventeenth match, IAM finally heard a name that made him tense—but to his relief, it wasn't his.
It was Henry.
He stood without hesitation, nodding slightly to show he was ready. But just as he began walking toward the stage, he paused. His brow furrowed, and his head tilted ever so slightly.
He was blinking in surprise as the name of his opponent echoed through the arena.
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Students glanced at one another, whispering in excitement. The atmosphere shifted almost immediately—this match wasn't going to be just another spar.
The students from both classes looked at each other, unsure if they'd heard correctly.
IAM's brows furrowed. He glanced at Henry's face, then at the instructors—then at the opposite end of the stage.
There was no way this was random.
IAM gave Henry a subtle nod of encouragement from his seat.
Reuel stood and clapped Henry firmly on the back. "Bring home the win, brother. And—wait, wait—give me a hug."
Henry shoved him off with a grunt and shook his head, With a groan, Reuel collapsed back in his seat.
Henry shook his head and walked toward the stage with his weapon already in hand—a wooden sword modeled after a jian. He held it lightly, his body language was calm but focused.
Across the platform, his opponent stepped up.
IAM's eyes followed him.
"Long time no see." They smiled.
There's no way, he thought. This couldn't be a coincidence.
He had thought so because Henry's opponent was someone he'd already fought before—right here, in this exact arena.
It was Marcus.
The same student Henry had faced during orientation. The same one he had barely beaten. The same one who had carried off the stage muttering under his breath, already planning a comeback.
Apparently, he'd meant it.
This wasn't just another match. This was a rematch—and it had come at the perfect time.
Too perfect, really.
IAM narrowed his eyes. There was no way this wasn't planned... right?
Henry stood across from Marcus, saying nothing, only tightening his grip slightly on the sword. There wasn't a trace of nervousness on his face.
Looked like they were getting a round two, whether they wanted it or not.