The courtyard of the academy thrummed with restless energy. Students gathered in a wide circle, their chatter weaving into a chaotic hum. The centre had been cleared, marked by chalk lines where countless duels had been fought before. Today, Reinhardt would stand there again.
The announcer—a senior student wrapped in the academy's silver cloak—raised his hand.
"Next match: Reinhardt versus Callen Drevarn."
The name rippled across the crowd like a spark to dry leaves. Callen, the arrogant duelist who once humiliated Reinhardt in the past timeline. His smirk was already in place, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his training blade.
Reinhardt stepped forward slowly, each footfall steady. His heart wasn't racing—it was measured, calm, almost unnervingly so. Yet behind his calm exterior, the memory of this same duel surfaced.
A crowd laughing.
His blade knocked away.
Blood on his lip.
Failure stamped into his name.
Not this time.
Callen tilted his head, mocking. "I didn't expect them to pit me against you so early, Reinhardt. Shall we finish this quickly? I wouldn't want you embarrassing yourself more than usual."
The audience chuckled.
Reinhardt only tightened his grip on the wooden sword he'd been given. He didn't reply. Words were useless when the past had already screamed louder than any insult.
The referee raised a hand. "Begin."
Callen lunged first, blade flashing toward Reinhardt's chest with sharp precision. In his last life, that strike had ended the match immediately. But now—Reinhardt stepped aside smoothly, his body moving with the weight of foresight. The wooden blade whistled past, striking only air.
Gasps erupted from the crowd.
Reinhardt countered with a controlled swing, forcing Callen to stumble back a step. The duel reset, but the shift in momentum was undeniable.
Callen sneered. "So you've improved a little."
Improved? Reinhardt almost laughed. No—he had lived, suffered, and died. What Callen saw as "improvement" was simply experience layered upon scars.
The fight pressed on. Blow for blow, Callen grew more frustrated as Reinhardt's movements became sharper, less hesitant. He wasn't flashy—he didn't need to be. Every block, every counter was deliberate, calculated, like a man who already knew the outcome of each choice.
But Reinhardt also understood the danger of arrogance. If he humiliated Callen too much, it would paint a target on his back too early. No—this victory had to be precise, subtle, but undeniable.
Callen thrust again, overextending. Reinhardt's body moved before thought caught up. His blade struck Callen's wrist, disarming him cleanly. The wooden sword clattered against the stone courtyard.
Silence.
The referee blinked, stunned, then raised his voice.
"Winner—Reinhardt!"
For a heartbeat, no one cheered. They just stared.
Reinhardt lowered his sword, his gaze steady on Callen, who stood frozen in disbelief. The boy who once crushed him now looked small, trembling beneath the weight of a defeat he never thought possible.
Reinhardt turned away without a word. He didn't need validation. He didn't need applause. This was not about them—it was about him refusing to let the same chains bind him again.
Yet, as he stepped off the dueling platform, he caught sight of faces in the crowd. Elira's sharp eyes narrowing in curiosity. Alden's cautious smile. Professor Calvus, watching with unreadable expression.
Whispers rose.
"He beat Callen?"
"Reinhardt? That failure?"
"How…?"
Reinhardt exhaled softly. The battlefield had shifted, but this was only the first step.
He muttered under his breath, unheard by all but himself:
"Finally… I have changed the storyline."