"What are you trying to do, Benson?"
Charles's brows furrowed as he looked at the boy who barred their path.
But Benson ignored him entirely. His cold gaze was fixed upon Henry.
"What is it—are you only brave enough to hide behind others?"
"And what do you want?"
Henry's eyes narrowed, his voice cool.
"Don't think I don't know," Benson sneered. "The only reason you passed the trial was because you swallowed some rare potion."
His lip curled. "But such things cost dearly. I don't believe the Windsor family can supply you endlessly. Next trial, you'll show your true face again."
"That is none of your concern."
Henry's tone was dismissive. But beside him, Charles's expression grew strange.
For others, the rumor might pass. But Charles knew the truth. Henry had taken no drug at all. The vial of silver-deer blood he had given him had been returned, unopened.
"Do you dare face me in the arena?"
At Henry's composure, at the way he seemed utterly unmoved, Benson felt his pride sting. His voice dropped to an icy growl.
"Henry, don't agree!" Charles burst out.
He had seen Benson's results in the trial: thirty-six instants in speed, fifty-four radons in strength. Not the highest, but clearly above Henry's current measures. To him, the fight seemed unwinnable.
"Again with the arena?"
Henry's gaze hardened.
The arena—a sanctioned method for resolving disputes at Neo Knight Academy. It had been born from the knights' ancient duels of life and death. Though rules forbade killing or crippling, "accidents" were common. The former Henry had died from such an "accident," struck down by Benson in a past duel.
And Henry suspected it had been no accident at all.
Benson smirked, eyes gleaming with challenge.
"What's wrong, too frightened? If you—"
"Very well. The arena it is."
The words cut him off like steel.
Benson blinked in surprise. He had expected resistance, had prepared taunts and goads. Instead, Henry had agreed at once.
"Henry, you—!"
Charles turned, an alarm written on his face.
"Excellent," Benson said quickly, recovering. "Then it's settled. I'll go request the arena now."
He strode off without giving Henry the chance to retract. His confidence brimmed—he could not imagine losing.
"Henry, you're too rash!"
Charles's worry deepened. "His results were stronger than yours. Thirty-six instants, fifty-four radons. He has the advantage."
"Don't worry," Henry said calmly. "His edge in speed and strength is not so great. And a duel is not decided by numbers alone. Do not forget—I have swordsmanship."
Charles paused. He had seen Henry's blade. In these past days, he had even sought his instruction. Henry's swordplay was indeed formidable—transformed utterly since Lady Scarlet Sela's guidance. In swordsmanship alone, Charles doubted even Titus Kirk could stand above him.
"Very well," Charles muttered at last. "Just… don't lose."
"I won't."
Henry's lips curved in a cold smile.
Benson had long been a thorn, always provoking, never relenting. Even if Benson had not stepped forward this day, Henry would have found some way to strike him down. Now his enemy had leapt of his own will into the pit—better still.
"Come quick—the arena's lit, there's a duel!"
"Really? Who's fighting?"
"Some Henry fellow against Benson."
The news rippled swiftly through the grounds. Students, just dismissed from lessons, turned their steps eagerly. Life in the academy was strict, monotonous. A duel promised spectacle, and none wished to miss it.
"Henry? That Henry?"
Titus Kirk, already on his way out, paused. He hesitated briefly, then turned toward the arena as well. Ordinarily, he would not stoop to watch. But Henry's name stirred his curiosity. To have drawn praise for swordsmanship even from Lady Scarlet Sela—he wished to see with his own eyes.
The arena rose before them: a great stone platform, a meter high, paved with slabs, spanning over a thousand square meters. Around it gathered a crowd, faces alight with curiosity, voices loud with anticipation.
"Start already!"
"Hurry it up!"
Such fights were rare release, and the students relished the excitement.
"There—your opponent."
"Yes, Lord Wallace."
Benson, though one of the duelists, stood like a lackey beside a young man of haughty bearing.
The youth wore the academy's knight's garb—but his was not the same as theirs. The leather was finer, polished to a sheen, its cut more refined. A private commission, costly and exquisite, affording both greater protection and comfort. Only a handful in the academy possessed such suits, and all of them hailed from the highest nobility.
This youth was no exception. He was Wallace of House Lund, known as the "Millennial Earl." A family whose bloodline had endured a thousand years, its foundations deeper than most noble lines could dream.
"Do as you like," Wallace said lazily, glancing at Henry with scorn. "Whatever happens after, I will see to it."
At those words, Benson's face lit with savage delight.
"My thanks, Lord Wallace."
He lifted his gaze to Henry once more, and in his eyes burned bloodlust.
Rules forbade death and crippling blows—but rules bent easily in practice. "Accidents" were ever possible, and judgment in such cases often turned upon influence.
"Henry, perhaps you should reconsider," Charles whispered.
He had seen the exchange with Wallace. He did not know the words spoken, but every instinct told him it boded ill.
"Let them conspire as they will," Henry replied, voice hard. "If I win, their schemes are nothing."
He had seen as well. Yet he felt no fear. With so many students watching, fairness must at least be shown in form. And in a true contest, he had no doubt—he would prevail.
"Titus, you came too?"
As Titus Kirk approached the arena, students greeted him with deference, eager to curry favor.
"I am curious about this Henry," Titus said, voice cool.
The sycophants did not falter, eager to please.
"Ah, no wonder. Surely it is because of Lady Scarlet's interest. That Henry may have received her guidance, but I fear today will end badly for him. He may even suffer for it."
"What do you mean?" Titus asked, frowning slightly.
They leaned close, eager to share. "Benson's opponent is Henry, yes—but did you see? He stands with Wallace. If Wallace has involved himself, then surely… some trickery lies ahead."
"Trickery?"
Titus's brows lifted, but he said no more. He had heard such rumors before—that duels might be tampered with. Yet he had never witnessed it. Perhaps today he would