"Why aren't you using a gun?"
Morin lifted Hunter's Murasame and gave it a light flick. The blade let out a sharp, rapid hum.
"Guns are useless against you," Lancelot muttered, shifting the Weight of the World in his grip. "...Boss."
"That 'Boss' sounded reluctant." Morin smiled. "I'll give you a chance. Beat me, and you can be the boss instead."
Lancelot didn't answer.
The golden light in his eyes intensified.
Then, absolute stillness.
The next instant, he lunged.
It was hard to imagine how such a lean body could unleash that much power. The Weight of the World screamed as it tore through the air, like an emperor delivering judgment-inevitable and absolute.
Golden veins lit up across the black blade.
As the heir of the Gattuso family, Caesar wouldn't wield ordinary steel. The Weight of the World was an alchemical weapon. The glow meant its internal matrix had activated.
In Lancelot's hands, it was alive.
Its enchantment: [Armor Piercing].
The strike came down like a dragon diving from the sky-black and gold intertwined, unstoppable.
Morin raised Murasame with one hand.
Light. Casual.
It was hard to believe that slender blade could stop something like this. It felt more likely it would shatter on contact.
Then-
Murasame vanished.
Just as Hunter had once demonstrated, the speed of the blade created a visual illusion. Lancelot was using the same [Sunder] technique as Caesar.
Morin answered with the same [Intercept] Hunter had used.
Sparks erupted.
They burst against the thick spine of the Weight of the World-dozens of impacts in a fraction of a second. In that infinitesimal moment, Lancelot's high-speed strike looked frozen.
Compared to Murasame, it was slow.
The sparks died out.
The Weight of the World stopped in midair.
So did Lancelot's arm.
When Murasame reappeared, its spine was resting precisely against the ulnar nerve at Lancelot's wrist.
The shock forced his hand open.
The sword fell.
Silence followed.
"Are you... an A-rank?" Lancelot stared at the red mark on his wrist, flexing his fingers. The numbness hadn't faded. He didn't reach for his weapon.
He understood.
If the Weight of the World was a dragon, then Murasame was a scalpel.
A clean dissection.
Total suppression of speed and technique.
No room for hope.
"Pre-selected A-rank," Morin replied calmly, setting Murasame back beside Hunter. "What I really am waits for the 3E exam."
"Your Talent isn't Mental Mapping," Lancelot said, shaking out his arm. "Is it... [Time Zero]?"
"Maybe," Morin shrugged. "Who knows."
Then he asked, "And you are?"
"I'm Lancelot, Boss."
This time, the title came naturally.
The next instant, Lancelot launched himself forward.
His body shot ahead like an arrow. As he closed in, he twisted and drove a right uppercut from low to high. His entire frame burned with golden, flame-like aura.
His rising fist looked like a dragon taking flight.
Dragon Uppercut.
It never landed.
At the final moment-just before his Momentum could fully form-a palm pressed down on his fist.
An overwhelming force descended.
Like a mountain.
The rising dragon was crushed in place.
Another [Intercept].
Lancelot stared up at Morin, dazed.
"Too weak," Morin said seriously. "You need more training."
"...Mental Mapping, my ass," Lancelot muttered.
The gold in his eyes faded.
Then he collapsed.
The consciousness controlling him retreated, taking that surge of power with it. That last punch had been everything he had left. After cutting through so many members of the Student Union and Lionheart Society-after Caesar and Hunter-this duel was his final reserve.
Even at full strength, the result wouldn't have changed.
The foundation wasn't there.
Dragon Blood couldn't create strength from nothing.
Morin was right.
He needed to train.
The campus finally fell quiet.
Sunlight filtered through drifting smoke, painting everything gold. If one ignored the scattered "corpses" and the lingering smell of gunpowder, it almost looked poetic.
A march suddenly blared.
From a building marked with a red cross, doctors and nurses poured out. White coats. Branded kits.
They moved through the field, injecting one body after another.
In moments, the battlefield turned lively.
Students woke up.
Broken bones were set. Bruises were treated. Enemies from moments ago sat together, chatting.
"Your aim's better."
"Who shot my ass?"
"Who sniped me?"
Laughter spread.
Then attention shifted.
Who won?
A rumor spread fast.
Lancelot had gone berserk.
He'd hit both factions.
People searched for the one who tried to take everything.
They found Hunter and Caesar lying face to face, close enough to kiss if they moved an inch. Nearby was the long-sought Lancelot-still unconscious.
And crouched beside them-
Morin.
Casual clothes. Camera in hand.
Not a drop of blood on him.
Recognition spread instantly.
Wasn't he the A-rank who enrolled alongside the S-rank?
Had he stayed to the end?
Lionheart members smiled.
The Student Union fell silent.
The result was obvious.
"Nonsense! Absolute nonsense!"
A short, balding old man with round wire-rim glasses stormed over, staring at the damaged buildings. He glared at Morin.
"Are you a freshman?"
"Yes, Professor," Morin replied, pocketing his camera.
"I'm Professor Manstein of the Disciplinary Committee!" he barked. "Why are freshmen participating? Why aren't you studying? These pointless, expensive games-don't you know this costs money?"
"I'll pay for it," someone said.
"Doesn't the school cover Day of Liberty expenses?" another added.
Hunter and Caesar had woken up.
They leaned against the steps, hands resting on Murasame and the Weight of the World in the same posture. It looked like a rematch could start at any second.
"Only if you follow the rules!" Manstein snapped. "You violated special regulations! I'll report this to the Principal and have the event canceled!"
"The rules are simple," Caesar said flatly. "No Ice Cellar weapons. No casualties. No outsiders."
"Frigg bullets aren't Ice Cellar equipment," Hunter continued. "They're standard alchemical supplies we provided. No outsiders were present."
"As for injuries," Morin added, "they tripped."
"...A few more people than usual," Hunter said.
Manstein fumbled for his phone. "Enough excuses. I'm calling the Principal."
He hit speakerphone.
"Hello, Manstein."
The voice was refined. European. Calm.
Manstein ranted-property damage, Frigg bullets, disregard for authority.
"Ah," the Principal replied, unhurried. "The pride of youth. Our elite students should be like this. You should be used to it."
"But the losses-"
"Charge it to the Board of Trustees," the Principal laughed. "Day of Liberty is something they win from us every year. We won't break our word."
Cheers erupted.
"One more thing," the Principal said. "Is the A-rank freshman Morin there?"
"I am," Morin answered.
"Excellent. Perfect strategy. Overwhelming strength. An A-rank defeating a promising S-rank to claim victory."
He sounded pleased.
"When I return, come have tea with me."
He paused.
"You and Lancelot are close, yes?"
"Very," Morin replied, thinking of the pile of photos he'd taken. "Extremely close."
"Good. Both of you come to my office. Puer? Dragon Well? Or my private coffee reserve."
"Oh-and don't forget to enroll in my Introduction to Draconic Genealogy course."
"Tell Lancelot to sign up when he wakes."
"Understood."
The call ended.
All eyes turned to Morin-and the unconscious Lancelot.
Admiration for one.
Confusion for the other.
Doctors were baffled.
Everyone else had woken.
Lancelot hadn't.
"He wasn't shot," Morin said, stopping a third injection. "He passed out from exhaustion."
"How did you go down?" Caesar asked Hunter.
"He hit me," Hunter replied.
"...So he really was trying to take everyone out?" Caesar frowned. "Then why hit his own side first?"
Night covered the world outside.
Inside the ship, lights burned bright.
"That wasn't something an ordinary student could do," the middle-aged man said.
"That's why he's an A-rank," the Principal replied.
"I don't believe that," Mance said. "He dropped an S-rank. Is that what A-ranks do?"
He leaned forward.
"Lancelot isn't weak. Even on video, you can see the Talent he manifested under [Commandment] pressure."
"And that power was stopped."
"Not stopped," the Principal corrected. "Intercepted. At master level."
He scratched his white hair.
"I expected one surprise. The S-rank breaking limits."
He smiled faintly.
"I didn't expect two."
Mance replayed the clip, pausing on the sparks. "I counted thirty strikes."
"Sixty. More, actually," the Principal said. "His frequency exceeded the frame rate. I'd need to be there to know the true number."
"...So it's [Time Zero]?" Mance asked quietly.
"Likely," the Principal said. "We'll confirm at the academy."
He turned to the window.
"A double blessing."