After Ray's departure, Professor Velmard scanned the class with a calm, stern gaze.
"Next match," he announced. "Kaiser Hawkins versus Ashley Rike."
The room stirred. Kaiser rose without hesitation, his movements composed, deliberate. Ashley followed, her eyes sharp, her stance steady. Both stepped into the sparring circle, facing each other.
Velmard's hand cut the air. "Begin."
Ashley's saber darted forward, light flashing along its slender edge. It sliced through the air in quick, elegant arcs, her style refined for speed and precision
She struck low at Kaiser's knee, then instantly redirected upward in a sharp cut toward his shoulder—fluid, relentless.
Kaiser's sword met her strikes with calm efficiency. Unlike her swift slashes, his blade moved in deliberate, measured lines. Where she danced with momentum, he anchored himself, each parry absorbing her force before redirecting it away.
The clash rang out in sharp clangs, steel on steel, the rhythm like a duel of storm and stone.
Ashley pivoted on her heel, saber whipping across in a tight horizontal slash meant to cut him across the ribs. Kaiser turned his wrist, tilting his sword to catch her blade with the flat before guiding it harmlessly aside.
She snarled under her breath and followed with a thrust, her saber's point darting for his chest like a striking serpent.
Kaiser stepped just half a pace left—no wasted movement—and his sword slid down her blade in a controlled bind, knocking the thrust off-line. His counter came immediately, his edge flicking upward in a smooth arc aimed at her shoulder.
Ashley twisted, narrowly escaping as his blade nicked a strand of her hair. She countered with a feint—her saber dipping as if to stab his thigh, then snapping upward in a sudden overhead slash.
But Kaiser did not fall for it. His eyes tracked her shoulders, not her blade. The moment her stance betrayed her real intention, he raised his sword, catching the descending saber in a solid block. Sparks burst where the edges ground against each other.
She pressed with both hands, trying to overpower him, but his sword didn't budge. His strength, calm and immovable, outmatched her momentum. In a swift twist, Kaiser angled his blade, sliding hers off to the side.
Before she could recover, his sword cut inward, stopping just shy of her throat.
"Match over," Velmard declared.
Silence fell.
Ashley froze, her breath ragged, then lowered her blade with a bitter exhale. She had given her best, and yet the gap was undeniable.
The students stared. They had all known Kaiser was talented—blessed, even. But no one expected such overwhelming clarity of skill. Some faces showed admiration, others fear. A few looked on with envy, the realization heavy on them: they were standing beside someone who might one day leave them all behind.
And so the sparring continued. Some fought with stubborn resolve, refusing to give in. Others showed cunning, seeking openings rather than clashing head-on. A few dominated through raw strength, while some simply surrendered—aware they had no chance against their opponent.
The hall became a quiet storm of clashing wills.
---
In the Headmaster's Office
Professor Velmard stood like a soldier before Headmaster Elrin Vaelis.
"You made the students spar without safety equipment," Elrin said, his voice low, his eyes cold. "Have you considered the consequences?"
Velmard didn't flinch. "Sir, I know it wasn't the best method, but it wasn't the worst either. In war, there are no safeguards. No complaints when a comrade dies. I wanted them to understand that reality."
Elrin's gaze sharpened. "I know more than you about war, Velmard. But these are noble children. The moment they see blood, their families see lawsuits. Do not forget that."
The air in the office grew heavier.
"This is your first and last warning," Elrin said at last.
Velmard bowed silently, then left.
At the Nouzen Estate
The marble-floored halls of the mansion trembled with urgency. Servants rushed about, their footsteps echoing under the chandeliers as a single voice cut through the air, heavy with fury and worry.
"Call Doctor Stephen at once!" Lady Nouzen's command carried the force of panic disguised as authority.
Ray sat slouched on a velvet sofa in the drawing room, bandages wrapped across his arms and shoulder. The academy infirmary had already tended to his injuries, but the dull ache in his muscles was a reminder of every blow he had taken. He leaned back, staring absently at the ceiling, replaying the clash in his mind.
His mother hurried to his side, silk gown swaying as she knelt beside him. Her hands hovered over his arms, trembling though she tried to steady them. Her eyes glistened with a mother's fear, the kind that no amount of wealth or power could mask.
"Ray… why did you agree to spar in the first place?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "You should have refused. I don't care about their rules, I'll deal with the consequences myself. That reckless professor will pay—I'll see him dragged through court if I must."
Ray shifted, giving her a weary glance. His lips curled into a faint, humorless smile as he sank deeper into the cushions.
"Mom… don't worry about it. I'm fine. Really." His tone carried the fatigue of someone who had explained himself too many times.
He let out a slow breath, feeling the soreness in his chest. "I'm not going back tomorrow. I need time to rest."
With effort, he pushed himself up from the sofa. His intent was clear: to retreat into the privacy of his room, to escape the smothering worry that clung to the mansion like perfume.
But before he could take a single step, a voice cut through the drawing room—low, firm, and edged like ice.
"You are not skipping the academy."
Ray froze. The words struck him harder than any wound from the spar. Slowly, as though dragged by invisible chains, he turned toward the doorway.
There stood a man who filled the room with presence before he even spoke again. A tall figure, draped in a black tailored suit, his hair just as dark, his eyes the sharp brown of polished steel. A neatly kept beard framed his strong jawline, lending him an air of authority that needed no announcement.
Darion Nouzen.
Ray's father.
Behind him, several bodyguards lingered in silence, their posture rigid, their eyes fixed on nothing yet absorbing everything. Their presence made the mansion feel less like a home and more like a fortress.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Where moments ago there had been fear and tenderness, now there was gravity, suffocating and cold.
Ray's mother rose to her feet, her face draining of color. The tremble in her hands stilled—not out of calm, but because in front of this man, even panic dared not show itself.
Ray's throat tightened. Every instinct told him to speak, to protest, to retreat, but under that gaze, words abandoned him. His father's presence alone weighed heavier than his wounds.
Darion stepped into the room with measured strides, his shoes striking the polished floor in a rhythm that echoed finality.