Chapter 47: The Strongest Elite of Class S VS The Strongest Elite of Class A (End)
The colosseum fell silent, like the world itself had taken a breath and forgotten to let it go.
The roaring winds of mana that had howled like angry spirits, the thundering echoes of spells that cracked the sky open, the clash of blades that split the heavens and shook the earth—all of it faded into a ghostly stillness, soft and heavy, like snow falling on a graveyard. Dust hung in the air, slow and lazy, catching the last flickers of red light from the simulation sky, turning the ruins into something almost peaceful. The broken pillars stood like old soldiers, cracked and weary, the marble floor scarred with craters and burns, telling stories of a fight that had pushed everyone to their limits. Simple people watching from home through the mana feeds would see heroes standing tall. Average students in the academy halls would feel their hearts pound, knowing this was history. But here, in the quiet after the storm, it felt real—tired, earned, final.
Lucian Azrael Von Blackstar stood tall amid the ruins, his black coat fluttering in the lingering gale that whispered through the cracks, carrying the smell of scorched stone and sweat. His ashen-white hair stuck to his forehead, damp with effort, but his deep black eyes were calm and unshaken, like deep pools that had seen too much and cared too little. He slowly sheathed his saber with a soft click that echoed louder than it should, cutting the silence like a knife.
"Yield," he said, voice low but firm, no room for argument, no need for more words.
Across from him, Johnathan Almek Leonborne—the prodigy of Class S, the descendant of the Lionborn, the golden boy everyone bet on—was kneeling on one knee, his massive frame slumped but not broken. His golden aura flickered weak, like a candle in wind, then vanished completely, leaving him looking smaller, more human. His chest rose and fell heavy, each breath ragged, blood staining his lips and dripping slow onto the cracked marble. His golden mane of hair was matted with dust and sweat, but his eyes—those fierce golden eyes—burned with stubborn pride, refusing to look away, refusing to bow even in defeat.
His voice came out hoarse, cracked from shouting and pain, yet firm as steel. "I… yield."
A familiar tone echoed above them—clear, final, and absolute, booming from the simulation system like a judge's gavel.
[Team 32 — Total Victory. Simulation Exam Complete.]
The light of the simulation flickered across the broken arena, blue code streaming in the air like digital rain, washing over the scars and ruins. Everyone—students scattered on the ground, instructors standing at the edges, observers watching through mana projections far away—fell into a stunned silence, mouths open, eyes wide. Then, like a dam breaking, the colosseum erupted into cheers and disbelief, voices rising in a wave that shook the walls. "No way!" "Class A won?!" "They beat the S-Class elites!" Even the distant observers outside, nobles in their fancy halls, common folk in the streets, gasped as the impossible became reality on their screens.
Class A… had defeated the top elites of Class S. The underdogs had bitten the kings and won.
---
Johnathan panted hard, clutching his side where a bruise bloomed dark under his torn uniform, his fingers sticky with blood. Lucian approached him slow, boots clicking softly against the cracked marble floor, each step deliberate, unhurried. The wind picked up a bit, whistling faintly between the broken walls, carrying dust that danced around their feet like ghosts saying goodbye.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Just the wind, the distant cheers fading into background noise, the two of them in their own world—winner and loser, but something more now.
Then Johnathan broke the silence, lifting his head, his voice raspy but pushing through. "How… how did you know?" he rasped, his eyes still sharp despite the defeat, golden and searching. "How did you know I was a Lionborn? I never told anyone—not even my team. It's a family secret, buried deep. You shouldn't know."
Lucian's expression softened just a fraction, the hard lines around his eyes easing, though his tone stayed indifferent, like he was talking about the weather. "I found out from Headmaster Wilhelm Altaliere," he said, stopping a few feet away, hands loose at his sides. "He thanked me for saving the students when those Mana Raiders raided the train and tried to kidnap Amelia. He was grateful, rambling a bit. Mentioned a certain golden cub with too much pride and too little sense, running headfirst into danger without thinking."
Johnathan blinked, processing, his breath steadying a little. "So that's… how. The headmaster. He saw me on the train footage, I guess. Figures he'd talk."
Lucian gave a short sigh, crossing his arms over his chest, his coat shifting with the movement. "There you have your answer. Mystery solved." He paused, then added bluntly, no sugar, no apology in his voice, "And sorry for being too cruel and not giving a fuck during the fight. I have a lot on my mind—things bigger than this exam, bigger than you—and you just added another damn headache to the pile. Though…" A faint smirk tugged at his lips, real this time, small but there. "I'll admit, it was a good fight, Lionborn. You pushed me. Not many do."
Johnathan stared for a moment, eyes wide, then chuckled breathlessly, the sound rough but genuine, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Cruel? Nah, that's just honest. I needed it. And yeah… good fight. Best I've had. You're a monster, Blackstar. A real one."
He looked up, extending a trembling hand, palm open, fingers scarred from the blade. Lucian grinned faintly—rare, warm in its own way—and reached out, their palms meeting in a firm, mutual shake. Calluses met calluses, strength recognized strength, no words needed for the respect that passed between them.
Lucian's deep black eyes glinted, sharp and commanding, holding Johnathan's gaze like a challenge. "Can you really surpass and reach my saber, Johnathan?" he asked quietly, voice low but carrying weight, like each word was carved in stone. "Would you abandon that naïve nature of yours before it endangers your friends again? Prove me wrong—that you're not just a naive commoner chasing ideals in a world that eats them alive. Prove that you're a hero who stands against hypocrisy, who fights for justice and truth, not just pretty words."
Johnathan's golden eyes widened slightly, the words hitting home, stirring something deep. He swallowed, then let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "I'll try— I mean, I'll do it. You're right. That naïveté almost got Amelia killed on the train. I rushed in without a plan, thinking my bloodline would save the day. It didn't. You did."
Lucian cut him off immediately, voice cold and resolute, no room for excuses. "Don't try. Do it. Words are cheap. Actions aren't. Show me next time we cross blades."
The words hit like a blade's edge—sharp, commanding, final. Johnathan paused, the laugh fading, his smirk returning slower, thoughtful. "Hah. You really don't change, do you? Always the hardass. Fine. Challenge accepted. Next time, I won't kneel."
Lucian smiled faintly but didn't answer, releasing the handshake and stepping back. In his thoughts, he mused quietly, 'That's the only way for him to focus on himself and change. The only way for him to grow stronger. Push him hard enough, and even a lion learns to think before it roars.'
Inside his mind, the familiar voice of the Wraith King suddenly echoed, still speaking in English through telepathy, dramatic as always. {My lord… did you just lie about your headmaster telling you he was a Lionborn? That was smooth, but a lie! I know everything—you learned it from the game lore and in your second life!}
Lucian didn't even blink, his face neutral. 'So what? I couldn't care less. That was the only way to shut him up without explaining timelines and regressions. Keep it simple for the simple people.'
He smirked faintly and added, 'And don't think I forgot about asking you how you knew my Hybrid Blade Demonic Arts. We'll talk when we're back in the dorm—full explanation, no holding back. And while we're at it—I'll also ask about those carvings we saw in that temple ruin during the simulation. Those letters were from Earth. Old English, even. Explain that, or I'll make you regret binding to me.'
The Wraith King's tone shifted to panic—but comedically so, voice pitching high in Lucian's head. {YES! Yes, my lord! I'll tell you the whole truth! Every detail! Please don't glare at me like that—I can feel your killing intent from here! It's chilling!}
Lucian rolled his eyes slightly, stifling a laugh that threatened to escape. 'You sound like a puppy begging for mercy. Relax. Don't worry, I won't kill you. You're useful. For now.'
{You say that but I don't believe you! One wrong word and poof—Wraith King smoothie!} the Wraith King whimpered, still in English, dramatic as a bad play.
Nearby, Christopher Davenson was sitting cross-legged on the ground, legs splayed like a kid after a long game, bruised and battered but grinning from ear to ear, his muscular frame covered in cuts, burns, and dust. His uniform hung in tatters, but his eyes sparkled with that wild joy only a good fight could bring. "Man, what a rush," he muttered to himself, flexing a bruised hand.
Lucian walked over, boots crunching on gravel, and extended his hand down. "Need a hand, musclehead? Or you planning to camp there all day?"
Christopher looked up, chuckled deep and hearty, grasping Lucian's arm with a grip like iron, letting him pull him up with a grunt. Dust puffed off his clothes as he stood, towering but steady. "Thanks, man. I swear, if it weren't for you carrying us and covering my dumb ass, I'd still be kissing the ground after fighting that damn support mage. Claire—she's a beast. Turned into a freaking goddess mid-fight."
Lucian smirked, clapping him on the shoulder, careful of the bruises. "You did good. You held your own against someone who used Temporal Breakthrough. That's not something most people can survive—hell, most would've been vapor by the first blast. You punched through divine magic with raw fists. That's not musclehead—that's legend."
Christopher laughed, brushing dust from his uniform, wincing at a cut on his arm but waving it off. "Yeah, yeah. Flattery won't save you next spar, Blackstar. But still, she literally won. Damn it, I'll admit it this time—I lost fair and square. Her staff work, those runes, that aura… I was outclassed. But next time…" He smirked confidently, pounding a fist into his palm. "I'm gonna win. I promise, Lucian. You and the Princess are going down too. Team rematch—me versus both of you. Bet I'll make you eat dirt."
Lucian gave him a light pat on the back, brotherly, teasing. "That's the spirit. Keep dreaming big. Now get up fully before Silvie scolds you for slacking. She's got that princess glare down pat."
"Silvie?" Christopher blinked, scratching his head, then grinned wide. "Oh, right—Princess Celestia. Yeah, she'd nag me into next week. 'Christopher, stand properly! You're representing Class A!'" He mimicked her voice high and proper, laughing.
Celestia Silveria Van Lumina approached them gracefully then, her steps light on the uneven ground, her white silk hair shimmering with leftover mana, faint divine light still lingering around her like a soft halo. Her uniform was torn at the edges, a few scratches on her arms, but she carried herself like royalty unbroken, eyes bright with pride and something warmer.
"Congratulations, Lucian, Christopher," she said softly, her voice like sunlight after rain, stopping beside them. "You both fought brilliantly. The way you held the line… it was inspiring."
Christopher waved his hand dismissively, but his grin softened. "Nah, don't congratulate me. I didn't even win against that ginger-haired devil. Claire—she's something else. Turned the whole arena into her playground. But damn, she was amazing. Respect where it's due. Hah, I'll win next time though. Promise. Gotta train harder—maybe punch some mountains or something."
Lucian chuckled low, then turned toward Celestia, his tone warm but teasing, eyes glinting. "And you, Silvie—congratulations on defeating Amelia. I knew I could count on you. That Reflection art? Masterful. You turned her fire against her like it was nothing. Proud of you."
Celestia blinked, her cheeks tinting pink under the praise, a shy smile breaking through her composed mask as Lucian gently patted her head again, his hand lingering a second in her soft hair. "T-thank you…" she mumbled, trying to hide her blush behind a strand of hair, but her heart fluttered visibly, her expression softening. For that brief moment, the divine princess, the goddess reborn, gave way to something purely human—a girl happy for a kind word from the one she cared for. "It… it means a lot, coming from you. I was scared I'd fail the team."
"You didn't," Lucian said firm, pulling his hand back but smiling. "You won. We all did."
Christopher watched, smirking sideways. "Aww, look at you two. Cute. Get a room after the ceremony."
Celestia's blush deepened. "Christopher!"
Suddenly, a sharp voice called out from the far end of the colosseum, cutting through the moment like a whip. "CONGRATULATIONS, TEAM 32! You absolute legends!"
Professor Clarice Weldenbud, the Deputy Head Instructor of the Royal Academy, strode forward with purpose, clapping her hands together loud and proud. Her blonde hair bounced with each step, her uniform crisp despite the chaos, her smirk wide and genuine. Students parted for her like she owned the place—which, in a way, she did today.
"You just beat the top dogs in Class S!" she continued, stopping in front of the trio, hands on hips. "Impressive—truly impressive! The way you coordinated, the power, the guts—textbook perfection! Would you three mind joining Class S, then? We could use monsters like you up top. Promotions, perks, the works!"
Before she could even finish the pitch, the trio shouted in perfect unison, voices overlapping: "NO!"
Clarice blinked, momentarily stunned, her smirk faltering into genuine surprise. "Huh? Why the rejection? Come on, you'd fit perfectly with the elites! Fame, resources, private training grounds—think about it!"
Celestia took a step forward, smiling politely but firm, her voice steady. "Professor, with all due respect, we'd rather stay in Class A. The students there take training seriously and don't waste time with politics and noble pride. No egos getting in the way, no backstabbing for status. I'd rather be surrounded by people who strive for strength because they want it, not for vanity or family names. Class A feels like home."
Christopher nodded big, crossing his arms. "Yeah, what she said. Class S is full of pretty boys and girls posing for the cameras. I wanna punch real threats, not play games with snobs. Class A keeps it real—sweat, blood, no bullshit."
Lucian shrugged, casual. "Same. I'm not here for glory. Class A suits me fine."
Clarice raised an eyebrow, then burst into laughter, clapping Lucian on the shoulder. "Alright then! I respect that decision. Humble winners—rare breed. You three are something special. The academy's gonna talk about this for years."
Then she turned toward the rest of the students—some standing, some sitting, a few still groaning on the ground—hew voice like a battle commander, booming across the ruins and resonating through the academy's mana projection system so even those outside, in the plazas and homes, could hear every word.
"ATTENTION, EVERYONE!" she bellowed, fist pumped high. "CONGRATULATIONS TO TEAM 32 FOR PASSING THE SIMULATION EXAM WITH FLYING COLORS! They didn't just pass—they dominated! Record scores, zero casualties on their side, perfect execution!"
Pauses for effect, then sharper: "THOSE WHO FAILED TO SOLVE PART 1 OF THE SIMULATION—yeah, I'm looking at you lot—WILL RECEIVE A MAJOR GRADE REDUCTION! No excuses! You had the tools, the time, the team—use them better next round!"
She scanned the crowd, eyes fierce. "NEXT TIME, I EXPECT BETTER! Train harder, think smarter, fight dirtier if you have to! This academy isn't for the weak!"
She raised her fist triumphantly, voice roaring. "VIVA LA LUMINA!"
And the colosseum thundered back as one voice, students, instructors, even the simulation echoes joining in: "VIVA LA LUMINA!!!"
The cheers echoed far into the skies above the academy, shaking the air, lifting spirits, a wave of pride that swept through the ruins and beyond.
And amid that triumphant roar, Lucian, Celestia, and Christopher stood side by side—Team 32, the strongest trio of Class A, shoulders brushing, grins shared, bonds forged in fire.
Lucian looked up at the fading light of the simulation sky, blue code dissolving into real sunset, a small smirk tugging at his lips. 'A victory… but also the beginning of something much bigger. Regressors, goddesses, fractured fates—this win just painted a target on our backs.'
The faint hum of fate whispered in his ears, unseen but ever-present, like a promise or a warning.