A boy stood at the edge of the stone courtyard, his gaze fixed on the vast platform ahead.
Two hundred meters across, the surface shimmered faintly under the morning sun. Along its boundary, etched runes glimmered like veins of silver.
On the far side, a line of candidates stood waiting. Among them were familiar faces: Padro, restless and shifting his weight from foot to foot, and Marco, his jaw tight as if bracing against unseen pressure.
Closer at hand, around thirty students gathered on Milo's side of the platform. Some stood with squared shoulders, confidence radiating from their stances. Others fidgeted, eyes darting nervously toward the looming arena, the strain plain on their faces.
To the right, tiers of stone steps climbed upward in wide arcs, every row packed with students. Their whispers rolled together, a low tide swelling and fading across the air.
On the left stood a square platform overlooking the grounds. Teachers filled most of its seats, robes catching the light, gazes sharp and measuring. At the very front, however, several chairs remained conspicuously empty, reserved for figures whose arrival would draw every eye.
The air itself seemed to tighten, the entire field holding its breath as if waiting for the first clash to break the silence.
Hmm… I almost feel bad about beating this kid in front of the crowd and exposing myself before I'm ready. But I have no other choice…
The silence broke at last when measured footsteps approached the square platform.
"Welcome again, children. It's an honor for us all to host one more distinguished guest: Colonel Zara of the Elite Military Division from the kingdom's capital," the Academy Head announced, followed by applause from the crowd.
This time, Zara took the main seat of honor.
Milo noticed the respect flickering in the eyes of all three honored guests.
"Before we begin, a few rules," the Academy Head declared, his voice carrying across the stone. "First: no weapons. Second: killing is forbidden, and those who violate it will have severe consequences. Third: victory comes only when your opponent admits defeat or is unable to continue. Each challenger ranked fifty-one to one hundred may fight once, so choose carefully. Last: any defender who withstands three challenges or remains unchallenged qualifies automatically. The fifty-first candidate will have the first chance. Let the fights begin!" He fell silent and took his seat.
A boy soon entered the arena, his frame thin but marked with well-defined muscle. He bowed toward the square platform, then looked at the long line of defenders.
"I, Liam, wish to challenge Milo, ranked fifty on the defender list."
As I expected… I've become the target, Milo thought, and he stepped into the arena.
The referee's hand dropped, slicing the silence like a blade.
Liam lunged forward, a straight right snapping toward Milo's jaw.
Milo slipped left, the fist cutting past his cheek by a hair. His own left hand snapped upward toward Liam's throat.
Shit! Old habits…
At the last instant, he twisted his strike aside, fingers grazing past the neck instead of crushing it.
He exhaled sharply. I almost killed a child.
But he had already drifted too close to Liam.
Suddenly, Liam's left knee snapped upward, aiming straight for his gut.
Milo dropped his right palm, catching the knee just before it crashed into his stomach. The block softened the blow, but the impact still jolted him upward.
Before he could fall, Liam planted both palms on the ground and launched like a coiled spring, both legs snapping toward Milo's chest.
The kick streaked toward him. Milo twisted midair, guiding the strike off-line. His elbow angled down as the kick swept past, momentum carrying Liam's head straight toward his poised elbow.
Milo shifted at the last moment, sliding wide. To the crowd, it seemed Liam had narrowly dodged—and Liam himself believed it.
Goddammit! Control. Control yourself, Milo.
Liam landed lightly and pressed forward, his right fist driving in a heavy cross.
Milo bent low, the punch slicing over his head. His left hand snapped toward Liam's chin, but he redirected at the last instant, grazing skin instead of bone.
A sharp left hook whistled for his temple. Milo twisted, the blow grazing past his ear close enough to sting.
Liam's shin whipped in a low right kick. Milo hopped back, boot skidding on the stone as it scraped his ankle. He countered with a snap at Liam's knee, but dragged it wide, the sole skimming cloth instead of crushing muscle.
Then came a heavy left hook. Milo ducked under, sliding close, his palm brushing Liam's chest where his heart pulsed. For a breath, the killing line was open, but he pulled back. The hesitation cost him: Liam's other fist hammered into his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Pain jolted down his arm.
The crowd erupted in cheers. To them, Milo already looked on the verge of collapse.
But Milo steadied his breath, his stance tightening. Liam rushed in with a blur of fists and kicks, and within the chaos, Milo's hands began to trace a different rhythm.
He tapped Liam's forearm as he slipped a jab.
During a sidestep, he brushed the thigh.
Then pressed against the collarbone as he dodged a hook.
His heel flicked against the calf in the middle of a retreat.
Four subtle points: harmless to the eye, invisible to the crowd, yet each one a needle buried into Liam's nerves.
Jeers rose from the stands. "He's just poking at him!" "He's flailing!"
But Milo's expression stayed calm. Not yet… but soon.
Liam landed in a crouch, teeth bared, then spun with a sweeping right leg aimed at Milo's ribs.
The kick whistled through the air, strong enough to shatter bone if it connected.
Milo dropped low, one hand brushing the stone for balance as the leg scythed just above his back. In the same motion, his left foot snapped out, tapping against Liam's chest.
To the crowd, it looked weak, without force or impact. Jeers rang out: "No power!" "Desperate!"
Liam pressed harder, whipping a roundhouse at Milo's head. Milo leaned back sharply, footing slipping, the heel of the kick whipping close enough to stir his hair. Gasps and laughter erupted from the stands. "Lucky slip!"
But Liam's next step faltered. The earlier strikes had taken root: his leg wobbled, his balance cracked. To the crowd, it looked like a stumble on polished stone.
Milo's eyes narrowed. Now.
He surged in, fist snapping under Liam's chin. It wasn't enough to shatter bone, but sharp enough to rattle his skull. Liam's body went slack, crumpling onto the arena floor.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the stands exploded.
"Slip!" "Lucky again!" "Rank fifty barely scraped through!"
Milo stood over his fallen opponent, chest rising steadily, his expression unreadable. He let the crowd believe what it wanted.
Before reaching his place, Milo felt his scalp prickle and glanced back at the square platform. Colonel Zara was watching him with a peculiar smile. Milo bowed lightly and returned to his spot.
"The next challenger for Milo must wait until one more battle has concluded," the referee declared. "In the meantime, others may step forward."
The murmurs about Milo still lingered until a firm voice cut through them.
"I challenge rank twenty-one."
Marco strode into the arena. His frame was balanced, with tall, lean muscles designed for speed and strength, honed without waste.
His opponent, ranked twenty-one, was broad and muscular, confidence plain on his face. Yet when the signal fell, that confidence shattered instantly.
Marco burst forward, his fist crashing into the boy's guard with such force that the impact echoed across the arena. The fighter staggered three steps, boots scraping against stone, arms trembling just to keep from collapsing. Gasps rippled through the crowd; the match had only begun, yet Marco's strength already dwarfed his opponent's.
The fighter roared and hurled a wild hook, desperate to turn the tide. Marco stepped in, catching the arm mid-swing, and with a twist of his hips, he heaved the larger boy clean off his feet. The body slammed into the ground with a crack, the stone shuddering beneath the impact.
Silence. Then a wave of shouts and cheers.
The fight was over in two moves. Marco stood tall in the center of the arena, composed and unshaken, while his opponent lay gasping, unable to rise.
Next, the fifty-second-ranked candidate came to challenge. "Milo, come and face me; this time, you won't be so lucky."
As Milo stepped onto the platform, a voice slid into his mind, cold and clear, echoing without sound.
"If you can defeat him within twenty breaths, I will grant you a Martial Skill—one that will serve you well when you awaken into the Manav realm."
Milo's eyes snapped up. Across the platform, Colonel Zara sat, lips curved in the faintest smile.
What the hell? Was that her? His chest tightened. No… it can't be. Must be me… after all, it's just an echo inside my head…
As if in answer, the voice came again. "Don't panic. It's a high-order technique, beyond your current capabilities. But when your cultivation rises, you may be able to do it."
Milo forced his breath steady, his steps carrying him onto the arena's open floor. I need a Martial Skill. Teachers always said nobles and sects hoard the best ones. If I have to expose a little strength, so be it.
The referee's hand fell, cutting the air like a blade.
Rank fifty-two charged; his roar tore through the air.
Milo didn't flinch. His body slid aside in a smooth, flowing pivot, so effortless it looked almost casual. Then his hand moved.
For an instant, the world seemed to stutter. Fingers snapped forward like lightning, the air popping with a faint crack as they pierced through space. To the crowd, it was only a flicker: one heartbeat, Milo was still; the next his hand had already withdrawn. Only the sharp whisper of displaced wind remained, as if the strike had carved the air itself.
His fingertips had already pressed the chest point, precisely as a needle threading through silk.
Milo walked past without a backward glance, footsteps steady, his coat whispering behind him.
The challenger kept running, carried by his own momentum. After one or two more steps, it seemed something had stolen the strength from his legs, and his body jolted. He collapsed forward, crashing onto the stone with a dull thud.
The arena froze as gasps rippled outward in waves.
One motion. One strike. Too fast to see, too clean to believe. Rank fifty-two lay sprawled on the ground, while Milo stood calm at the far edge of the platform, as if nothing had happened.
***
Back on the stage, Elder Hamilton's eyes lingered on the arena before turning toward Colonel Zara.
"Ha, ha! Colonel, tell me, did you whisper something to him?" His smile carried a trace of amusement. "I suspected he was hiding strength even in the first match."
Before Zara could respond, Elder Carrian of the Academy cut in, his tone edged with warning.
"Best curb any desire, Colonel. Every student here belongs to the Academy. If the military wants them, it must be through proper channels. No secret bribes."
Hamilton chuckled softly, though his gaze remained fixed on Milo.
Miss Lyala leaned forward, her voice light.
"Interesting… such precision. He strikes as if he understands every nerve and artery. And yet, they say his alchemy results are only average." A small smile touched her lips.
Down in the arena, Milo remained unaware. His brief display had already drawn the attention of the honored guests. For now, their voices carried only curiosity, but curiosity from the powerful rarely stayed harmless for long.
The remaining battles played out, but after Milo's display, no one dared challenge him. In time, the event drew to a close.
"You surprised me, Milo—that was incredible." Lily's grin sparkled, her eyes still bright with excitement.
"Luck." Milo adjusted his sleeve, keeping his tone even.
Kim folded his arms with a smirk. "Tch, I knew it. You've been training in secret."
"If I had, you'd be the first to know," Milo said, lips twitching faintly.
Marco stretched his shoulders, his voice steady. "It's all good as long as we're selected." His gaze drifted toward Padro, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Too bad, Padro—you were so close."
Padro scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "It's fine. I'm not discouraged. Next year, once the other academies stop joining, I'll definitely pass."
"You will," Milo whispered. "Both of you will."
"Me too," Kim added with a brisk nod.
Milo glanced at Marco. "What's the elite military division? And why would someone from there have come to a backwater like Driftmoor?"
Marco scratched his head, thinking. "Hmm… I don't know the full details, but they're basically watchdogs for the high nobility. Only dukes and above can give them orders. Each one's like a one-man army." His tone carried the weight of something half-remembered.
"As for why she's here," he continued, lowering his voice, "I heard a rumor that someone kidnapped the youngest son of an Archduke. My father mentioned it once. But honestly, who'd be crazy enough to kidnap an Archduke's heir?"
Lily folded her hands behind her back, tilting her head with a faint smile. "Let's not meddle in her business. She's way out of our league anyway. Now, what should we do today?"
Marco rubbed his chin in thought. "Let's rest. Do what you like today. Tomorrow we'll meet again to discuss the Main Test—it happens the day after tomorrow."
"Agreed." Milo gave a small nod, turning away.
The group dispersed, their voices fading into the buzz of the crowd. Marco slung his pack over one shoulder, heading toward the dorms. Kim and Padro walked side by side, trading half-jokes to mask their frustration. Lily lingered a moment longer, flashing Milo a quick smile before she left.
Once they were gone, Milo slipped into the shadows at the edge of the grounds. His steps grew lighter, careful not to draw attention, until the press of students gave way to the quiet of the trees.
Back to the lab… too many experiments are waiting.
The jungle swallowed him whole. Behind, the academy still buzzed with cheers. Ahead lay only silence—and the glow of waiting experiments, his true stage.