The next morning.
The academy hall smelled like sweat and panic.
Word about the tournament spread overnight like wildfire.
The hall had no air left.
Only heat.
Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder under the high stone arches, uniforms wrinkled, ties hanging loose, phones lifted like a forest of pale moons.
Sweat stuck sleeves to arms.
Someone's elbow jammed into someone's ribs.
A bag burst open and pens scattered across the floor like dropped bones.
A boy climbed onto a folding chair.
The chair folded.
He vanished with a scream and a rain of laughter.
Another kid stretched his arm up to livestream, slipped, and his phone smacked face-down into the crowd.
A wail followed. "MY CAMERA—"
"MOVE— I CAN'T SEE—"
"STOP PUSHING—"
"TEAM SEVEN WHERE—"
Minjae came through like a shopping cart with broken wheels.
Elbows first.
"Out of the way, civilians," he declared, puffing his chest. "Rank-3 coming through."
A girl behind him yelled, "You're Rank-3, not Rank-1."
Minjae stopped mid-stride.
Blink.
"…Temporary injustice."
Someone snorted so loud it echoed.
Mira caught Jisoo's sleeve and dragged her before the tide swallowed her whole.
Jisoo hugged her notebook tight against her chest, pen still stuck in her hair.
"I'm not ready," she whispered fast. "What if terrain is lava. What if healing is banned. What if they ban milk tea—"
Doyoon clacked past on his crutch, brace locked around his knee, grin stubborn like he refused to stay down. "Milk tea ban violates Geneva Convention."
Jisoo almost cried.
Jihan didn't say anything.
He just walked.
Straight.
Quiet.
And the crowd parted like water around a stone.
Phones tilted toward him. Faces leaned. Whispers slid through the crush.
"That's him."
"Monster punch guy."
"Milk tea king."
Minjae puffed his chest harder. "I'm also famous."
A boy leaned over the second-floor railing and shouted,
"SHOW YOUR SHOES—!"
The hall exploded.
Laughter bounced off stone arches. Someone slapped a bench.
Someone dropped their phone again.
Minjae looked wounded. "…This joke is dying."
The lights dimmed.
Buzzing tubes overhead flickered and went soft.
Shadows climbed the walls. Conversations thinned to a nervous rustle.
The giant board woke.
White letters spun.
FAST.
Names blurred into streaks across black glass, spinning so quick they smeared into light.
Students leaned forward without meaning to. Hands gripped railings. Breath held.
"STOP— STOP— STOP—"
The board clicked.
Names snapped into place.
Round One.
For half a second nobody spoke.
Then the hall detonated.
"LOSER BUYS TEN—"
"TWENTY—"
"FIFTY—"
Milk-tea bets flew like knives. Phones shoved into faces. Screenshots already spreading.
Minjae pointed at a random second-year. "YOU. Bet one hundred milk teas I reach finals."
The guy blinked slowly. "…You're fighting Rank-5 first."
Minjae lowered his hand inch by inch.
"…Fifty milk teas."
Doyoon wheezed.
Jihan stared at the board.
The empty space where Doyoon had fallen flashed in his mind.
Then the names appeared.
Jisoo squeaked when Mira shoved her toward the board.
"Look," Mira said.
Jisoo looked.
Her pen slipped from her hair and hit the floor.
"…I'm fighting the Berserker Nun."
Doyoon saluted. "Last rites ready."
Jisoo's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Mira stared at her own bracket, lips moving soundlessly while her fingers traced imaginary paths in the air—distance, terrain, angles—like she was balancing equations nobody else could see.
Doyoon found his name and grinned wide.
"…Beast Tamer."
He leaned toward Jihan. "…If his wolf bites me, punch it."
Jihan nodded once. "…Fair."
The hall roared again.
Because the top bracket—
The one glowing brighter than the rest—
Finally stopped spinning.
Line one burned steady.
KANG JIHAN
The sound fell away like someone pulled the plug.
Breath held.
Phones lifted.
The cursor blinked under his name.
Once.
Twice.
The board didn't blink.
It burned.
Two names locked in white light, steady and cruel.
KANG JIHAN
VS
LUCAS REINHARDT
For one breath the hall forgot how to breathe.
Someone's phone slipped from their hand and cracked on the marble. Nobody bent to pick it up.
A chair scraped.
Too loud.
Then the whisper started in the back rows.
"Golden Boy…"
"Noble heir…"
"Light Sword…"
The words moved forward like ripples in water.
Students turned before they knew why.
The crowd opened.
Not pushed.
Not shoved.
Opened.
He walked through.
Blonde hair brushed back so clean the lights slid across it.
Jacket pressed flat, collar sharp, gloves folded neatly in one hand like a habit learned from servants and tutors.
The sword at his hip didn't swing. It rested there like it had never touched dirt in its life.
Lucas Reinhardt stopped three steps from Jihan.
Close enough to see the dried line of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Close enough to smell dust and sweat and arena sand still clinging to his sleeves.
Lucas' eyes ran over him once.
Boots.
Hands.
Face.
Paused.
"…So," he said quietly, like he was checking a receipt, "this is ASTRA's miracle."
Minjae leaned toward Jihan, voice loud enough to carry.
"…He smells expensive."
Two first-years choked on laughter.
Lucas' eyebrow twitched.
He didn't look at Minjae.
His gaze stayed on Jihan.
"You fought well," he said, tone polite, bored. "Against amateurs."
A girl in the front row stopped breathing.
Someone's livestream chat exploded so fast the phone froze.
Lucas tilted his head slightly, studying him like a specimen pinned under glass.
"Do try not to embarrass yourself," he added, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve, "…in front of nobles."
Silence.
Even the board stopped humming.
Jihan wiped the blood at his lip with his thumb. Looked at the smear. Rubbed it into his knuckles like dirt.
Then he looked up.
"…Do try not to cry," he said calmly, "…when you lose in front of commoners."
A sound burst out of Doyoon that was half laugh, half cough.
Mira grabbed his arm.
Jisoo slapped both hands over her mouth too late.
Minjae whispered reverently, "I love him."
Lucas' smile didn't widen.
It thinned.
His glove snapped once as he pulled it back on, fingers sliding into white leather.
"Good," he said softly.
His hand rested on the sword hilt for just a second.
Light caught the edge.
Cold.
Clean.
"I prefer noisy opponents," he added. "Their bones sound louder."
He turned.
Didn't hurry.
Didn't look back.
Students moved aside before he reached them, phones tracking him like he was a comet crossing the hall.
Someone whispered, "He hasn't lost a duel in two years."
Another answered, "He cut through Rank-5 in six seconds."
Minjae leaned toward Jihan. "…He still smells expensive."
Jihan watched Lucas disappear into the crowd.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
The board above them kept glowing.
Two names.
Burning.
And somewhere in the hall, someone opened a betting app and typed—
Lucas Reinhardt — 70%
Kang Jihan — 30%
The rivalry had already started.
And nobody looked away.
The board spun so fast the names turned into white fire.
Students leaned over railings, shouting at letters like gamblers yelling at dice.
"STOP—STOP—STOP—"
Minjae clasped his hands together like a monk praying for enlightenment.
"…Give me weak opponent," he whispered.
The board snapped.
PARK MINJAE
VS
HAN TAESUNG – IRON WALL
Minjae punched the air.
"YES—"
He blinked.
"…Iron… Wall?"
Something blocked the light.
A shadow rolled across the floor and stopped on his shoes.
Minjae looked up.
Slowly.
Han Taesung stood behind him chewing fried chicken, grease shining on his fingers. Shoulders like stacked crates. Sleeves dusted gray from stone mana. The academy badge on his chest looked tiny.
He swallowed.
Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Gave a small wave.
"Hi."
Minjae stared.
"…I withdraw."
Taesung tilted his head. "I hit gentle."
Minjae leaned toward Jihan without blinking. "…Bet reduced to ten milk teas."
Doyoon folded in half laughing, crutch rattling against tile. Jisoo grabbed Mira's arm with both hands.
"I HAVE THE BERSERKER NUN," she squeaked. "SHE BIT SOMEONE LAST YEAR—"
Mira patted her shoulder. "We will write a will."
Minjae pointed at Taesung like accusing gravity.
"He eats fried chicken before fights."
Taesung offered the bucket politely. "…Protein?"
Minjae stared at it.
"…I regret fame."
The hall howled.
Phones flashed like lightning. Someone started chanting from the back row—
"MILK TEA—MILK TEA—MILK TEA—"
Minjae covered his face. Doyoon saluted the chicken bucket. Jisoo made a sound like a dying kettle. Mira leaned against a pillar laughing into her sleeve.
Taesung kept eating.
The board kept glowing.
Students scattered in waves, shouting odds into group chats, arguing brackets like court cases.
"Fifty milk teas if Jihan loses—"
"HE WON'T—"
"SCREENSHOT THIS—"
Team Seven slipped through the noise toward the evening gate. Sunlight hit them warm and low, shadows stretching across the stone path.
Three black cars waited outside.
Engines silent.
Windows dark.
Guild scouts stood beside them pretending to check their phones. Their eyes weren't pretending.
One circled a name on a printed bracket with a gold pen.
Lucas Reinhardt.
The pen tapped once.
Then slid lower.
Kang Jihan.
A thin smile.
Across the courtyard—
Seo Arin leaned against a column, milk tea in one hand, hood half-up. Ice clicked when she tilted the cup.
Her eyes stayed on Jihan.
She didn't wave.
Didn't smile wide.
Just watched.
Like someone memorizing a face.
Behind the dorms, practice lights flickered on.
White glare over cracked stone.
Lucas Reinhardt stood alone.
Gloves off.
Blade bare.
He stepped forward.
Cut.
The sword hummed.
A clean white line split the air and carved into the target post behind him. Wood burst into splinters that spun slowly to the ground.
He reset.
Cut again.
Faster.
Again.
Again.
Each swing shaved another inch off the ruined post until it collapsed in soft dust.
He breathed once.
Slow.
Lifted the blade to eye level.
Watched the edge catch the light.
Footsteps rustled behind the fence.
Students peered through wire, phones raised.
Lucas didn't turn.
"…Commoner," he said quietly.
The sword moved.
One last arc.
The practice dummy behind the fence split from shoulder to hip.
Two halves slid apart.
Fell.
The blade rang once in the quiet.
Across campus, a hundred phones lit up at the same moment.
On the roof above the dorms, Team Seven's group chat exploded with bets and memes and shoe jokes.
And in the practice yard, Lucas Reinhardt wiped the blade clean, slid it into its sheath—
—and smiled at nothing.
To Be Continued...