The air hung heavy with anticipation, thick with tension as the last echoes of laughter and banter died down.
A silence settled—one filled not with peace, but with the sharp, electric charge of imminent battle. Zeke stood still, battered but unbroken, his breath ragged in his chest. Across from him, the blond executioner stood tall, blade resting easily against his shoulder as though this were just another skirmish.
Then, in the blink of an eye, everything moved.
The blond blur vanished.
Zeke's eyes widened—then, instinct surged. He dropped low, just in time for the enemy's blade to hiss through the air above his head, leaving behind a faint silver arc in the afternoon light. The edge of the blade clipped a few strands of Zeke's dark hair, sending them fluttering in slow motion.
A collective gasp rang from the crowd. Some students stepped back, their hearts thundering in sync with each thunderous clash of steel.
Zeke rolled to the side, pivoting sharply as his boots dug deep into the forest floor, kicking up a spray of loose soil, roots, and brittle leaves. The sharp scent of churned earth filled the air. He twisted low to the ground like a coiled spring, then surged upward with all the force his legs could muster. His blade came up in a vicious vertical arc, the steel catching a glint of sunlight like a ribbon of liquid fire.
CLANG!
The two swords collided with a metallic shriek, a sound so sharp and resonant it made the closer students flinch and clamp their hands over their ears. The shock of the impact rippled outward like a wave, rattling teeth and shaking nearby leaves from their branches.
Steel screamed against steel.
The blond attacker laughed—a jagged, animal sound—and stepped into Zeke's guard, their faces now inches apart. He pressed down hard, his strength monstrous, forcing Zeke to grit his teeth and brace his knees against the ground. Sparks burst and danced between the clashing weapons, flaring like fireflies in a storm. Their eyes met—Zeke's narrowed with white-hot defiance, the blond's gleaming with a manic, unhinged glee that sent chills crawling down watching spines.
"Come on!" the blond roared. "Don't fizzle out yet!"
Zeke shifted suddenly, sliding his foot through the dirt to create space. But the blond anticipated it, sweeping his blade low with a wicked grin. The steel sang as it carved a deadly crescent in the air, nearly catching Zeke's thigh.
Zeke barely danced back in time—he felt the wind of the blade kiss past his leg, tearing a clean line through the edge of his pants.
In retaliation, Zeke kicked up a chunk of dirt with his heel, flinging it toward the blond's face.
The blond twisted his head just in time, but flecks of dirt and grit peppered his eyes and mouth.
"Cheating now?" he coughed, but his smile didn't fade. "Good. Makes it fun."
Zeke didn't answer—he lunged forward instead. His blade came in low, then snapped upward in a feint. The blond moved to parry, and Zeke switched directions mid-strike, twisting his wrist in an improvised motion. The sudden redirection nearly caught the blond off guard, slicing across his shoulder and drawing a shallow but satisfying line of blood.
The students watching erupted in cheers—short-lived as the blond howled and retaliated with a flurry of vicious slashes.
The air turned into a blur of silver.
Each swing of the blond's blade left ghostly arcs in the air, humming with energy and intent. Zeke ducked one that would've taken his head clean off. Another swing grazed the top of his hair—strands were sliced away and drifted to the ground like falling feathers.
A third slash caught Zeke's shoulder—not deep, but enough to burn. He staggered back, breath ragged, pain singing along his nerves. His grip tightened.
The blond advanced, relentless, hammering down blow after blow like a storm incarnate. Zeke raised his sword to block, every impact vibrating down to his spine. Their weapons sparked and shrieked like metal demons screaming in rage.
Zeke managed a short hop back and spun, coming around with a wide slash aimed at the blond's ribs. The blond twisted just in time, the blade glancing off his side but leaving another stinging cut.
Blood now ran from both fighters, seeping into the ground.
Zeke's chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat and blood mixing on his skin. His knuckles were white around his hilt. But his eyes stayed sharp. Focused. Calculating.
He ducked another blow and rolled beneath the blond's guard, coming up behind him and swinging. The blond parried without even looking, their blades locking again. This time, Zeke twisted, slammed his shoulder into the blond's back, and sent them both stumbling forward.
Dirt sprayed again. Leaves fell. A tree branch cracked under the pressure of their bodies.
They broke apart, gasping.
Then—charging again.
Their swords met in a furious series of slashes and counters, the air alive with motion and fury. Zeke swept low, aiming for the legs. The blond jumped, flipping over Zeke and slashing downward mid-air. Zeke rolled, only narrowly dodging the descending strike.
A gasp rippled through the student ranks.
Some of the executioners cheered—others watched in wary silence. The tension was palpable.
Zeke came to a stop near a shallow dip in the clearing. He stood, chest heaving. A line of blood trailed from his temple, dripping past his chin. His blade trembled slightly in his hand.
The blond strode toward him, grinning wider than ever. "You're entertaining, I'll give you that."
Then he raised his blade overhead—and Zeke noticed his stance shift.
Something was wrong.
A strange pulse radiated from the blond. Dark, almost oily energy leaked into the air like mist.
The professors watching from above stiffened.
"That's not a sanctioned technique," one of them muttered.
"He's using something forbidden," another hissed.
Zeke's instincts screamed at him to move. But the blond's form blurred—unnatural speed coursing through him. He appeared before Zeke in a blink, and his sword came down like divine judgment.
Zeke raised his own blade just in time. The force behind the strike sent him flying backward, crashing into the dirt, bouncing once, twice before sliding to a stop.
Groaning, he staggered to his feet, his sword arm shaking violently.
The blond was already walking toward him.
Zeke spat blood.
He couldn't win like this—not by matching brute force. He'd already been adapting, mirroring small movements throughout the fight. But now he would have to do more.
He would have to see more.
Zeke's eyes glowed slightly as the lens technique he had gotten from Professor Lira deactivated.
A world unseen by many was revealed to Zeke, blood fell like tears down his face as he turned his attention towards the blonde guy.
He took in a deep breath.
He narrowed his eyes, analyzing the blonde's movements. He copied the blond's footwork, the loose fluidity of his arm, the angle at which he turned his blade during blocks.
He charged again.
This time when their blades met, it wasn't a clash—it was a conversation. Zeke mimicked every nuance of the blond's style, matching him beat for beat.
The blond's grin slowly faded.
"What…?" he muttered. "You're… learning from me?"
Zeke said nothing.
His next parry wasn't just defense—it redirected the blond's own momentum, turning power into vulnerability.
Zeke's blade snapped forward like a whip, slicing across the blond's thigh in a clean, brutal arc. Blood sprayed, dark and fast, and the older boy stumbled, his rhythm momentarily broken.
Zeke didn't stop.
He pressed the advantage, muscles screaming in protest. Their swords clashed again, but this time Zeke's movement had flow, precision—he wasn't just reacting anymore. He was reading, anticipating.
The next clash came from above, but Zeke twisted with it, knocking the blond's blade wide and stepping into his guard.
A shoulder slammed into the blond's ribs—just enough to shift his stance.
Then Zeke dropped low, ducking beneath a retaliatory swing that shaved a clean line through the air above his head—so close it sheared off more strands of his already-messy hair. Dust exploded around his feet as he spun beneath the blond's outstretched arm and rose with a cry, sword flashing upward in a vicious diagonal slash.
Steel met resistance.
The blond staggered back, a harsh, guttural sound escaping his throat.
His mask cracked down the side—split by the force of the blow. A jagged fracture ran from temple to jaw, revealing bloodied skin and a single wide eye beneath. A thin line of red traced its way down his cheek, dripping off his chin.
The crowd hushed. The executioner shadows, who had been murmuring excitedly, fell silent.
Zeke stood several feet away, sword still raised, arm trembling violently from the effort. His clothes were tattered, his frame heaving with exhaustion, blood soaking his left sleeve and dripping from a cut near his brow.
But he was standing.
And somehow, impossibly, he was still in the fight.
"Huh… why are his eyes closed?" a student murmured from the circle's edge.
Heads turned. All eyes fell on Zeke.
"Hey, what's happening?" another whispered, the question laced with unease.
"Look at the mana around Zeke…" someone else breathed.
It shimmered—thin tendrils of pale-blue energy weaving around his form like threads of moonlight caught in motion. The air felt heavier. Mana stirred the leaves at Zeke's feet, lifting them as though gravity had turned gentle in his presence. Even the shadows took a half-step back, confused.
Zeke's brows were furrowed in concentration, lips parted slightly as if whispering to something only he could hear. His blade remained lowered, the edge stained with blood—but it didn't tremble anymore.
Something had shifted.
The pattern. The tempo. The feel of the fight.
Inside Zeke's mind, the world had gone quiet. He replayed every slash, every dodge, every counter the blond had used—like a mental echo chamber. He saw the circular pivots, the aggression hidden in feints, the subtle footwork that allowed power to flow like water through steel. But more than that, he felt the weakness in it. The flaws.
His breath deepened.
Then his eyes opened.
Clear. Focused. Icy with understanding.
He raised his sword.
"This technique," Zeke muttered, voice low and steady, "isn't yours anymore."
The ground trembled faintly as mana surged to meet him, pooling along his blade like liquid starlight. Students gasped as they watched it happen—his stance shift slightly, weight drop, arms loosen—not sloppy, but free. Like the weapon wasn't being held at all, but floating in his hand.
"Watch closely," Zeke said, stepping forward.
"This is mine now."
His body moved—and it was unlike anything they'd seen from him before. The slash that followed wasn't just fast, it defied all logic. It carved through the air with a spiraling trail of wind and light, slicing in an arc that seemed to change direction mid-strike. The blond barely got his blade up in time, and even then, he was flung back crashing into a tree.
Blood pooled under his body.
His chest stopped moving.
"W-what was that?" one of the students breathed.
"I couldn't see it…" said another.
Zeke exhaled slowly, the light still spiraling off his sword in soft coils. His voice was quieter now, as if speaking more to himself than anyone else.
"Phantom blade."
A technique born in the heart of battle. A dance of adaptation. The culmination of everything he'd learned both from the blonde and throughout the week.
...
Above, the teachers said nothing for a long moment. Then-
"He made a technique mid-battle... adapted it from the enemy's form. Brilliant."
"Ridiculous. He'll burn himself out like that, did you see his eyes? he forcibly watched his enemys mana flow."
"But he won."
...
On the ground, Zeke's hand dug into the dirt. He lifted his head, bruised and bloodied, and looked out across the battlefield.
He smirked through the pain.
He was still standing.
Barely, but still.
The Students erupted in cheers.