"You are to use your full strength—do not hold back," Instructor Vikel Robert declared, his deep voice resonating through the Colosseum like a war drum. He stood tall in the very center of the arena, his commanding gaze shifting from one side to the other, where the two combatants waited.
On his right stood Edward von Zenithara, relaxed yet poised, his blade still sheathed within its scabbard. His posture was unhurried, almost casual, but his calm blue eyes glimmered with sharp anticipation. The faintest curve tugged at his lips, a quiet confidence that made the surrounding students stir with whispers.
On Vikel's left stood Jakob Rake. Both hands gripped the hilt of his greatsword, his knuckles paling under the strain. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, rolling down the side of his temple. His chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths, his body stiff as a coiled spring. Though his face betrayed tension, his eyes burned with raw determination—he would not allow fear to steal the moment.
"The duel ends," Vikel continued, his cloak swaying faintly with the breeze, "when your opponent is either knocked out… or admits defeat. Nothing less will be accepted. Is that understood?"
"Yes, we understand," both answered, their voices carrying different weights.
Edward's reply came smoothly, light and unbothered, as though this was nothing more than a practice spar. Jakob's voice, however, rang harshly, every syllable tight with grit, like a man declaring war on his own nerves.
The difference between them was stark. Edward's shoulders were loose, his breathing steady, his gaze unwavering—a calm sea hiding sharp currents. Jakob, meanwhile, stood rigid, sweat dripping from his jaw, his lips pressed into a hard line as his greatsword trembled ever so slightly in his grip.
Around them, the Colosseum leaned forward, thousands holding their breath, the air thick with expectation.
"Now—begin!"
With that sharp command, Vikel stepped out of the arena, his long cloak trailing behind him as the roar of the Colosseum surged like a crashing wave.
The moment his boots left the stone stage, silence fell between the two combatants. Both men stood with their swords still sheathed, eyes locked in a fierce glare. The weight of their gazes alone seemed to spark against the air, tension winding tighter with every heartbeat.
"I'll make you pay for looking down on me," Jakob spat, his voice rough, his teeth clenched in unbridled fury. His grip on the greatsword tightened, veins bulging against his skin.
"Well, whatever." Edward's reply came with a careless shrug, his tone airy, almost mocking. His right hand rested lazily on the hilt of his sword, as if the fight was no more troublesome than stretching after a nap. A faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips, the kind of expression that only poured fuel onto Jakob's fire.
This bastard…! Jakob's mind seethed, rage boiling beneath the surface. He steadied his breath, forcing his muscles into calm precision even as his heart hammered. Fine. I'll gouge out his strength first—with sword force.
Planting his heel firmly into the stone floor, Jakob's body shot forward with explosive speed. His footwork was sharp, controlled, and honed from countless hours of practice. In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance, the crowd gasping at the sudden burst.
With both hands gripping the massive hilt, Jakob raised his greatsword high above his head. The blade gleamed under the sunlight, casting a heavy shadow that seemed to split the ground itself. Then, with all his weight and strength channeled into the strike, he brought it crashing downward—an attack so fierce it could have shattered a boulder into smoldering fragments.
"Let's see how you block this!" Jakob roared, his voice breaking through the tense silence like thunder.
"Hm, not bad for a musclehead." Edward muttered with a lazy shrug, his blue eyes gleaming faintly with amusement. As Jakob's greatsword came crashing down, Edward finally moved—calm, unhurried, like a man merely brushing dust from his sleeve.
Shrinnnkkk—!
Steel met steel. The sound screeched across the arena, making the nearest spectators flinch. But Edward hadn't taken the full brunt of the blow. At the last instant, he angled his blade downward with a subtle twist of his wrist, letting the massive weight of Jakob's sword slide off his own.
Crash!
The greatsword slammed into the arena floor with earth-shaking force. Dust and fragments of stone burst outward as ripples spread from the impact, cracks spiderwebbing beneath Jakob's boots. Gasps erupted from the audience—some awed, some shocked.
Jakob smirked, ready to mock, "Not ba—"
But the words froze in his throat. His eyes widened.
Edward had already moved.
With his right hand still steady on his sword, his left fist snapped forward in a blur. The movement was precise, compact, and devastatingly fast—like a viper striking from its coil. Jakob barely had the chance to register it.
Bang!
The punch landed flush against Jakob's chin with a sickening crack.
His body lifted off the ground, the force ripping the greatsword clean from his grasp. The massive blade spun uselessly through the air before crashing against the stone floor with a thunderous clang.
Jakob himself was hurled backward like a ragdoll, his frame smashing into the far end of the arena wall with bone-jarring impact. Dust and fragments of stone burst outward, the sound echoing across the Colosseum.
Silence followed.
Not even a groan escaped his lips. His head lolled to the side, blood dripping in dark streaks from his broken chin. His eyes were unfocused, rolled back slightly, his consciousness snuffed out in an instant.
The crowd froze, stunned beyond words. One punch. Just one punch—and a third-year had been knocked unconscious, utterly defeated before the fight had even begun.
Gasps rose, followed by an uproar of voices. Some shouted in disbelief, others screamed Edward's name, while a few simply sat wide-eyed, unable to process what they had just witnessed.
Edward lowered his fist slowly, shaking it out as though he'd done nothing more than strike a training dummy. His expression was calm, faintly amused, not even winded.
The outcome was undeniable. Jakob Rake had been crushed with a single blow.
"How utterly pitiful."
Edward snorted, a short, mocking laugh escaping him as he flicked his wrist clean of dust. With a smooth motion, he slid his blade back into its scabbard, the steel ringing faintly before settling into silence.
"With this level of skill, you call yourself a third-year?" His voice carried clearly through the arena, each word laced with disdain. "You couldn't even dodge a single punch."
The insult cut deeper than the strike itself, echoing across the stunned Colosseum. Murmurs rippled through the students, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and agitation. Some shouted Edward's name in triumph, others jeered Jakob's collapse, while a few stared in silence, unable to reconcile what they had just seen.
Edward didn't spare a single glance back. With that same casual arrogance, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit. His cloak swayed with each confident step, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a banner of victory.
As he vanished from the arena and headed toward the waiting area, the uproar only grew louder, the name Edward von Zenithara burning itself deeper into every spectator's memory.
"Huh…?"
For a brief moment, Instructor Vikel Robert simply stood frozen, his brows furrowed in disbelief. He had expected Edward to win—everyone did. But this? One punch? Not even a proper exchange of blades? It was absurd, almost insulting to the title of a duel.
Is this really the difference in their strength? he thought, his lips tightening as the crowd erupted into chaotic murmurs.
Shaking off his shock, Vikel composed himself. With steady strides, he returned to the center of the arena, while members of the Medical Department rushed forward. They carefully lifted the limp body of Jakob Rake, his bloodied chin bandaged hastily as they carried him away on a stretcher. The sight silenced some of the audience, though most were still reeling in stunned amazement.
Raising his hand, Vikel's deep voice cut through the noise.
"The winner is—Edward von Zenithara!"
The Colosseum exploded. Cheers thundered like rolling storms, the chants of Edward's name echoing across the stone walls. Some clapped wildly, others whistled and shouted in awe, while a few still sat dumbfounded, unable to believe that a third-year had fallen to a single strike from a first-year.
Edward didn't even turn back to acknowledge them. His expression remained calm, almost bored, as if the outcome had been so obvious it wasn't worth celebrating.
Vikel, meanwhile, pressed on with the competition. His cloak billowed faintly as he lifted his hand once more.
"And now, for the next match—Rolak Din versus Domian Del!"
The crowd's roaring shifted in an instant, anticipation rising anew for the next clash.
"Hehe, I earned quite a lot this time. Want a share?" Edward asked, his grin wide and mischievous, the kind that made it clear he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
"No, thanks." Vern snorted, a wry twist to his lips. "You earned that money by scheming everyone—pretending to be weaker than even second-years. And don't forget—you used me to disguise your strength."
Edward chuckled, unfazed by the jab, letting his grin widen. "Ah, details, details. You're no fun."
As the following battles drew to a close, Edward's eyes flicked toward Vern. His tone shifted to something almost conspiratorial, though still playful. "Are you prepared? That guy… he looks like someone who could squash you."
Vern's expression remained calm, his sharp gaze already assessing the arena and his next opponent. A small, confident chuckle escaped him. "Hehe. You're well aware these guys can't defeat either you or me. Just get ready for the finals."
Edward's eyes narrowed slightly, scanning Vern's opponent: Domanic Gossen. Third-year, ranked third overall in strength among his peers. Just looking at the man, Edward could sense raw power radiating off him—easily three or four times stronger than Jakob had been.
"Well, that's true," Edward acknowledged, his tone steady, "but don't get careless."
"You don't have to worry," Vern said with a casual shrug, his sharp eyes already scanning the arena.
The sun had risen to its zenith, bathing the Colosseum in bright, almost blinding light. One by one, the battles had concluded, the echoes of clashing swords and roaring crowds fading into a tense hush. Only the final match remained—the ultimate showdown between Vern Kael and Domanic Gossen.
Instructor Vikel Robert stepped forward once more, his boots striking the stone floor with steady authority. The Colosseum quieted instantly, the thousands of students leaning forward in anticipation. He drew in a long, measured breath, his gaze sweeping over the remaining combatants.
"Step forward—Vern Kael… and Domanic Gossen!"
The words rang across the arena like a war drum, heavy with finality. Vern's posture remained calm, his hands loose at his sides, yet a spark of focus flared in his eyes. Across from him, Domanic Gossen's expression was steely, muscles taut under his training garb, eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of confidence and impatience.
The crowd stirred, whispers and murmurs cascading like a wave: third-year ranked third… can Vern even hope to survive this? The tension in the air was almost tangible, each heartbeat echoing in the silence between the two warriors.