Pete's blurred vision slowly began to steady. The ringing in his ears dulled, and the first thing he saw… was Catherine's face.
She was smiling. Wide. Radiant. Happy.
Pete's chest twisted. Rage surged through him. To him, it looked like Catherine was happy—happy because Ace was talking to her. Happy because Ace was standing over her. His blood boiled.
Gritting his teeth, he gripped his holy sword. Its divine glow flared, spilling into his body, forcing clarity back into his senses.
No… I won't allow this. I'll protect her. I have to.
With a roar, Pete lunged forward.
Ace, who was still facing Catherine, hadn't even noticed the charge until it was too late. Pete's fist slammed into his face, cutting his lip and sending him staggering a couple of steps to the side.
The camp froze. The hero had landed a blow on the feared Ace Thornevale.
Pete's chest heaved as he glared, holy light coursing through him.
Ace slowly turned his head toward him, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His expression didn't falter. His eyes, cold and unshaken, locked on Pete.
Then—shing!
In a blur of motion, Ace unsheathed his blade.
Before Pete could even register the movement, Ace was already in front of him. All Pete saw was a sudden punch to his face, and then pain as his body was hurled back, skidding across the ground.
Coughing, Pete forced himself up. His holy sword flared again, filling him with divine strength, enough to keep him fighting.
He charged.
"RAAAAHHH!"
His sword came down in a glowing arc, but Ace's demonic blade rose to meet it.
CLANG!
The two forces collided—holy light against demonic darkness. The air cracked, the students shielding their faces as the clash sent a violent wave through the camp.
The swords pulsed, the powers snarling at each other, divine and cursed energies trying to consume one another. The ground trembled.
But Ace's free hand moved first.
WHAM!
A brutal punch drove into Pete's gut, knocking the wind out of him. His body folded, and he stumbled back, gasping for air.
Still, Pete roared again, charging forward, swinging wildly. Each strike was blocked, parried, redirected. Ace's counters were merciless—another punch to the ribs, a knee to the stomach, a kick that sent him tumbling.
Again and again, Pete rose, bloodied and torn, until his pristine armor was ragged, his body barely holding. The holy light was the only thing forcing his limbs to move.
Ace, by contrast, looked unshaken. His breath was steady, his movements sharp, controlled, efficient. To him, this wasn't a fight—it was a lesson.
And then—BAM!
A final kick sent Pete sliding across the dirt, his sword slipping from his grip. His chest heaved as blood dripped from his mouth. He was trembling, broken, but still trying to push himself up.
Ace stepped forward, his sword raised—cold, unwavering.
The students stood in frozen horror. Their hero, the one they believed untouchable, was being beaten down like an animal.
And then—
CLANG!
A different blade cut between them.
Sarina stood firm, her sword raised, her stance unyielding. Her eyes locked on Ace with defiance that silenced the trembling camp.
"That's enough, Ace Thornevale," she said, her voice steady but edged with steel. "If you want to harm the hero further… you'll have to go through me first."
The camp fell into utter silence.
Ace's gaze hardened on Sarina, the air around him seeming to grow heavier. For a second, he said nothing.
Then—shing!
His blade lashed out.
Sarina didn't flinch. Steel met steel as she caught his strike, her sword ringing under the force. The ground beneath her boots cracked slightly from the weight of his blow.
Ace's free hand shot forward for a punch—like he had done to Pete.
But Sarina wasn't Pete.
Her blade snapped upward, forcing his sword back, her foot twisting as she pushed in, counterattacking with sharp precision. Sparks burst with each clash.
The fight erupted into a storm.
Ace's strikes were fast, efficient, ruthless. Sarina's were sharp, controlled, disciplined. Steel rang again and again, every movement too fast for the students to follow.
Gasps escaped the watching crowd. They had never seen anyone face Sarina like this—not even the hero.
At first, they looked evenly matched. Neither landed a blow, their blades flashing in a blur, their feet shifting with deadly rhythm. Each clash sent ripples of force through the barrier-lit camp.
But as the duel dragged on, the cracks began to show.
Sarina's breath grew heavy. Her arms trembled under the weight of each strike. Ace, by contrast, moved like a storm without end—his expression calm, his movements unshaken.
Clang—clang—clang!
She blocked one swing, two swings, three—her blade vibrating violently in her hands. Ace's relentless pressure drove her back, step by step.
Her eyes narrowed in disbelief.
'He's… stronger than me?'
With a swift feint, Ace twisted his wrist, knocking Sarina's sword wide. Before she could recover, his blade shot forward, sending her weapon skittering across the dirt, useless.
The cold edge of his steel pressed against her throat.
The camp fell into a suffocating silence.
Ace's chest rose and fell with each breath, his grip steady, his eyes locked on Sarina's as his blade remained against her skin. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath, the glow of the torches casting shadows over the stillness.
Then, with a barely perceptible movement, he pulled his sword back and sheathed it with casual precision.
Without sparing her another glance, Ace turned, his back to the defeated swordswoman, and began walking toward his tent.
"Stupid idiots," he muttered, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, his words laced with contempt. They sliced through the air, more cutting than any sword ever could.
The students stood frozen, eyes wide, hearts racing in disbelief. Their so-called hero had been shattered in an instant, their swordsmanship teacher left disarmed and humiliated. And Ace? Unshaken, untouched, he strode away as if none of it had mattered, as if they were all beneath him.
Nobody dared whisper, let alone move. The weight of Ace's words—and the sight of Sarina disarmed—hung heavy in the night air like a suffocating fog.
Then the flap of the barrier rippled, and a Thornevale guard stepped inside. His armor bore fresh scratches, a thin line of blood along the edge of his gauntlet.
"Return to your tents," he shouted, voice calm but firm. "The battle has ended. We've defeated all of the creatures."
The words were like a rope tossed to drowning men. The silence broke—not with speech, but with the hurried shuffle of boots. The students seized the chance to escape the unbearable atmosphere. One by one, they turned, slipping back toward their tents, their heads lowered, faces pale, pretending nothing had happened.
Catherine, however, did not move.
Her body trembled as if she had just been shaken awake. Then, with sudden urgency, she darted toward Pete, who was still lying bruised and battered on the ground. Dropping to her knees, she raised her hands, light blooming faintly from her palms.
"Heal."
The magic washed over Pete's torn body, closing gashes and sealing cuts. It wasn't perfect—the spell lacked the Saintess's full strength—but the bleeding slowed, his shallow breaths grew steadier, and the wounds knitted halfway shut.
Pete groaned, then forced himself to sit up, his hand clenching tightly around his holy sword. His body shook, his pride more wounded than his flesh.
"So what if he beat me with strength," he spat, his voice hoarse but burning with stubborn fire. His blurred eyes glared toward the tent Ace had vanished into. "Strength is nothing. In the city under him, under the eyes of all, I'll expose him. I'll strip that mask of his away. I'll gain the support of everyone and when everyone sees him for what he is. And then… I'll crush him."
Catherine's healing light dimmed. Her hands lowered slowly, her golden hair brushing across her face as she bowed her head. Deep inside, she knew the truth—that even with support, defeating Ace was near impossible.
But she didn't say it.
Instead, she whispered softly, "You need rest, Hero. Rest now. We'll speak again tomorrow."
Pete exhaled sharply, but didn't argue. His pride smoldered, his jaw tight, his knuckles white.
Just then, a servant in plain clothes approached and bowed deeply. "Please, Hero. Allow me to assist you."
The servant took his arm gently, helping him up, and guided him toward his tent. Pete leaned against the support reluctantly, never taking his eyes off the tent Ace had gone into, his gaze filled with hatred and resolve.
Catherine stood there alone for a moment longer, her chest heavy with conflicting emotions. Then she, too, turned away into the darkness of the camp, her expression unreadable.
Inside one tent, a group of mages huddled together, their ornamental robes still on their backs. One of them finally broke the silence in a hushed tone.
"…Did you see? Sarina. She is a first-rate warrior, and even she—""—couldn't do anything," another finished, voice cracking.
They exchanged glances, none daring to say Ace's name aloud.
In another tent, a trio of noble sons sat staring at their swords, the shine of their polished armor now seeming almost ridiculous. One of them clenched his jaw.
"The Hero… he was tossed around like a rag doll.""Careful what you say," another warned quickly, glancing toward the tent flap as if Ace might appear. "He's still the Hero. And Ace… is still Ace Thornevale."The third boy rubbed his arms. "If even the Hero was beaten like that, then what are we?"
A silence followed. None had an answer.
Meanwhile, among the girls, whispers carried a different tone. They were quieter, sharper.
"Did you see how calm he was? He didn't even look tired…""But he's terrifying. To hit the Hero like that—""…and yet, he's right. Catherine… she looked happy when he annulled the engagement.""Happy, yes. But what about us? If someone like her can be shaken like that, what chance do we have?"
Their voices trembled between awe and fear.
Back in Sarina's tent, she sat alone, sword resting across her knees. Her palms still throbbed from the clash with Ace's blade. Her pride had taken a wound deeper than any cut.
"He was holding back," she muttered to herself, lips tightening. "He could've ended it sooner."
For Sarina, that truth was the most suffocating of all.
And outside, under the cover of night, guards patrolled quietly. The monsters were slain, the barrier was down. Yet the true battle was not outside—it churned restlessly within the students' hearts.
In a separate tent, Elric sat cross-legged with his staff resting by his side. Unlike the others, there was no unease in his eyes—only amusement. His lips curled into a smile as he recalled the clash that had unfolded just moments before.
"The Hero…" he whispered to himself, brushing his fingers across the wood of his staff. "So much bravado, so much noise. And yet, he bleeds. He panics. He can be broken without ever touching the cult's resources."