Exhaustion didn't hit Soren all at once; it crept up behind him the moment his duel ended, then latched onto his shoulders like dead weight the second he stopped moving.
By the time he left the arena floor, yawns kept slipping out no matter how hard he tried to swallow them back, and eventually, he stopped pretending he was winning that fight.
He told Amelia and Esper he was going to sleep in the clubroom, accepted their reactions with a tired wave, then left the building where the first-years' mock duels were still grinding on.
Outside, the walkways of the campus felt cooler, quieter in a way that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with distance.
The further he got from the building, the more the noise blurred into background haze, and the more his brain filled the empty space with the thing it always did after a fight.
Replays.
His steps stayed steady as his mind looped through the duel he had just finished, going over every action, every movement, every blow, searching for the parts that had been sloppy, or lucky, or almost wrong.
It was a common occurrence for him, and it wasn't something he did because he enjoyed it; it was something he did because it helped.
Whenever he finished a fight or spar, he used [Library of Memories] and [Concentration] to run the sequence again and again, stripping it down until it was nothing but decisions and timing, then building it back up to see where the cracks were.
It was tiring, especially when he was already fatigued, but it worked.
Of course, it didn't make a huge difference overnight.
Knowing something didn't mean he could put it into practice immediately, and it definitely didn't fix problems that were just his stats, but it did stop weaknesses from fossilising into habits, and that alone was worth the effort.
A yawn tugged at his face as he replayed the opening.
'The [Shockwave] was fine… but I didn't aim it well.'
He had thrown it straight down the centre, trusting the pressure to force a reaction, and it had forced one, just not the one he wanted.
Dunlem's [Iron Wall] had anchored perfectly because Soren hadn't made him adjust; he hadn't given him a reason to shift his sword arm.
If he had angled it even slightly, left instead of centre, it would've struck Dunlem's sword arm first, not the barrier itself.
Even if it didn't break through, it would've forced a micro-step.
And a micro-step was all he needed to make the follow-up cleaner.
His mind flicked forward to the throw, the moment he had shouted "Hey!" and released the axe mid-word.
'The timing worked… but it was risky.'
It only worked because Dunlem chose the safe intercept.
If Dunlem had slipped his head and rushed instead, Soren would've lost his main weapon, and he still would've been forced to meet a bastard sword at close range with nothing but his body and a buckler.
There was a safer variant.
A low throw, aimed at the knee instead of the face.
It would still force a reaction, but it would steal footwork instead of vision, and if Dunlem ignored it, he risked collapsing his base.
Soren's steps slowed a fraction as he replayed the last sequence again, the burst step behind Dunlem, the copied technique that had ended everything before Dunlem could recover.
'My foot placement was ugly.'
He had copied the principle, not the form, and his back foot had landed slightly too narrow.
It worked for a fast thrust, but it would've been disastrous if Dunlem had spun instead of collapsing, because the narrow landing would've left Soren's shoulder line exposed and his balance too centred to respond cleanly.
A wider landing would protect against the turn.
It would also keep his exit angle safer.
'If I'm going to copy a technique… I need to copy the stance too.'
Another yawn escaped him, quieter this time, and the memory of the duel sank back into the corner of his mind the way everything did when he was done picking at it.
Overall, he had done well.
There were no obvious mistakes, just minor things that would improve with time and repetition.
If he had gone to meet Lilliana after, she would've praised him, he was sure of it, and the thought almost made him smile, if he wasn't so tired he could barely keep his eyes focused.
"Ah…"
His feet stopped.
"…I didn't even think about this," he muttered, blinking at the building in front of him.
It looked uncomfortably familiar.
Same kind of structure, same kind of entrance, same muffled noise bleeding through stone and wood, and the same sharp cadence of impact that told him fights were happening inside.
The second-year arena.
For a full minute, he just stood there, staring blankly at the front door as if the decision might make itself if he waited long enough.
He wanted to go back; he wanted to drop onto the clubroom sofa and pass out hard enough that even Esper's voice couldn't reach him.
But something about turning around right now felt like a waste.
He didn't know why at first, then he did.
Curiosity, the kind that always got him into trouble because it didn't feel like trouble until it already was.
"Should I check it out?" he asked himself, voice barely above a whisper.
He was tired, bone-deep tired, and yet the thought of walking away without even looking made his chest itch with irritation, as if he had just been handed a treasure chest and told not to open it.
Soren waited a few more seconds, then sighed as if he had already lost an argument.
"Whatever."
He pushed the door open.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
Inside, the scene was almost identical to the first-year arena.
Almost.
The layout was familiar: tiered stands, multiple rings, the same stone floor scuffed by countless matches, overseers spaced out with clipboards and bored faces like they had been born holding rules in their hands.
Even the way people entered and exited felt similar at a glance, names being called, fighters stepping forward, duels beginning and ending in a steady loop.
But the feeling was different.
The first-year arena was loud because everyone was trying too hard, nervous laughter and sharp cheers, people reacting to every little hit as if it was proof they were alive.
Here, the noise came from impact.
Not a wild impact.
Not a reckless one, either.
But a controlled impact.
The kind of sound you got when someone struck with full intention and no wasted movement, when a blade met a guard, and both people knew exactly why it happened, and what it would lead to next.
Soren stepped in and automatically slowed, not because anyone told him to, but because his body did it on instinct, as if it understood he had walked into a space where you could embarrass yourself just by breathing wrong.
He didn't have his hood up, and he suddenly hated that.
Exposed was the wrong word, but it was the closest one his tired brain could offer.
So he did what he always did when he didn't want to be seen.
He made himself small and activated [Stealth].
The skill settled over him like a thin film, not true invisibility, but enough that attention slid away unless someone was deliberately searching.
He moved to the side, leaned his shoulder against a wall near the entrance where he wouldn't block anyone, then let his gaze drop toward the rings below.
At first glance, it really was the same.
Students entered, overseers called names, duels started, and duels ended.
But the longer Soren watched, the more the differences stacked up in quiet, undeniable ways, until it stopped being "almost the same" and started being something else entirely.
The first thing he noticed was how people stood.
First-years either stood too stiff, like statues, or too loose, like they were trying to look relaxed.
Their shoulders gave away everything.
Their hands gave away everything.
Their feet gave away everything.
Second-years stood like they were already mid-fight.
Weight distributed properly, knees ready, hands placed where they could move without thinking.
Even the ones who looked casual were casual in a way that still kept them balanced, still kept them prepared, like "resting" was just another stance they had trained.
Soren's eyes tracked a Martial Studies student entering one of the rings near the centre.
Class E, he caught from the overseer's announcement.
Lean build, hair tied back, a spear resting in hand with none of the dramatic flourish first-years loved to perform when they wanted to feel impressive.
They rolled their shoulders once and stepped into position, then their mana enhancement flared: thin, clean, immediate, like switching on a lantern.
There was no visible strain.
No deep breath.
It was there because they wanted it there.
Across from them, their opponent raised their own enhancement with the same ease, like it was a baseline, not a panic button.
The overseer called start.
Soren blinked.
The opening exchange happened in less time than it took most first-years to decide on their first spell.
The spear-user didn't rush and didn't chase; they took a half-step forward and angled the spearhead, not to stab, but to deny space.
The opponent tried to circle.
The spear moved with them as if tethered to their centre line.
No wasted swings, no dramatic thrusts, just pressure, the quiet kind that squeezed you into bad choices without you realising you were being squeezed.
Soren watched the opponent's footwork tighten.
Watched them test an opening.
Watched them get shut down without being hit.
Then, when the opponent finally committed, stepping in with a sword slash meant to "break through", the spear-user didn't meet it head-on.
They shifted their hips, let the slash skim air, and tapped the opponent's wrist with the shaft.
Not hard, not damaging.
Just sharp enough to disrupt the grip and force the sword to re-seat.
The spearhead followed a heartbeat later, stopping at the opponent's throat with perfect distance, close enough to prove the point, controlled enough to avoid danger.
The overseer ended it.
The whole thing took maybe thirty seconds.
Soren stared, and the feeling wasn't the same kind of impressed he got when someone did something flashy, because there was nothing flashy about that.
It was the kind of impressed you got when you watched a lock click open with one motion, clean and efficient, like the answer had always been there and you just hadn't known how to turn the key.
'They didn't win because they were stronger,' he thought, eyes narrowing slightly. 'They won because the other guy never got to do what he wanted.'
The student bowed, stepped back, and walked off like it had been a warm-up.
Soren's jaw tightened without him meaning to.
That wasn't godly.
That was just… refined.
The kind of refinement that only came from repetition, from being corrected, from losing and adjusting, from being forced to care about details until your body learned them for you.
————「❤︎」————