I was looking when I heard Seraphine.
Seraphine asked,
"Should I ask him why?"
The whole main cast looked at her.
I noticed someone coming from behind, running and trying to punch me.
Who the hell punches someone from behind. And for now reason at that. With this level he can be at most a class A student and I haven't interacted much with anyone. Those I did interact with know who I am and would not idiotically try to pick a fight.
Alaric warned me,
"Hey, look out."
But I just tilted my head, and the idiot who attacked me completely missed. Still carried by his momentum, the idiot stumbled forward and ended up right in front of me.
Maybe he got angry—he unsheathed his sword.
He said,
"You should have been in Class A. Since you're not, it means you're not a student of the academy. So I won't get punished as long as I don't kill you."
I didn't even look at him. If I did, it would be an insult to all the powerful beings I've defeated or killed.
The idiot immediately slashed at me, but I just stepped back a little. The sword passed so close that even a sheet of paper wouldn't fit between it and me.
And I still ignored him.
He thrust his sword again, but I rotated and chopped at his neck.
Idiot.
Picking a fight is one thing but not seeing he can't win and still going on is just another. I was not even looking at you while fighting and yet I had the upperhand. What was going on on his mind.
Then I heard Seraphine again.
"Maybe I should ask who he is."
But before she could, someone approached—fast, too fast. It was definitely someone of SS-Rank.
I turned and saw Kael Ardentis.
Kael said,
"Twelfth Lord, I apologize for what just happened."
The entire main cast froze.
I smiled and replied,
"Why worry? I don't take everyone seriously. Doing so would be an insult to the strong ones I've fought."
Did I sound arrogant?
Well, look at my feats.
My greatest feat is being the youngest Powerhouse.
Kael said awkwardly,
"Yes, but we also have a reputation to keep. We'll punish him."
I nodded and asked,
"So, is there something you wanted?"
Kael said,
"You're here, so I thought you might give some insight to the third-year students."
I highly doubted that was true.
After all, I was in my first year myself before I left—what could I possibly teach a third-year?
This must be the Principal's doing.
He's clever, really.
Trying to sound as humble as possible, I said,
"I don't know much about anything. All I know is how to fight. Why don't I just give them a mock battle?"
Yeah, he must have already thought about where to take this conversation, so I gave him something he couldn't refuse. A mock battle with a Powerhouse is too valuable to deny.
And maybe he might try to gather some intelligence… well, not him, but the Principal.
He said,
"That's a great idea."
I nodded and asked,
"Where's the Principal? Will he join us?"
He shook his head.
"No. He's left the academy."
Eh? Was I wrong?
Sigh…
---
I was in the arena.
Why?
Because I was about to do a mock battle with the entire third year.
Kael's voice echoed across the arena, sharp and clear.
"Today's match is between Adrian Lewin, the Twelfth Lord, and one thousand Third-Year students of Celestara Academy! Let the battle begin!"
I stepped forward, glancing at the assembled students.
"This fight… seems a little unfair," I said calmly.
A ripple of laughter ran through the Third Years.
"Hah! So he knows it's unfair—to him?" one sneered.
Another added, "Is he scared already?"
I shook my head slightly and pulled a blindfold over my eyes.
"No," I said softly, "it's unfair to you."
Gasps and murmurs filled the arena. The Third Years' smirks faltered.
The arena buzzed with anticipation. The murmur of the first- and second-year students in the stands was constant—a low tide of excitement and disbelief. I could hear the teachers' whispers: gasps, murmurs, and sharp commands. Kael's voice rang out again, keeping the tension alive—
Then the moment passed, and chaos erupted.
I felt them before I saw them—a wave of hostile intent, varied and complex, radiating from the crowd of Third Years. I could sense their strength, their weapons, even the elements their magic aligned with.
My Sixth Sense read their intentions as if they were written in the air, and Omniscient heightened every vibration of the arena—the shuffle of feet, the rustle of cloaks, the snap of leather straps.
A spear thrust toward where I had been standing. I didn't flinch. The tip passed harmlessly through empty space. My blindfold remained untouched.
I shifted my weight, every motion both fluid and precise. I felt the air compress differently as spells streaked toward me—fire, wind, water, lightning. Each was a thread of danger. I didn't counter; I simply moved in the gaps between those threads.
A dwarf lunged from the left, swinging a hammer that could crush bones. My foot pivoted, spinning me aside at the perfect angle. The hammer smashed into the stone floor with a ringing clang. Sparks burst from the impact, and I noted faint microfractures in the stone.
A human mage behind him unleashed a torrent of flame. The heat brushed my skin, but I had already shifted—a fraction faster than perception could register. The smell of burning leather and vaporizing moisture filled the air as Omniscient tuned my senses to perfection.
From the right, an elf's twin blades shimmered—fast and fluid like water. I sidestepped, letting the first blade graze a hair's breadth from my blindfolded face. The second followed a predictable arc; I rotated, slipping beneath it, emerging meters away. Not a scratch.
A group of five beastmen charged together—wolfkin and tigerkin with claws and brute strength. Their intent was simple: overwhelm and crush. I felt their aggression like waves crashing against a cliff and danced between them, each step calculated. Their claws tore through empty air, ripping up chunks of earth and scattering sand.
The Third Years hadn't expected a blindfolded opponent. Their mockery quickly turned to disbelief, frustration, and panic.
One shouted, "He can't see! Strike him now!"
Another hissed, "He's cheating!"
But I wasn't cheating. I was simply faster—far faster—than their perception could handle.
A fireball the size of a boulder roared toward me. I turned sharply, letting it explode a meter to my left. The heat licked my arm, but I felt no burn. A scream followed—the caster's own ally had been caught in the blast.
A coordinated strike followed—one hundred students forming a semicircle, their attacks synchronized. I moved like a shadow weaving through reality. Each step, each pivot, each breath—perfectly measured.
I could hear the first-years gasping, awed. Some whispered; others laughed nervously. Teachers exchanged astonished murmurs.
The ground erupted beneath me. I rolled, landing on one knee as dirt exploded around me. The vibration told me it was earth magic. With a flick of my weight, I vanished from their line of sight, reappearing behind a cluster of students.
A spear jabbed where I had been.
Metal screeched against stone.
Someone yelled, "Focus fire! Don't let him—"
But before he could finish, I spun, ducked, and stepped precisely through the chaos. Claws, blades, hammers, elemental bursts—all missed. Every student who attacked me felt hesitation and confusion. Their coordination faltered.
I didn't raise a hand. I didn't teleport. I didn't strike.
I simply moved—reading intent, feeling pressure, hearing every faint movement. Their collective assault became a chaotic dance of near-misses, each one missing by the narrowest margin.
A human swordsman lunged from my left, swinging in a wide arc. I rotated on my heel, the blade whistling past my blindfolded face. A dwarf beside him collided with his ally, crashing to the floor. Shouts of anger rose, but I remained composed.
Lightning magic crackled from above—a student hovering mid-air, charging a strike. The bolt passed harmlessly as I shifted slightly. Every attack felt slow, every move predictable.
By now, the Third Years were panicking. Their formations broke. Spells misfired. Swords clashed with each other.
All the while, I stood unharmed—blindfolded, unhurried, precise.
A wind elemental hurled a barrage of razor-sharp gusts. I leaned into the flow, letting the air carve paths around me, every movement controlled, every inch accounted for.
Students screamed as their own blades met empty space—or worse, struck each other.
Frustration filled the air—anger, disbelief, panic. They had never faced anyone like this.
I didn't even acknowledge them. My movements were almost meditative. Step, pivot, sidestep, lean, rotate—always avoid.
Even with one thousand Third Years attacking from every direction, I felt… calm.
Each strike passed me like wind through branches.
Not a scratch.
Not even a brush of pain.
Hurting me was not possible with the strength they have right now.
Maybe teachers decided it's best to make them humble or when fighting demons they might die.