Elric Lewin POV
Althaea said loudly to herself, though everyone could hear her,
"Last time, I fought Seraphine. Should I fight Sylwen next?"
Seraphine replied, smirking,
"I already booked her."
Althaea shouted,
"When?"
Seraphine smirked wider.
"When you were busy investigating Elric."
Althaea's face turned red.
"Hey! You make it sound... weird!"
Alaric asked,
"Why don't you fight me instead?"
Althaea brightened.
"That's a good idea. Let's go after those fighting right now."
Alaric said
" And I also try the new techniques I had been practicing. Don't disappoint me."
Althaea smirked
" If you will get disappointed on losing them I can't guarantee you. But then again I can say that to you too . Don't disappoint me."
Soon, the current spar ended, and Althaea and Alaric approached the professor and informed him that they want to fight each other.
Professor agreed.
It was time—Althaea vs. Alaric.
This would be interesting. Althaea had the personality of a knight; for her, victory was everything.
Alaric Blackwood, being the protagonist, also wanted to win.
I stood among the students, arms crossed, watching as Alaric Blackwood and Althaea Arkwright took their positions at the center.
Even before the match began, the difference in their stances was clear.
Alaric stood calmly, his grip loose around his training sword, Vigil's Edge. His grey eyes—quiet, unshaken—tracked Althaea's every motion.
Across from him, Althaea's posture was textbook-perfect—knees bent, sword raised near her shoulder, sunlight flashing off the polished emblem of her family crest on her cape. She was just like a knight. Duke really should have held back and only trained her technique. Why even effect her personality. Though the personality could be the result of her city.
The Knight's Daughter versus the Swordsman.
It wasn't an official duel, just a spar under Professor Thane Edrich's supervision. But the tension felt real. The air was still; even the students who had been whispering before now held their breath.
"Begin," Professor Thane said, his voice even but sharp enough to cut through the quiet.
Althaea moved first, as expected. Her foot dug into the sand, and she closed the distance in an instant—clean, efficient, trained.
The sound of steel clashing filled the arena as their swords met.
The first exchange was even. But only barely.
Alaric didn't block with brute strength; he turned her blade aside at the last possible second, redirecting her momentum rather than clashing against it. It was subtle—so subtle that half the crowd probably missed it.
But I saw it. Omniscient would pick it up for me. Sixth Sense helped separately too. I could even pick up the thoughts of Powerhouses so it's not a surprise.
But it's not me but Alaric fighting her.
And he....
He's reading her.
Althaea's follow-up slash was faster—an arc aimed at his midsection—but Alaric twisted just enough that the blunt edge of her practice sword skimmed the fabric of his uniform without landing solidly. His counter came immediately after, a diagonal strike that forced her to leap back.
The watching students murmured.
"He's faster than before."
"No way he could've done that last month."
"Did he train under someone?"
Alaric didn't respond to anything. His focus was absolute—every breath measured, every motion precise.
Althaea gritted her teeth and switched tactics. She circled him, keeping her distance for a moment, her emerald eyes narrowed. Then she lunged forward again, her sword glowing faintly with mana—an enhancement spell, simple but effective.
Professor Thane Edrich spoke then, calm but instructive.
"Good. Channel the mana properly, Arkwright. Control it—don't let it control you."
Alaric met her head-on, his own sword carrying a faint shimmer of light magic. Their blades collided, and for an instant, sparks of condensed mana crackled between them.
The crowd gasped as both fighters staggered back.
I smiled faintly. He wasn't just stronger physically—his mana flow was smoother too. Cleaner.
When did he learn to do that? Even in the novel, not every second of his life is mentioned. It's better that way—it builds suspense when he reveals something new in a fight.
Alaric stepped forward again, his eyes never leaving hers. Their next exchange was faster.
Althaea struck high, then low, then feinted—a pattern she'd used dozens of times in training. But Alaric didn't fall for it. He sidestepped the feint, parried the real strike, and twisted her wrist just enough to knock her slightly off balance.
"Excellent timing, Blackwood," Professor Thane called. "Don't chase the opening. Let it come."
Alaric didn't. He waited—three beats—then moved.
One clean step. One quick thrust.
The tip of his sword touched Althaea's chest, just above her heart. A single tap—the mark of victory.
For a moment, silence. Then applause and scattered cheers rose from the stands.
I exhaled quietly, realizing I'd been holding my breath.
Althaea blinked, stunned, before lowering her weapon and stepping back. Her face showed surprise first, then reluctant admiration.
"I didn't expect that," she said, her voice low but clear.
Alaric smiled slightly—barely more than a twitch of his lips.
"Neither did I," he said.
It wasn't arrogance. Just honesty.
Professor Thane Edrich nodded approvingly.
"Well fought, both of you. Blackwood, your growth is evident. Your control over mana has improved, and your footwork—" he gave a rare approving nod—"finally matches your eyes."
That earned a ripple of murmurs. Some students looked impressed, others skeptical. A few looked… worried.
Because in our class, Alaric Blackwood had always been the quiet one. Reliable, yes—but not dazzling.
He worked harder than most, trained longer than most—but until now, he hadn't shone.
And yet, here he was—standing at the center of the arena, sweat running down his cheek, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths, the faint glimmer of light magic fading from his sword.
He didn't look triumphant. Just… steady.
I found myself smiling faintly.
I could feel it in the air, in the way the arena itself seemed quieter around him.
He had grown stronger—a lot stronger.
And not just in strength. In clarity. In precision.
The kind of improvement that doesn't come from talent, but from obsession.
Professor Thane Edrich stepped forward and raised his hand.
"That concludes the mock battle. A fine demonstration from both of you."
He paused, glancing at the still-whispering first-years.
"Remember what you just saw. Technique without control is wasted effort. But control without purpose is just hesitation. Balance them both."
Althaea turned to Alaric again.
"Next time," she said, her tone halfway between challenge and admiration, "I'll win."
He nodded once, almost respectfully.
"Then I'll look forward to it."
Their blades tapped lightly in acknowledgment, and they both walked back toward the waiting area.
I followed them with my gaze, my mind oddly still.
For a moment, the noise of the arena faded—the chatter, the footsteps, the clang of training weapons in the distance.
All I saw was the calm, unwavering expression on Alaric's face.
He looked… composed. Like someone who had finally begun to find his rhythm.
And in that quiet moment, I couldn't help but think—
He's not done growing yet.
Whatever lay ahead in this academy—whatever trials or rivalries waited—
Alaric Blackwood wouldn't be a name easily forgotten.
Even the Hero was present, and yet he would shine. The struggles would only increase, but that was fine. That just meant I'd have more fun.
Wait I am not reading a novel. I should get a grip on myself.
---
Seraphine asked Sylwen,
"Shall we?"
Sylwen nodded.
Then they went and asked for permission and the Professor agreed.
Professor Thane Edrich called out the next names.
"Next bout—Sylwen Starleaf versus Seraphine Nightingale."
A murmur ran through the stands. The crowd of first-years leaned forward again, voices rising in admiration and curiosity.
Even among the academy's top class, those two names stood out.
Sylwen, the elf from the western forests—gentle, quiet, and elegant in everything she did.
And Seraphine, the daughter of an elder from the Mage Tower—playful, brilliant, and unpredictable.
I adjusted my position, eyes narrowing as both stepped forward, ready to fight.
Sylwen moved like she was walking through water—fluid, balanced, her silver hair flowing behind her as if it had a life of its own. The sunlight touched her skin, and for an instant, a faint glow shimmered along her outline—a natural aura, something all elves possessed, though rarely this visible.
She looked like her mother.
Seraphine, on the other hand, looked as if she had just woken up. Still playful, she adjusted her robe's sleeve, the small charm on her wrist catching the light. Her violet eyes shimmered faintly as she twirled her wand lazily.
She, too, looked like her mother.
Their fathers must be crying in some corner.
The contrast between them couldn't be sharper—graceful calm versus careless brilliance.
Professor Thane raised his hand.
"Remember the rules. No lethal spells, no summoning spirits you can't provide mana to, and control your area of effect."
Seraphine smirked.
"I'll try, Professor."
Sylwen bowed her head slightly, her expression serene.
"Understood."
But they were only looking at each other.
"Begin."