The first-year training area had become a crucible of determination.
What started as Arden's personal hell had evolved into collective ambition. Over 300 first-years pushed themselves beyond normal limits, driven by a simple truth: the second-years had acknowledged them as threats.
'We can actually compete with them.'
That realization changed everything.
Students who'd previously been content with maintaining their positions now trained with desperate intensity. The strong will that some had lacked before now burned in their eyes.
Individual training sessions sprouted up everywhere. Students practicing forms in corners, sparring in pairs, pushing themselves during every free moment between structured lessons.
The knights had to increase supervised training intensity just to prevent injuries. Better to roll them hard under professional observation than let them hurt themselves through reckless solo work.
Meanwhile, the second-years were experiencing a crisis of confidence.
"Did you hear? First-year Rank 31 said he'd be 'enough' to fight our Rank 10."
"The disrespect..."
"But our Rank 1 barely beat their Rank 10. And their top three didn't even participate."
The rumors had spread like wildfire through the upper years. By now, everyone knew: the first-years weren't just promising—they were dangerous.
Third-years started feeling the pressure too. The second-years' frantic training made it clear: the gap between grades was shrinking rapidly.
But the fourth-years and above remained unconcerned. They watched the chaos with amusement, placing bets on who would advance and who would fail.
"Think the first-years can really push into third-year territory?"
"The top three might. That Valekrest kid and the twin-sword girl are monsters."
"What about the mace wielder? Rank 3?"
"Progressive Annihilation specialist at that age? Terrifying."
----
Arden moved through sword forms with methodical precision.
Basic strike. Defensive transition. Footwork adjustment. Reset.
Again.
Imperial Basic Swordsmanship. The foundation he'd been building for months.
His movements were clean now. Efficient. The forms had been engraved into his muscle memory through countless repetitions.
This is what I have. What I can actually use.
Winter's Edge—his family's legendary sword style—remained largely theoretical knowledge in his mind. He knew the principles, understood the philosophy, had watched demonstrations.
But he'd never properly learned it.
The Valekrest style was designed for mounted combat. Cavalry warfare. Fighting from horseback against monster hordes. Every technique, every form, every principle assumed you were elevated above your opponent with a horse's momentum adding force to your strikes.
His father had planned to teach him the dismounted variants—the versions adapted for ground combat—after he mastered the basics. But Arden had left for the academy before that training began.
I could try to reconstruct it from memory and partial knowledge. But that would be stupid.
Half-learned family techniques executed incorrectly would get me killed faster than just using what I actually know.
So he focused on what was real: Imperial Basic Swordsmanship, refined through constant practice.
But he wasn't just maintaining it. He was building on it.
Small modifications. Slight adjustments to footwork that incorporated principles from Winter's Edge mana circulation. Subtle changes to strike angles that drew from his family's philosophy without trying to copy specific techniques he'd never learned.
Creating something personal. Something that worked for him on foot, right now, with what he actually knew.
"You only ever practice that basic sword style."
Arden stopped mid-swing and turned.
Brick Hale stood there—massive frame, blonde hair, tattoos visible on his forearms. His practice mace rested casually on his shoulder, but his eyes were sharp. Analytical.
They'd trained in the same top group for months but never really talked. Brick kept to himself mostly, focused entirely on his own development.
"Is there a problem with that?" Arden asked neutrally.
"No problem." Brick stepped closer. "Just curious. You're from a Grand Duke family. They have their own sword style, right? The Valekrest techniques are supposed to be legendary."
"Winter's Edge," Arden confirmed. "My family's style."
"So why not use it?"
Arden considered how much to explain.
"It's designed for cavalry combat. Fighting from horseback. I never finished learning the grounded variants before coming here." He shrugged. "Using half-learned techniques poorly seemed like a good way to die."
Brick's eyebrows rose. "So you're just... building from scratch?"
"Not scratch. I'm using what I actually know—Imperial Basic Swordsmanship—and modifying it based on principles from my family's style. Taking what I understand theoretically and integrating it into practical technique."
Arden resumed his stance, demonstrating a sequence that flowed smoothly between defensive positioning and strike combinations.
"Something personal. Something that works for me."
"Most nobles would insist on using their family style regardless," Brick observed.
"Most nobles care more about tradition than effectiveness." Arden lowered his sword. "I care about not dying."
Something shifted in Brick's expression. Recognition, maybe. Understanding.
"I get that." His grip on his mace tightened. "Everyone expects certain things from me too. Background, reputation, whatever. But Accumulated Destruction only works if I make it my own. Can't just copy what others did."
He moved into ready position, mace coming off his shoulder.
"Spar with me."
Arden blinked. "Now?"
"Why not? I've been watching your training for weeks." Brick's grin was fierce. "You keep pushing yourself. Creating something new. I want to see where you actually are."
"We could just wait for the ranking battles—"
"This isn't about rankings." Brick's eyes blazed with competitive fire. "This is about testing ourselves. Pushing limits. Isn't that why we're all here?"
Arden felt a smile tugging at his lips.
He's right. This is exactly why we're here.
"Alright."
The word spread instantly.
Students training nearby stopped what they were doing. Whispers rippled outward in expanding circles. Within minutes, first-years were gathering around the training area.
Rank 1 versus Rank 3. A breakthrough match.
Most students assumed Elara was the strongest. Rank 2's surgical precision with twin swords was undeniable. Even professors acknowledged her technical superiority.
But Arden had something different. Experience that didn't match his age. Tactical thinking that seemed instinctive. Growth that defied normal progression.
And Brick? Brick had raw power amplified by Progressive Annihilation—a technique that made every successive strike exponentially more dangerous.
A first-year from the top 10 stepped forward to referee.
"Standard academy duel rules. First to three clean hits wins. Serious injury results in immediate forfeit." He looked between them. "Ready?"
Arden raised his practice sword. Basic guard position. Weight balanced. Mind clear.
Brick hefted his mace, tattoos seeming to darken as mana began flowing through his body.
The gathered students went silent.
The referee raised his hand.
"Begin!"
Brick exploded forward.
Not the wild charge Arden expected. Not overwhelming force meant to crush through defense.
Instead—controlled power. Measured steps. The mace came around in a perfectly timed horizontal strike aimed at Arden's ribs.
Fast. Much faster than his size suggests.
Arden sidestepped, letting the mace whistle past.
CRACK!
The weapon's passage left a compression wave in the air. The sound of concentrated force.
He's holding back. Testing my speed first.
Brick pivoted smoothly, transitioning into an overhead strike without pause.
BOOM!
Arden moved again, but this time he felt it—the displacement of air, the pressure, the sheer power behind the attack.
That was stronger than the first strike. Already building.
"First stack," Brick announced calmly. "Each strike charges the next. You know this, right?"
"Progressive Annihilation," Arden confirmed, circling carefully. "Power compounds with each attack."
"Smart." Brick advanced steadily. "Most people don't realize that until they've taken three or four hits. By then it's too late."
He attacked again—this time a feint high transitioning to a low sweep.
Arden read the feint, started to dodge upward—
Wait. That's what he wants.
—adjusted mid-movement, going low instead.
The mace whistled overhead, carrying even more force than before.
Third strike. Power still building.
"Good instincts," Brick said.
The crowd watching began to murmur. This wasn't the one-sided domination they'd expected from either fighter. Both were feeling each other out, probing for weaknesses, building strategy.
Brick shifted his stance slightly.
Then attacked.
BOOM! CRASH! WHAM!
Three strikes in rapid succession—faster than before, each one carrying accumulated force from all previous attacks.
Arden's hybrid defensive style kicked in. Footwork from Basic Swordsmanship. Mana circulation principles from Winter's Edge. Movement patterns he'd developed through months of hellish training.
He flowed between the strikes like water.
Not blocking—deflecting. Not meeting force directly—redirecting it.
But the power kept building.
Every strike I make him miss still charges the next one. This technique doesn't require landing hits—just attempting them.
"You're fast," Brick acknowledged, breathing slightly harder now. "But speed has limits."
His next attack came from an impossible angle—the mace somehow curving mid-swing, defying the momentum physics should demand.
Mana reinforcement. He's adding force mid-strike to change trajectories.
Arden barely twisted away in time.
Can't keep this up forever. Need to disrupt his rhythm.
He stopped retreating.
Stepped forward instead, moving into Brick's guard.
The sudden advance caught Brick mid-swing—committed to an attack that would now completely miss its target.
Arden's practice sword came up toward Brick's shoulder—
Brick's off-hand shot out, grabbing Arden's wrist with crushing strength.
Shit!
The mace reversed direction with terrifying speed, coming back around in a strike that would—
Arden yanked his arm free, sacrificing position for mobility, throwing himself backward—
CRACK!
The mace passed inches from his face.
He felt the heat from compressed air. Saw the power distortion in his peripheral vision.
Both fighters separated, breathing hard.
"Close," Brick said, grinning fiercely. "You almost had me."
"You almost had me first."
"That's what makes it fun."
The crowd had gone completely silent. Every eye fixed on the two combatants.
This wasn't just a spar anymore. This was something else.
A test of newly forged skills against overwhelming power.
Experience against natural talent.
Tactical adaptation against raw accumulation.
Brick raised his mace again. The accumulated force radiating from it was now visible—faint distortions in the air around the weapon.
"This is fun," he said. "I'm at maximum charge. One clean hit from me ends this."
"Then don't miss," Arden replied, settling into his stance.
The referee tensed, ready to call the match if things went too far.
The gathered students held their breath.
Brick's muscles coiled. Mana blazed through his reinforcement channels.
Arden's mind went perfectly calm. Combat instincts honed across two lifetimes focusing entirely on the next moment.
They moved simultaneously—
BOOM!
The collision of power sent shockwaves across the training ground—