"Start!"
Caden exploded forward, abandoning all pretense of superiority.
His steel sword came down in a brutal overhead strike, mana blazing along the blade's edge—the telltale hazy glow of someone at the peak of 2nd Stage.
Fast. Powerful. But predictable.
Arden sidestepped smoothly, letting the blade whistle past close enough to feel the displaced air.
Caden's momentum carried him forward—overextended, balance compromised.
There.
Arden's practice sword came up in a simple rising strike, catching Caden's exposed flank with mana-reinforced precision.
CRACK!
The impact sent Caden stumbling sideways.
"Keuk—"
But Arden was already moving, flowing into the next strike with the ruthless efficiency of someone who'd fought in actual wars.
Not wars against monsters in this world.
Wars against humans. In Iraq. In Afghanistan. In places where hesitation meant death.
His sword came down on Caden's guard—not trying to overpower, but redirecting, finding the angles where force became leverage.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Three strikes in rapid succession. Each one forced Caden to adjust, to compensate, to burn stamina maintaining balance.
"Your foundation is weak," Arden said calmly, his voice cutting through Caden's heavy breathing. "You're using raw power when you should be using technique."
"SHUT UP!"
Caden's mana flared—pouring more energy into his blade, trying to overwhelm through sheer force.
Amateur mistake. Burning mana too fast.
Arden's strikes continued—methodical, precise, targeting specific points.
"Your bottom is open."
TAP!
A quick thrust to Caden's lower guard, forcing him to drop his blade.
"Don't you need to block your upper body?"
SLASH!
A horizontal cut that Caden barely parried, arms trembling from the impact.
"Your flanks are open."
CRACK!
Another strike that Caden couldn't fully defend, catching his shoulder hard enough to make him grunt.
"Your movements are too big."
It was clinical. Almost educational.
Arden wasn't just winning—he was teaching. Pointing out every flaw, every weakness, every gap in Caden's technique with the precision of a master instructor breaking down a student's form.
The watching first-years were silent, mesmerized.
Serra's periwinkle-blue eyes tracked every movement, her earlier embarrassment forgotten in fascination.
He's not even trying his hardest, she realized. He's holding back. Testing. Analyzing.
This is what he looks like when he's serious.
Her friend leaned close, whispering, "Still think he's not watching you? Because he fights like someone who knows he has an audience."
Serra's face heated again, but she couldn't look away.
-----
Caden was breathing hard now, sweat pouring down his face.
His mana reserves were depleting rapidly—the cost of trying to match someone with better fundamentals through raw power.
"This... this isn't..." He tried to formulate words between gasps. "You're just a first-year... you shouldn't..."
"I shouldn't what?" Arden's voice was calm, almost gentle. "Be better than you despite being younger?"
He stepped forward, blade moving in a simple horizontal sweep.
Caden tried to parry—
CLANG!
—but his exhausted arms couldn't maintain proper form.
The force of Arden's strike, enhanced with perfectly controlled mana, sent Caden's sword flying from his grip.
THUD!
The weapon hit the ground several feet away.
Caden stared at his empty hands, then at Arden's blade now pressed gently against his throat.
Complete silence.
"You shouldn't live like this in the future," Arden said quietly, lowering his sword. "Arrogance without skill to back it up just makes you a target."
He stepped back, offering a slight bow to the referee.
"First-year Rank 1, Arden Valekrest. Victory."
The professor nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Winner: Arden Valekrest."
Arden walked away, leaving Caden kneeling in the dirt, staring at nothing.
The watching third-years' expressions had gone from mocking to shocked to grim.
Their Rank 1 hadn't just lost.
He'd been dismantled. Systematically. Educationally. Like a master teaching a particularly slow student.
First-Year Observation Area
When Arden returned to where the first-years were gathered, the atmosphere had completely changed.
Students who'd been nervous now looked energized. Hopeful.
If Arden can do that to a third-year Rank 1, maybe we can actually compete.
"That was beautiful," Brick said, grinning fiercely. "You made him look like a complete amateur."
"He made himself look like an amateur," Arden corrected. "I just pointed it out."
Elara approached, her expression thoughtful. "You held back."
"What makes you say that?"
"No Integration core. No 3rd Stage mana. You fought him as a 2nd Stage swordsman." Her eyes were sharp. "If you'd used everything..."
"It would've been over in one second," Arden admitted. "But that wouldn't have been instructive."
"Instructive?"
"For him. For everyone watching." Arden glanced around. "Sometimes the lesson matters more than the victory."
Rykard's three swords orbited slowly. "I admire that demonstrate overwhelming superiority without revealing your full capabilities."
"Uh....something like that."
Serra appeared, maintaining her careful distance but closer than usual.
"You..." She seemed to struggle with words. "That was... you were..."
Her friend materialized beside her, grinning wickedly. "She means it was amazing and she couldn't take her eyes off you."
"I DID NOT SAY THAT!"
Serra's face went completely red. She shot her friend a murderous glare, created a small ice spike, and chased the laughing girl away.
Arden watched this display with mild amusement.
Definitely something going on there. But now's not the time to think about it.
"Next match!" The professor's voice rang out. "First-year Rank 2, Elara Varen. Third-year Rank 2, step forward!"
Elara moved toward the combat zone, but paused beside Arden.
"Watch closely," she said softly. "I want you to see what I can really do."
Before he could respond, she was gone—moving with the fluid grace that characterized all her movements.
She's fast. Even faster than I remember from our spars.
What changed?
----
"First-year Rank 2. Elara Varen. Twelve years old."
"Third-year Rank 2. Marcus Vrell. Fifteen years old."
The third-year facing Elara was lean, wiry, with the cautious eyes of someone who'd learned not to underestimate opponents.
Unlike Caden, Marcus had actually watched Arden's match and adjusted his expectations.
"Ready."
"Start!"
Elara moved.
Not the explosive charge that Caden had used.
Just... movement.
One moment she was in starting position. The next, she was inside Marcus's guard, twin swords already in motion.
SLASH! SLASH!
Marcus barely got his blade up in time—
CLANG! CLANG!
—parrying both strikes through pure reflex.
But Elara was already repositioning, flowing around his defense like water around stone.
She's smooth, Arden thought, watching intently. Every strike targets joints, tendons, weak points in armor.
Marcus tried to create space, backing away while maintaining his guard.
Elara didn't let him.
Her twin swords worked in perfect coordination—one high, one low, forcing Marcus to defend multiple angles simultaneously.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The sound of steel on steel rang out in rapid succession.
"She's incredible," someone whispered.
"Look at her footwork—she's always in perfect position—"
"How is she moving that fast?!"
Serra watched with professional appreciation, temporarily forgetting her earlier embarrassment.
"Her technique is flawless," she murmured. "But there's... something about the way she moves..."
"Like she's done this before," Arden finished quietly.
Serra glanced at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
"Just an observation."
On the field, Marcus tried a desperate counter—channeling mana into a heavy overhead strike meant to force Elara back.
BOOM!
The impact cratered the ground where Elara had been standing.
But she wasn't there anymore.
She was behind him.
Both swords crossed against the front of his neck.
"Yield," she said softly.
Marcus froze, breathing hard. Then slowly raised his hands. "I yield."
"Winner: Elara Varen."
The match had lasted maybe ninety seconds.
As Elara walked back toward the first-years, she caught Arden's eye and smiled—small, satisfied.
She wanted me to see that. Almost as if she's seeking a approval
She's a strange one
----
"Well," Brick said, breaking the awed silence. "I guess we're setting a pretty high bar here."
"First-year Rank 3," the professor called. "Brick Hale. Third-year Rank 3, step forward!"
Brick cracked his knuckles, grinning. "My turn. Time to show these guys what my mace can do.
He hefted his massive mace and strode toward the combat zone with complete confidence.
Arden settled in to watch, analyzing techniques and strategies.
But he was acutely aware of Serra standing nearby—close enough to be part of the group but maintaining that careful distance.
Every so often, she'd glance at him, then quickly look away when she thought he might notice.
This is going to be complicated, Arden thought. But I can't think about that now.
Focus on the battles. On advancement. On preparing for what's coming.
Everything else... I'll figure out later.
On the field, Brick's match began with a thunderous impact as his mace collided with his opponent's guard.
CRACK!
The accumulated force sent the third-year stumbling backward, eyes wide with shock.
Brick's grin widened. "That's strike one. Want to feel what strike ten looks like?"
The ranking battles continued, and the Golden Generation proved exactly why they'd earned that name.
----
By the time the sun was setting, the results were clear.
Of the 100 first-years who'd earned the right to challenge, 72 had advanced to second-year.
28 had made it to third-year.
And four—Arden, Elara, Brick, and Rykard—had qualified for fourth-year ranking battles tomorrow.
"Unprecedented," one professor muttered to another. "Four first-years advancing two full grades in a single day."
"The Golden Generation indeed," his colleague replied. "And they're only just beginning."
As the first-years dispersed to their temporary barracks, Serra found herself walking near Arden again—not quite beside him, but not fully apart either.
"Tomorrow," she said quietly. "You'll face fourth-years."
"I know."
"They'll be stronger than anything we faced today."
"I know that too."
Silence for a few steps.
"Will you..." Serra seemed to struggle with the question. "Will you still hold back?"
Arden considered. "Against fourth-years? Probably not. They'll require my actual abilities."
"Good." Serra's voice was soft. "I want to see what that looks like. Your real strength."
She walked ahead before he could respond, leaving Arden with the distinct impression that this conversation had meant something more than the words themselves suggested.
Behind him, Serra's friend appeared like a ghost.
"She's got it bad for you," the girl said cheerfully. "Just thought you should know!"
Then she vanished before Arden could reply, cackling.
Definitely complicated, Arden thought with resignation.
But as he entered the barracks and began preparing for tomorrow's matches, a small smile tugged at his lips.
Still. Could be worse.