The training hall did not echo with noise.
It absorbed it.
Stone walls rose high on all sides, reinforced with mana-treated pillars that dulled sound and vibration. Even with hundreds of students gathered inside, the air felt heavy—compressed by anticipation rather than voices. Footsteps softened against the floor. Robes brushed quietly. Breaths were held longer than usual.
Cain stood among Class 1B, posture relaxed, eyes forward.
This place was designed for discipline, not spectacle.
At the center of the hall, the raised platform waited. Its surface was marked with faint scars—shallow grooves, dullened edges, the residue of countless controlled clashes. Nothing here was decorative. Everything existed to endure impact.
Instructors stood at equal distances around the platform, forming a loose perimeter. None spoke among themselves. None needed to.
Halden stepped forward.
His presence alone drew attention without effort.
"This will not be a lesson," he said, voice calm and even. "And it will not be a performance."
His gaze moved across both classes without pause.
"You are here to be evaluated."
A faint shift passed through the students.
"You will fight when your number is called," Halden continued. "Until then, you will observe. Learn from what you see—or repeat the same mistakes."
He raised one hand slightly.
"These duels are not about dominance. They are about **control under pressure**. Recklessness will be recorded. Hesitation will be recorded. Adaptation will be recorded."
A pause.
"Victory alone will not protect you, now you all can go and sit in the gramdstands."
Students went in a line and sat
The silence deepened, and helden told
"The first match will begin."
The number 1 was called out.
Two students stepped forward—one from each class. They bowed stiffly, movements practiced but tense, and raised their wooden blades.
The bell rang.
The duel began with speed instead of thought.
Both fighters rushed, blades colliding with sharp cracks. The Class 1B student pressed hard, swinging with visible strength but poor angle control. The Class 1A student retreated cleanly, letting the strikes slide past rather than meeting them head-on.
Cain watched closely.
The pattern was obvious.
Overcommitment. No recovery window.
Three exchanges later, the Class 1A student stepped inside a wide swing and tapped the other's shoulder.
The bell rang.
"Dismissed."
The defeated student stiffened, then bowed quickly and stepped back. No one reacted. No one whispered.
The next match followed immediately.
This one lasted longer.
The fighters circled, testing distance, tapping blades lightly, probing for reactions. The Class 1B student showed creativity—changing rhythm, shifting footwork—but lacked consistency. The Class 1A opponent adjusted faster, exploiting every hesitation.
Cain noted it quietly.
Adaptation speed mattered more than variety.
The duel ended with a clean strike to the ribs.
Another bell.
Another dismissal.
Matches continued.
Some ended quickly. Others dragged on, tension thickening as fatigue set in. Cain saw panic creep into grips, shoulders rise too high, breathing lose rhythm. He saw students abandon technique the moment pressure mounted.
Experience did not always win.
Composure did.
Then number 15 was called.
Rei stood up and stepped forward.
Cain's gaze shifted a fraction.
Rei walked to the platform with steady steps, though his shoulders were set tighter than usual. He adjusted his grip once, then bowed.
From the opposite side, his opponent approached.
She moved with controlled confidence.
Her posture was straight, shoulders relaxed, steps balanced. She did not rush. She did not hesitate. Her presence alone marked her as someone accustomed to structured training.
A noble.
"Alice," the instructor announced.
The name carried faintly through the hall.
Alice bowed once, clean and precise. Rei mirrored the motion, a fraction slower, but sincere.
They took position.
The bell rang.
Alice initiated.
Her opening strike was simple—direct, efficient, without wasted motion. Rei blocked, but the force carried him back half a step. She followed immediately, not pressing too hard, but not allowing him space to reset.
Cain's eyes narrowed slightly.
She was measuring him.
Rei responded cautiously, parrying instead of countering, retreating just enough to regain balance. Alice adjusted instantly, her footwork tightening, blade angles shifting subtly with each exchange.
She wasn't overpowering him.
She was controlling the pace.
Rei's breathing sharpened. His movements grew more deliberate.
He stopped trying to meet her strength.
Instead, he redirected.
On the next exchange, his blade angled differently, letting Alice's strike slide rather than clash. He stepped sideways instead of back, forcing her to adjust her line of attack.
The rhythm changed.
Alice noticed.
She feinted high, then cut low.
Rei reacted late—but not too late. The blade skimmed close, missing by a narrow margin.
The hall felt tighter.
Alice advanced again, confidence evident in her steps. Rei yielded ground deliberately, guiding her forward without retreating blindly.
Then—
She overextended.
Not by much. Just enough.
Rei moved.
He pivoted sharply, closing distance instead of creating it. His blade rose and stopped a breath from her collarbone.
The bell rang.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Alice exhaled slowly and stepped back, lowering her sword. Rei did the same, chest rising and falling as the tension released.
"Winner," the instructor said evenly. "Class 1B."
A controlled murmur rippled through the hall.
Alice bowed again, deeper this time. Rei hesitated, then returned the bow, awkward but earnest.
Their eyes met briefly.
No anger.
No embarrassment.
Only acknowledgment.
They stepped down opposite sides of the platform.
Cain watched Alice as she returned to her place. Her expression remained composed, but her grip on the sword had loosened. She was thinking—not about loss, but about adjustment.
Rei returned to the Class 1B line, shoulders relaxing once he reached his place.
Cain met his glance and nodded once.
Nothing more was needed.
The matches resumed.
More numbers were called.
Cain remained unmoved.
He observed students grow sharper mid-fight. He saw others crumble the moment plans failed. He catalogued strengths, weaknesses, patterns.
No one noticed him doing it.
His own number was not called.
Time stretched.
The weight of waiting settled deeper than action ever could.
Cain's token rested cool in his palm. He did not look at it. He already knew the number.
What he did not know was when it would be spoken.
"Next match," Halden announced.
Another pair stepped forward.
Cain's attention returned to the platform.
Around him, students shifted, anticipation tightening their posture. Some whispered prayers under their breath. Others stared ahead, eyes empty with focus.
Cain felt none of it.
No stir beneath his skin.
Only patience.
The academy did not rush.
Neither did he.
And somewhere, between steel and silence, his turn waited.
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