The training hall felt different when the second round began.
It wasn't louder. If anything, it was quieter.
The initial chaos of the joint duel—nervous excitement, scattered cheers, whispered bravado—had burned off during the first matches. What remained was a sharpened stillness. Students now understood what this was.
Not a showcase.
A measurement.
Cain stood near the back edge of Class 1B's section, hands relaxed at his sides, posture unremarkable. His gaze moved slowly across the arena, following the rhythm of the matches rather than any single fighter.
The stone platform at the center bore faint scuff marks now—lines scraped by wooden blades, footwork patterns etched unconsciously into the surface. Instructors stood evenly spaced along the perimeter, arms folded, expressions neutral.
Numbers were called.
Students stepped forward.
Steel met wood.
And reality settled in.
---
#Duel Three
Two students approached the platform—one from Class 1A, one from Class 1B.
The Class 1A student moved first.
His stance was textbook: feet shoulder-width apart, blade angled forward, weight slightly biased toward the front leg. His breathing was steady, practiced. Someone who had trained long before stepping into the academy.
The Class 1B student mirrored him, though with less polish. His grip was a fraction too tight. His shoulders held tension he hadn't noticed yet.
The bell rang.
They closed distance.
The first exchange was clean—deflection, counter, retreat. The second came faster. The Class 1A student pressed forward, chaining strikes in controlled succession, testing reactions rather than strength.
Cain's eyes narrowed slightly.
The pattern was obvious.
He's baiting a mistake.
The Class 1B student took it.
A wide swing—too wide.
The response was immediate. The Class 1A student stepped inside the arc, blade tapping the opponent's wrist cleanly. The wooden sword clattered to the ground.
The bell rang again.
"Winner: Class 1A."
No cheers. Just nods.
The defeated student bowed and stepped down, jaw tight but composed.
Cain didn't look away from the platform.
He had already moved on.
---
#Duel Four
This one lasted longer.
The Class 1B fighter was smaller, lighter on her feet. Her opponent from Class 1A towered over her, reach advantage obvious.
She compensated with movement.
Circling. Cutting angles. Forcing him to reset.
The crowd leaned in this time—not with excitement, but interest.
She slipped past a strike, tapped his side.
A point.
The larger student adjusted. Shortened his swings. Lowered his stance.
They clashed again.
Wood cracked against wood.
Breath quickened.
Cain watched the footwork.
She's tiring.
He could see it before it happened—the micro-delay between her steps, the subtle drop in guard after each exchange.
The larger student saw it too.
He advanced, relentless now, no wasted movement. Pinned her toward the edge. Forced an exchange she couldn't disengage from.
Her blade faltered.
Tap.
Bell.
"Winner: Class 1A."
The girl exhaled sharply, disappointment flickering across her face before she bowed.
Cain noted it quietly.
Endurance is as much a weapon as technique.
---
Rei shifted beside him, arms crossed loosely.
"They're good," Rei muttered. "Class 1A, I mean."
Cain nodded once.
"They trained earlier," he said.
Rei blinked. "That's it?"
Cain didn't elaborate.
Training earlier didn't mean better.
It just meant less room to hide weaknesses.
---
#Duel Five
This one was ugly.
Both fighters rushed.
Too much force. Too much ego.
The exchange devolved into clashing swings and broken rhythm, footwork collapsing into instinct. The instructor stepped in before it could worsen.
"Enough."
The bell rang mid-motion.
A pause.
The instructor's gaze swept over both students.
"Neither of you won."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"Return to your positions."
Both students stiffened, stunned, then bowed awkwardly and retreated.
Cain's eyes lingered on the platform longer this time.
Strength without restraint was meaningless.
He'd learned that long ago.
---
The numbers continued.
Duel after duel.
Some quick. Some drawn out.
Victories passed back and forth between Class 1A and 1B—not evenly, but not overwhelmingly either. The gap everyone expected existed… but it wasn't absolute.
Students adjusted.
Those who lost watched more carefully afterward.
Those who won didn't celebrate.
The academy was doing its job.
Breaking illusions.
---
Across the platform, Liora Valcrest stood with her arms loosely folded, posture immaculate.
She hadn't moved since the matches began.
Her eyes followed the duels with calm precision, expression unreadable. Not bored. Not impressed.
Evaluating.
At one point, her gaze drifted—not to the platform, but to the crowd.
It passed over Rei.
Over others.
And paused, briefly, on Cain.
Not curiosity.
Assessment.
Cain didn't react.
He hadn't looked at her once since the matches began.
That, more than anything, caught her attention.
---
#Duel Seven
This one drew quiet recognition.
A Class 1B student who had lost earlier stepped up again—this time against a different opponent from Class 1A.
His posture was different now.
Lower. More grounded.
The bell rang.
He didn't rush.
He waited.
His opponent advanced, confident from earlier victories.
And walked straight into a counter.
A sharp deflection. A precise tap to the shoulder.
The bell rang almost immediately.
"Winner: Class 1B."
A ripple moved through both classes—not surprise, but something closer to approval.
Cain felt it too.
Adaptation.
That mattered more than talent.
---
Time passed strangely after that.
Not slow. Not fast.
Measured.
The sun shifted through the high windows of the hall, light crawling across stone as the duels progressed. Instructors murmured quietly among themselves, notes exchanged without ceremony.
Students sat when they weren't called. Watched. Learned.
No one joked anymore.
This was no longer entertainment.
---
Rei exhaled softly.
"…You see it, don't you?" he asked.
Cain didn't turn. "See what."
"The gaps. The timing. Who's bluffing."
Cain was silent for a moment.
"Everyone is," he said finally. "Some just don't know how to name it yet."
Rei glanced at him, then back to the platform. "You ever think about how weird this is?"
"Weird?"
"Yeah. Competing like this. Classes. Numbers. People watching."
Cain considered it.
"No," he said. "It's honest."
Rei chuckled quietly. "That's one way to put it."
---
The instructor stepped forward again.
"Next set."
Hands moved to the roster.
The hall stilled.
Numbers were called.
One by one.
Each announcement sent a ripple through the crowd—anticipation tightening, releasing, tightening again.
Cain remained still.
Waiting.
He didn't know when his number would come.
He didn't need to.
---
Then—
"Class 1A, number—"
A pause.
The instructor checked the slate.
"—sixteen."
A student from Class 1A stepped forward.
The number hung in the air.
The instructor's gaze shifted.
"Class 1B."
Another pause.
Cain felt it before he heard it—not tension, not excitement.
Alignment.
"Number sixteen."
For the first time since the duels began, Cain moved.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just enough to step forward.
The hall noticed.
Rei's head snapped up.
A few students whispered.
Liora's gaze sharpened—not in surprise, but focus.
Cain stepped out from the crowd, walking toward the platform with the same measured pace he used everywhere else.
Wooden sword in hand.
Breathing steady.
The space between blades waited.