The instant the referee's hand dropped, the arena exploded into motion.
Julien barely had time to register it.
Dreyden was already in front of him.
No hesitation. No buildup. Just sudden acceleration—crossing the distance before Julien could properly expand his clone count.
Two copies.
That was all he managed.
That was all he was getting.
"Tsk—!"
Steel met steel.
Julien's saber slammed against black brass knuckles—
CLANG.
Sparks fanned outward in a brief arc of orange light.
One of the clones reacted instantly, raising its saber for a full overhead strike. It committed weight into the blow, posture strong, timing decent.
CLANG.
Dreyden rotated his wrist just enough to redirect the downward force. The blade slipped off the angled knuckle guard, deflected by inches.
An opening appeared for less than a heartbeat.
That was enough.
Blue fire flared over his right fist—tight, compressed, no waste.
No announcement.
No dramatics.
Just a punch.
The strike connected with the clone's chest.
The body tore apart instantly, dissolving into smoke and scattered mana fragments.
Julien's grip tightened.
Too fast.
He hadn't expected that speed.
The second clone lunged—
Dreyden's left fist ignited just as quickly.
Another punch.
Another burst of heat.
The second clone disintegrated.
The entire formation was erased in under five seconds.
A subtle ripple moved through the audience.
Julien abandoned cloning altogether and charged.
"You think you can beat me just because you destroyed my copies!?"
Anger bled through his voice—not strategy. Not control. Pride.
Dreyden said nothing.
Eyes of Truth remained active, feeding him micro-adjustments—mana density shifts, muscle tension, intent before motion.
Julien slashed horizontally at his torso.
The blade cut empty air.
Dreyden had dipped under it with barely noticeable movement—efficient, compact, controlled.
Julien overextended just slightly.
That slight mistake stretched into something larger.
"You're weak," Dreyden said calmly.
Not loud.
Not theatrical.
Just factual.
"How did you even make it into the top twenty?"
He tilted his head a fraction.
"Or maybe… you just don't understand your own skill."
"Shut up!"
Julien surged forward again, fury drowning out judgment.
That was when Dreyden stepped inside.
Blue fire surged around his knuckles as he drove his fist forward.
Julien tried to adjust—too slow.
Dreyden's punch collided with the flat of the saber.
Crack.
The low-tier spiritual weapon failed first.
The blade split in two, snapping cleanly.
The momentum didn't stop there.
The impact carried through into Julien's abdomen.
His body lifted off the ground as if yanked upward by invisible wires.
Blood sprayed from his mouth.
He rocketed backward—
Toward the audience.
Toward Lucas.
Julien's body hurtled toward him at full speed.
Lucas didn't flinch.
Didn't step aside.
He simply raised his leg.
Julien collided with the sole of Lucas's shoe.
"—ARGH!"
Something cracked.
Lucas absorbed and redirected the momentum with an almost lazy adjustment, letting Julien slide downward to the floor in a crumpled heap, unconscious before he finished collapsing.
Dreyden looked away first.
He turned toward the referee.
"Well?"
The referee snapped out of his stupor and raised his hand.
"Winner: Dreyden Stella!"
The panel on Dreyden's uniform flickered.
Rank 22.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips—controlled, deliberate.
The crowd began dispersing, whispers spreading like interference through the arena.
"He's moving too fast—"
"Wasn't he outside Top 50 yesterday?"
"Back-to-back matches…"
Dreyden stayed where he was.
Waiting.
He expected Lucas to approach him.
To say something.
Invite him again. Challenge him. Test him.
Instead—
Lucas turned.
And walked away.
"…Just watching, huh."
Dreyden's focus shifted when he sensed someone approaching.
"Why are you pushing so hard?" Maya asked softly.
He turned toward her.
"Merit points," he said simply. "We'll need more. A lot more. How close are you?"
Maya considered.
"Tomorrow," she said. "The more magic energy I store, the harder it becomes to compress."
"You'll handle it," he replied. "You're ridiculous when it comes to magic."
"I hope so…"
"Yeah," he muttered—too quiet for her to hear.
He took her hand.
"Let's go."
They left together.
[06:18 — Saturday]
Bang.
A training dummy detonated under a compressed burst of wind.
Dreyden paused mid-step.
Across the field, Raisel Silvius drew her bow again. Cool morning air fogged faintly around her lips as she exhaled.
She didn't fire directly at the target.
She aimed wide.
Released.
The arrow flew past its mark—then curved violently midair as her fingers shifted.
Wind redirected it with surgical control.
The projectile slammed into the dummy's chest.
Dreyden frowned.
"She shouldn't be here."
In the original timeline, Raisel trained at night.
That was how she and Lucas grew closer—two insomniacs sharpening themselves in the dark.
But here?
Morning.
Alone.
Pushing harder than usual.
Dreyden glanced around.
They were the only two A-Class students on the field.
Something tightened in his chest.
"Did she lose…?"
Pieces clicked.
Dhara had recently climbed to Rank 6.
Raisel slipped to Rank 8.
A minor shift on paper.
A significant wound for someone like her.
Quiet pride cut deeper than loud arrogance.
"Not my problem," Dreyden muttered, turning away.
The original plot wasn't stable anymore.
Too many deviations.
Too many variables.
He couldn't chase every ripple.
Dungeon raid class.
Dungeon break.
Sealing incident.
Those were the real anchor points.
Those were what mattered.
"Dreyden."
He stopped.
Lucas had just stepped onto the field.
Of course he had.
Dreyden lifted a hand halfheartedly.
"Lucas."
And kept walking.
Didn't slow down.
Didn't stop.
Go train her, he thought. That's your role.
But the timing unsettled him.
Daytime training.
Dhara openly flirting with Riven.
Jayden laughing in group circles instead of spiraling into isolation.
That wasn't how it was supposed to go.
In the novel, Jayden fractured.
Now?
He had friends.
If enough deviations stacked—
Major events wouldn't just shift.
They'd mutate.
"…I'll deal with it head-on."
He pulled up his ID.
Dreyden Stella
Class A-1
Score: 165,983
Balance: 1,050 Merits
History:
+500 — Top 22
+300 — Top 50
+250 — Top 100
1,600 — Spent
He exhaled slowly.
"Top 20 for 500 merits… cheap."
Among thousands of students, that barely mattered.
He closed his eyes.
Magic circulation engaged automatically.
If he wasn't fighting, he was refining.
Inside, his core churned like a swelling river.
But something resisted.
Energy drawn inward bounced off an invisible boundary.
Again.
And again.
He smiled faintly.
He'd improved drastically.
Eighty percent faster circulation than before.
And now—
He'd hit the ceiling.
Which meant only one path remained.
Evolution.
His core thrummed, compressed and dense, pressing outward from the inside.
Ready.
And so was he.