The weight of the branch in Troy's hand felt right.
Not heavy, not light—just right. His fingers adjusted naturally as he swung it through the air, the leaves rustling around him with each strike. Sweat ran down his brow, but not from exhaustion. From focus.
The branch had begun to change, subtly but surely. His Aether, quiet and cold like coals under ash, seeped into the wood, morphing it. Not into a sword—no, not yet—but into something in between. Something personal.
"Weak," he muttered. "But durable."
Just like him.
The branch split the air with a satisfying whip sound, and as he set into another form—slash, backstep, parry, forward dash—a soft ping rang from the earring Jess gave him. Her voice, irritated and proud, filtered through.
"Fighting idiots. Be to you when I blast them."
Troy snorted, catching his breath. "I'll be to you first," he whispered to the earring. He knew the message wouldn't send. They could only receive one-way transmissions for now. Still... it made him grin.
The branch glowed faintly, Aether curling like threads of smoke around it.
He glanced up. A translucent number floated just above his head, glowing green.
0.
Still.
"Tch. How do we even improve it?" he muttered. "Archie said to figure it out ourselves."
He'd already meditated, moved, trained. Nothing had changed.
Then, a sound cut through the silence.
A scream.
Not one of fear—but of panic, followed by the crunch of a heavy impact.
Troy stopped. His body moved before his thoughts caught up.
He slipped through the underbrush, silent as shadow, until he reached a clearing.
There, under the harsh afternoon light, stood a tall boy with coppery hair and a jagged black sword. Two other boys lay sprawled in the dirt—until they vanished in flashes of blue light. Not death. Extraction.
Above the copper-haired boy's head, numbers shifted.
18 → 27.
Troy's eyes narrowed.
"So… kills earn you points," he muttered. "And you take theirs."
He stepped out from the trees.
The boy's gaze snapped toward him.
"Another one?" the boy sneered. "You look soft. Weaklings don't deserve to be here."
Troy raised an eyebrow, lifting the branch-turned-sparring-sword.
"Oh? So why are you here?"
That hit home.
The boy's nostrils flared. "Name's Kael. Remember it while I crush your bones."
Troy rolled his wrist and dropped into a stance. "Troy. Nice to meet you. I'll enjoy this."
Kael didn't wait.
He charged.
The force of his strike cracked the dirt where Troy had stood—but Troy was already gone, spinning to the side. The branch caught the flat of Kael's blade and redirected it.
Kael blinked. "What—?!"
Troy didn't let him recover. He darted forward, slashing once, then ducking back, branch humming with his shifting Aether. Kael recovered fast, retaliating with a barrage of wide, vicious swings.
But Troy… danced.
Each strike met a block, a redirection, a counter. He wasn't stronger. But he was tighter. More fluid. Every movement calculated.
Kael's mind raced. Even with Father's "help"—even with those enhancement potions—I'm still getting pushed back?
He grit his teeth. "You're pissing me off!"
A flick of Kael's wrist, and starlight exploded into constellations behind him. His blade copied the shapes—Ursa Major, Leo, Sagittarius—each one a deadly pattern of arcane movement.
But still, Troy held his ground.
"Come on," Troy said between parries. "This is fun. But I don't have time to play."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "What are you—who are you even talking abou—"
His words froze in his throat.
The branch… was glowing.
Red and black.
Aether. Pure and uncut.
It pulsed, shifted—transformed into a jagged, sharp-edged sword, pulsing with chaotic energy. Troy gripped it with calm precision.
"No way," Kael whispered. "That's not just a sword…"
Troy smiled. "Took you long enough to notice."
He struck once.
One clean arc of red and black.
Kael had no time to react.
A slash across the torso. A burst of red light. A scream—cut short.
Kael vanished in a flash of blue.
Troy exhaled, standing alone again.
"Rubin lasted ten minutes," he muttered, spinning the blade in his hand. "This guy didn't even survive four."
Above his head: 28.
He walked toward the trees again, already scanning for Jess.
Somewhere out there, she was waiting.
Observation Room – Oversight
The entire room was silent.
Every pane flickered in soft motion, but all eyes were on the one that had just gone dark.
The pane where Kael had disappeared.
Sir Gaius Ferrow—constellation professor, decorated war mage, and father to the fallen boy—stood rigid. His fists clenched so tight they bled. His teeth ground audibly.
"He—he cheated," Gaius hissed. "That boy cheated—he—"
A hand clapped his shoulder.
Archibald Emeres.
The Headmaster's eyes burned with unhidden satisfaction, his voice calm but deadly serious.
"Gaius. Please leave this pristine institution."
The words were a slap. Gaius staggered.
"Wha—why? You—!"
"You violated protocol," Archie interrupted, voice now booming. "You provided your son with grade-exceeding potions, artifacts banned for students at this level. The only reason I didn't suspend him before the match was because he happened to be near one of my disciples."
He let the weight of the word settle.
Disciples.
"And had he not crossed Troy, I would've suspended him out of their. But now… he's out. And so are you."
Gaius opened his mouth—
But before he could speak, a low growl echoed from the corner.
Mister Hallen. More specifically his hound Dug.
"It's been a while since Dug had human meat," he said with a grin. His massive hound—a beast half-shadow, half-fang—licked its lips with a low, hungry growl.
Gaius paled. And ran.
Laughter erupted. First from the Rune Professor. Then Madam Clover. Then others.
But Archie didn't smile.
He merely turned back to the panes.
"Now then. Rankings."
A soft chime echoed through the room as the system updated.
Current Standings:
Jess Emeres — 34 points
Ellie Lane — 33 points
Plaza Cruise — 29 points
The room stirred.
Ellie Lane, the Queen's daughter, right behind the Headmaster's top disciple. And Plaza—that one surprised even the Rune Professor.
Archie chuckled at the reactions, his tone finally relaxing.
"Seems one of mine is already leading. And the other…"
He looked at the screen showing Troy, now walking toward a ridge of fog-covered trees.
"…is catching up nicely."
But someone else watched Troy, eyes narrowed with deeper curiosity.
Mister Hallen.
The man sat with his arms crossed, Dug resting beside him like a death sentence wearing fur. He tilted his head, eyes gleaming like someone watching a puzzle slowly solve itself.
"Troy…" he whispered.
Something in his tone didn't match the mirth of the room. It was thoughtful. Almost reverent.
"…maybe you're the one. Maybe you're the one who can help me with… that."
Dug growled again, low and eager.
And from somewhere beyond the screens, beyond the clearing skies and clashing blades, a shadow began to stretch beneath the forest canopy.
Waiting.
Watching.