"Now, I announce the beginning of the Academy Duels! Best of luck, students."
A commanding voice echoed across the hall, catching the attention of every student present.
The grand ceremonial space had transformed—replaced with eight reinforced combat rings glowing with layered enchantments. Every barrier shimmered faintly, ready to suppress explosions, spells, or gods knew what else these lunatics would throw.
"Duels will take place simultaneously across all eight rings," the announcer continued. "Each round will filter out the weak until only sixteen remain. Those sixteen will advance to the Apex Class—the elite of the first years."
"The best among you will receive an artifact from the academy's vault."
Murmurs stirred among the students.
"As for the rules—
Victory is earned by either forcing your opponent to surrender or knocking them out of the ring.
Lethal force is forbidden. Break that rule, and you'll be immediately expelled. No exceptions."
And then, with a grin they couldn't see:
"Now... let the duels begin~"
A wave of pressure swept the crowd. Every student tensed up—whether they showed it or not. Names began to be called. Those chosen moved forward, walking into the glowing rings like warriors stepping into the colosseum.
---
Above them, perched in a high observation platform, sat several figures watching every move.
"Think we've got any real monsters this year?" one man asked, eyes scanning the field.
"There's promise," the headmaster replied, stroking his beard. "Some are blooming already. Others… not so much. But there are a few who've already shattered expectations."
"Hah. I bet last year's prodigies are gonna feel like peasants in comparison," another laughed, leaning forward.
"I'm just curious to see what they're really capable of. They've stirred up attention across the kingdom—and with good reason."
A woman smirked as she crossed her legs.
"We can't deny it. Most of the faction heirs are here. But not all of them will rise. Let's see which ones burn out—and which ones explode."
---
Meanwhile, down below—
Samantha scanned the arena, her gaze sharp and alert. Around her, the duels were already starting. Fights flared with sparks, steel, and mana, but her attention wasn't on the rings.
"Still no sign of him?" she asked.
Valon frowned, arms crossed.
"Didn't return to the dorms last night. Hasn't shown up here either."
There was a rare note of unease in his voice.
"You think… he turned back because of the warning?" It was a question neither wanted to answer.
"He's not the type to run," Samantha whispered, eyes narrowing.
"I don't know, but his eyes seemed... hurt, as he left yesterday," Ruby chimed in.
Just as they were about to look around for Nyx, he entered the grounds.
Samantha instinctively stepped forward, relief hitting her—until she saw him up close. She halted.
Something was wrong.
Nyx wasn't walking like he usually did. No slouch, no casual smirk, no offhand joke. His steps were steady, calculated, his eyes distant—cold. Too cold. Like the fire inside him had been snuffed out, replaced by silence.
He walked past them without even a glance.
"Hi." That was all he said—flat, emotionless—as he headed straight for the dueling rings.
Samantha stood there, her eyes fixed on him, words stuck in her throat. She wanted to say something, ask something—anything—but her voice refused to leave her.
He didn't look back. He didn't stop.
And as he walked away, it felt like someone else had taken his place. Like the Nyx she knew had vanished, and all that remained was the shell of a storm waiting to hit.
The group stared at Nyx with uneasy eyes. None of them knew what exactly had happened—whether it was something they said or something else entirely. But one thing was clear. As they looked at him now, it felt like the life had been ripped right out of him. His eyes were dull, empty. He walked like someone hollowed out from the inside, just going through the motions.
---
"The next match: Alex Brothwood, son of Viscount Brothwood, versus Nyx Vaelthorn, representing the Mercenary Guild," the announcer declared.
The moment Nyx's name echoed through the grounds, the crowd stirred like a kicked beehive.
"Wait, did he just say Vaelthorn?"
"No way. That's the son of that traitor, isn't it?"
"He's still breathing? Should've been locked up with the rest of his family."
"Mercenary Guild must be desperate, taking in that trash. Hah!"
Whispers turned to sneers, and then outright jeers. Laughter followed like vultures circling roadkill. The brand of "traitor" hadn't faded—it had only been waiting for a moment like this to resurface.
But Nyx didn't flinch. He walked toward the ring without even twitching at the insults. No fire in his eyes. No smile. Just cold detachment. A sword at his side, and nothing behind those eyes but silence.
He stepped inside the ring, drew his blade, and stood ready.
Across from him, Alex scoffed and raised his wand, puffed up with noble entitlement.
"Vaelthorn, huh? Didn't you lot leech enough off the kingdom before your fall? Now you're crawling into the academy, trying to stain this place too?"
Nyx said nothing.
"I'll carve it into you today. Trash like you doesn't belong here. You, your father—should've been dragged through the streets, not just executed. He deserved worse."
The crowd stirred again, feeding off the venom.
Alex didn't wait. He cast his spell, launching a volley of fireballs straight at Nyx with a sneer.
Nyx didn't move at first. Then, with a flick of his wrist, his sword slashed through the air, slicing the fireballs like wet paper. The flames fizzled out before they even touched him.
"That's your standard?" Nyx muttered, stepping forward. His voice was quiet, flat, emotionless. "I've seen forest wolves with better bite."
Before Alex could respond, Nyx moved. A blur. A whisper of steel. His blade sliced through the air—so fast it barely existed.
Then silence. Nyx stood behind his opponent, already sheathing his sword with a click.
Alex blinked, confused—until his clothes fell apart in ribbons, shredded by the invisible strike. His wand clattered to the ground. Gasps and bursts of laughter erupted from the crowd as Alex stood there, butt-naked, too stunned to even cover himself.
"Y–you bastard…" Alex stumbled forward, humiliated and furious, flames already crackling in his palm as he threw a fireball toward Nyx.
Nyx didn't flinch. He just slid his sword back into storage, calm as still water.
Then, with a single flick of his wrist, six enormous Fire Arrows materialized in the air—each the size of a grown man, humming with lethal energy. They hovered around him like a ring of death, aimed directly at the trembling boy.
Nyx didn't move. He didn't speak.
He just stood there—silent, expressionless.
Like death itself had grown bored and decided to show up.
The duel grounds fell silent. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Even Alex, still butt-naked and half-crazed, froze where he stood, the fire in his hands sputtering under the pressure.
Then—whoosh—a figure darted forward from the stands, landing between the two like a lightning bolt.
"Calm your anger, boy," the woman said sharply, her voice slicing the tension. She stood in front of Alex, arms spread, her presence authoritative. "One more step, one more spell, and you're out. Expelled. Immediately."
She glared at Nyx with steel in her gaze, daring him to challenge the rules.
Nyx didn't respond. His gaze lingered on her for half a second, then shifted to Alex—who was trembling behind her, rage replaced with fear.
Then, without a word, Nyx dispelled the arrows. The tension shattered like glass.
He turned, walked off the ring, and left the crowd in stunned silence just as the announcer's voice echoed:
"Match concluded! Winner—Nyx Vaelthorn."