A beat of silence hung in the air.
Kael exhaled slowly, his golden eyes narrowing as Garron snarled across the stage. The thunder-affinity noble boy's fists crackled faintly, rage radiating from every pore.
Kael had endured three minutes of relentless attacks without lifting a hand. And now, the crowd leaned forward as if sensing something about to shift.
Garron rushed again, this time with a roar. "I SAID FIGHT ME!"
Kael smirked.
Then moved.
His right foot slid forward with a smooth snap. His left leg twisted, pivoting his whole body into a blinding spin—a crescent-shaped arc tore through the air, his heel slamming into Garron's ribcage with the force of a coiled beast unleashed.
The crowd gasped as Garron staggered from the first impact.
Kael advanced.
A rising roundhouse kick struck Garron's shoulder.
A spinning hook kick clipped his jaw.
A jumping knee strike drove into his gut.
Each move flowed into the next with seamless elegance.
"Did he just... kick three times in under two seconds?"
"What kind of fighting style is that?!"
"Is it a performance art? No, it's... too brutal."
The first-year spectators began murmuring.
"He hasn't used his hands once."
"How is he moving like that?"
From the upper stands, instructors leaned forward with furrowed brows. The combat teachers whispered among themselves. No one recognized what they were seeing.
It wasn't registered, documented, or taught anywhere in the academy.
Kael swept low with a crouching kick, knocking Garron's balance, then flowed into a high whip kick that snapped his opponent's head sideways. Then came a pivot, a mana-fueled leap—and Kael launched into the air.
Mana gathered faintly at his feet as he soared.
The crowd held their breath.
Kael delivered an upward thrust kick, planting the ball of his foot into Garron's gut, launching the other boy into the sky like a cannonball.
Gasps broke out.
Kael twisted mid-air and closed the distance with frightening speed.
What followed was a spectacle of speed and precision:
One—a direct kick to the abdomen.
Two—a hooking kick to the left side.
Three—a sweeping outward kick to the shoulder.
Four—a knee strike while spinning.
Five and six—a barrage of rapid front kicks to the sternum, machine-gun fast.
"He's... hitting him mid-air... again and again!"
"It doesn't look real."
Kael twisted in the air, aligning his legs in an X before slamming both heels down in a vicious dropkick to Garron's chest.
Still airborne.
Still unrelenting.
As Garron began to fall, Kael flipped backward, gained momentum, and slammed a roundhouse heel kick to the spine, driving his opponent faster to the ground.
"How long have they been in the air?"
"Almost five seconds... he's still going!"
With a powerful push from the air using a burst of mana under his feet, Kael jumped again in mid-motion, spinning horizontally and delivering another full-force kick to Garron's side, followed by another from the opposite leg.
Garron had no time to react.
No time to breathe.
His body spun like a leaf in a storm, battered from every direction.
Kael didn't just attack—he overwhelmed.
It was like watching a predator play with its prey.
And then they fell.
Garron's body plummeted, limp.
He hit the ground with a thunderous impact.
Kael landed a second later, knees bent, posture upright, expression calm.
Hands still buried in his pockets.
Silence.
The kind of silence that feels heavy.
Garron lay motionless.
The dust settled slowly.
It was over.
The referee slowly stepped forward, face pale with disbelief. He looked down at Garron's crumpled form, then raised his hand.
"Match concluded. Victory goes to Kael Varian."
No cheers.
Not immediately.
Just stunned silence.
And then, like a ripple breaking the surface of a still lake, the whispers began.
"He destroyed him."
"He never took his hands out of his pockets."
"I've never seen anything like that."
"Was that a... secret martial art?"
"Even the instructors look confused."
The students in the front rows turned to each other, voices hushed with reverence.
"It was like watching a storm."
"Or a dance. But dangerous. Beautiful, but violent."
"Those kicks... they weren't random. They were like a pattern."
"What rank is he, really?"
Kael ignored them all.
He stepped down from the stage without fanfare.
The nobles parted for him without a word.
In the instructor's box, Maelin spoke softly to her colleague. "That wasn't just talent. That was training. Experience. A level of polish I don't expect from a first-year."
"And control," her companion added. "He knew exactly what he was doing. He held back."
The main class watched as Kael walked past them.
Reon looked thoughtful. "He never even looked angry."
Aeris rubbed the back of her neck. "Yeah... like he was waiting for that. Like he was testing something."
Even the cocky upperclassmen were quiet now.
Only Sylara followed Kael's retreating back with her eyes.
She didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Something shifted in her expression. Barely visible. A soft crease in her brow.
Not confusion.
But interest.
Kael walked through the gate that led off the dueling platform and out toward the Academy grounds, the murmurs behind him growing louder.
"Did you see how he moved?"
"That spin in the air? Like a hawk diving."
"No magic circles. No weapons. Just... movement."
The arena had seen many duels.
Some grand.
Some legendary.
But today, it had seen something different.
A fight where one fighter didn't raise a weapon.
Didn't cast a spell.
Didn't even use his arms.
And still, he didn't just win.
He dominated.
Kael made no effort to gloat. He didn't look back, didn't bask in the aftermath.
He was already thinking ahead.
This was only the beginning.
But the Academy wouldn't forget what happened this day.
And neither would Garron.
Or any of the students who watched Kael's feet move like wind.
Or felt the weight of silence after his last blow.
It wasn't a duel.
It was a statement.
And Kael Varian had delivered it with nothing but his legs.