The infirmary had grown darker since the day before. Blue crystals hung in their cages, their flickering glow barely enough to outline the bodies on the cots. Most beds were full: students wrapped head to toe, some unconscious, others too restless to sleep. Their groans formed a background hum that never really stopped.
Ash sat on a stool, back straight, spear resting against his thigh. He had only slept in fragments. Each time his eyelids closed, the ravine's heat returned, the blood wolves' howl, the salamander's suffocating cold, the Tisse-Rafle's sticky silk. So he opened his eyes again and stared at the cracked ceiling, waiting for morning.
Kaelen lay on the bed beside him, breathing harshly. His bound arm rested on a runed stone cushion that stopped him from moving. Each jolt of pain made him lift his torso, groan, and collapse again. Mira, two beds away, still murmured incantations in her sleep—brief flashes of light sparked at her fingertips, then faded instantly. Tovan snored in broken bursts, each breath rattled by fractured ribs. Darian laughed in his sleep—a nervous laugh, as though still dueling with death in his dreams.
Morning finally forced its way in. The rough curtains were yanked back by Sanaa, the healer, who clapped her hands.
— Up. The dead stay lying down. The living have evaluations.
A chorus of groans answered her.
— Seriously? Mira muttered, still half-asleep.
— Seriously, Sanaa repeated. The Gates don't wait for your little scratches. You can walk? Then you run. You can talk? Then you report. That's the law here.
Kaelen tried to rise. His useless arm hung against him, but he pushed himself up anyway.
— We walk, he said simply.
Ash followed without a word.
In the courtyard, the morning air stung against their skin. The other squads were already lined up. Eyes turned on them at once.
— That's them…
— The ones who brought back C-rank cores.
— Impossible. I heard Corven covered their report.
— Look at their faces… if that's what being "covered" looks like, I'd rather stay out of it.
The whispers slid through the crowd like thin blades. Some looks carried jealousy, others disbelief. A few, rare, held a glimmer of respect.
Edrik, the sharp-tongued D-high, snickered when he saw them approach.
— So, the heroes of Tier 4? They say you killed a Tisse-Rafle. Five of you, with an Omega in your squad… of course that must be true.
Darian's mouth opened for a retort, but Kaelen's good hand pressed firmly on his shoulder.
— Ignore him.
Ash didn't stop. His gray eyes never left the line where Corven waited.
The instructor, cloak tied tight, studied them for a long moment. His gaze swept over their bandages, Ash's repaired spear, Kaelen's patched shield, Darian's half-sword.
— Squad Eleven, he said. You survived. Good. But surviving once doesn't make you hunters. It makes you sturdier targets.
He snapped his fingers. Two assistants carried over runed stone tablets and set them on the ground. Glyphs lit up, forming squad formations.
— Starting today, you enter the Tactical Module. You'll get no more mana stones, no more healing, no more luck. Only impossible situations—and you'll learn to crawl out alive. Those who fail won't need a Gate to die. They'll suffocate on my track.
A shiver ran through the courtyard.
— And as for your exploits… His eyes fixed on Ash. The academy places you in reserve for the caravan escort. You will observe. You will learn. You will not play heroes.
Kaelen clenched his jaw but nodded. Mira lowered her gaze, relieved not to dive back in immediately. Tovan exhaled in weariness. Darian muttered curses under his breath but held his tongue.
Ash remained impassive.
After the announcement, the squads dispersed. But the eyes stayed on them. Squad Eleven had become an anomaly: Tier 4 students—supposed to be the discarded ones—who had returned with C-rank cores and survived the impossible.
The rumors swelled already.
— Corven did everything, they had nothing to do with it.
— No, I heard Ash slit the monster's throat himself.
— Ash? The Omega? Impossible.
— You saw him move? That's not an Omega. Not a real one.
Ash didn't listen. He only tightened his grip on his spear and rejoined his squadmates.
The rest of the day was a string of drills, each more exhausting than the last. The Tactical Module wasn't built to strengthen their muscles—it was built to break them with absurd scenarios. Running tied together in pairs. Crossing an ice-cold trench with only a single mana stone for the whole group. Facing golems without weapons or runes.
Kaelen endured despite his useless arm. Mira, forced to cast tiny flashes again and again, ended up coughing blood. Tovan collapsed twice, but each time dragged himself back up, face twisted in stubborn defiance. Darian, limping, refused to give in, swinging even when his sutures split open.
Ash… Ash remained frighteningly calm. Every order, every drill, he executed without hesitation, as though pain had no hold on him. His squadmates began to match their pace to his, unconsciously syncing their rhythm with his measured steps.
By nightfall, they were nothing more than a heap of broken bodies. But still standing.
Corven studied them for a moment, then gave a curt nod.
— Not yet hunters. But no longer corpses on borrowed time.
And he dismissed them.
That night, in the dormitory, Ash stayed awake again, watching the shadows crawl along the cracked walls. The whispers of other students filled the room: jealousy, fear, admiration.
In the cot beside him, Kaelen—despite the pain—managed a brief smile.
— We survived, he said. Not by luck. By us.
Ash turned his head. His gray eyes met the wounded giant's.
— This is only the beginning.
Silence settled again, heavier than ever. But within that silence lay a new certainty: Squad Eleven was no longer just a gathering of cast-offs.
They were becoming something else.
Something the world would learn to fear.
The Exchange Caravan had a sound the stones themselves seemed to recognize: the clatter of reinforced harnesses, the soft groan of runic suspensions, the steady rhythm of hooves shod in Drakhen alloy. The wagons weren't large, but they were heavy with sealed chests and bound crates, each marked with a strangled-seal glyph—a simplified rune even an F-rank could read: origin, ownership, risk. (Breaking a seal without clearance meant expulsion. Sometimes prison.)
Half the courtyard had been cleared for their camp. Two short masts bore mana lamps with cold flame—a white light that didn't draw insects and didn't distort colors, perfect for inspecting armor and textiles. A long, low tent of gray cloth served as a makeshift workshop: Ælvari design, recognizable by its double seams and exact angles.
The caravan master—the same Ælvari woman glimpsed the day before—gave orders in a clipped, near-silent voice. Her name was Lysseril. Her silver hair, tied back, barely shifted as she turned her head. She wore no armor, only a pale fiber jacket that drank the light: a runic textile (D-grade), more supple than any human leather. (Ælvari fabrics absorbed engravings more efficiently—less mana loss, less heat—but they hated blunt strikes.)
At her side walked Khor Vess, a Drakhen built like a bridge, scales dark as onyx. Around his throat rested a steel ring etched with chevrons—a forge rank, not a military title. He spoke rarely, but looked deeply. On his cart lay Drakhen plates and spikes wrapped in raw wool: an alloy that took heat without cracking, though brittle under repeated shocks. (Used for pavises, joints, and golem soles—not for fine blades.)
Squad Three, blue armbands at their sleeves (two D-mids as their spearheads), positioned themselves before the tent. Squad Seven, more scattered, held the right flank. Squad Eleven—Ash, Kaelen, Mira, Tovan, Darian—stood behind, in reserve, as assigned. No ostentation: their role was to watch, listen, learn.
— Convoy formations, announced Corven, his gray cloak still, his voice sharp enough to cut. Actives—Three and Seven—report to Lysseril for route congruence. Eleven, with me.
He led them beneath the shadow of a low roof where a rough cadastre of the outskirts had been hung: inked lines on oiled planks. Gates were marked by numbered circles, I to V, each highlighted by a color: red for Avernis (linked to the Netherys), green for mutated local fauna, blue for foreign connections (Ælvari, Drakhen, others). Most red circles bore a cross: academy interdictions.
— Caravan escort is not "playing wall," Corven reminded. It's reading terrain and warning early.
He tapped a green circle (Rank II) in the south.
— Dry rock, low ravines, dens of D-ranks and weak Cs. Blood wolves confirmed. Salamanders unlikely—it's too cold. Two ruins in the zone. Ruins draw dens. Dens draw fools. The caravan passes between them.
He traced the route with a nail.
— Three risks: lateral jumps off the track, scent crossings—wolves like Drakhen oils—and ferric dust if the wind turns north. Each risk has a reading. Each reading, a response.
He gave the answers like tools:
— Lateral jumps: scout high on the talweg, not in the bottom.
Scent crossings: cloaks closed, tarps on cargo, rotate harnesses.
Ferric dust: low-light veils, Gleam Sigil on beasts' eyes, never in front of their muzzles.
Mira mouthed the words in silence, memorizing. Tovan scraped angles onto his strap with a fingernail: talweg height, sight lines. Kaelen tracked Corven's finger, measuring distances. Darian, pale, forced himself to keep focus. Ash, though, followed the gaps—not the path itself, but the places where it might break.
— Eleven, Corven continued, you're shadow: if all goes well, people forget you exist. If it goes wrong, you buy time before things snap. No heroic charges. You retrieve, you divert, you stall.
He paused, eyes resting a moment longer on Ash.
— And you come back.
Around the tent, Lysseril displayed her textiles the way one unfolds an argument. A pale veil brushed against the cold lamp light: it spread evenly without halo, proof of a well-aligned weave. She slid a finger along the underside—an almost invisible gray thread appeared.
— Anchor chain, she explained softly. (Conductive threads woven into the fabric to guide runes and prevent them from "grazing"—wasting mana, destabilizing glyphs.)
— Your students often inscribe too wide. The textile corrects a little… for those who care to listen.
Her accent erased half the consonants, as though the human tongue were a cloth too rough for her.
Khor Vess, meanwhile, had lit a small charcoal brazier. He laid samples of black alloy in the coals, then quenched them in oil. The plates barely sang—no high-pitched crack, proof of well-managed tension. He struck one flat with a hammer: the plate took the mark without splitting.
— Shield: good, he rumbled.
— Blade: no.(He shook his head with his whole torso.)
— Blades need return—elasticity. Our plates hold form. Your arms must endure instead.
His serpentine gaze settled on Kaelen's new Drakhen pavise—as promised. The balance was exact; the giant shifted his grip and felt the weight distribute more evenly.
— It rises slow. That is good, said Khor Vess. You don't flee. You turn.
Kaelen inclined his head, serious as a stone that learns.
Behind them, students whispered. The same mouths that mocked yesterday now repeated borrowed words with false expertise: "double weave," "stop-stitch," "torsion elastic." It always happened when a caravan arrived—the vocabulary came before the skill.
Edrik (D-high), fauchon slung on his back like an argument, forced his way through the crowd with two hangers-on trailing him. He pinched a pale Ælvari veil between two fingers—too hard—and twisted it, just to see if it "held."
— Gentle, Lysseril murmured without raising her eyes. Her hand brushed the textile, which smoothed back into place. Force does not repair form.
— I'm only testing, Edrik replied with a thin smile. We'll be sleeping under these, won't we?
— Those who sleep beneath the veils are those who maintain them, Lysseril said, her voice flat. And those who maintain them choose who sleeps beneath.
(Translation: gear goes first to those who know how not to break it.)
Edrik chuckled, then let his gaze linger on Ash. One second too long. Not quite a challenge yet, but the seed was planted.
The morning passed in reading drills. No spells, no shouting—only eyes. Small courses had been set up: a lattice of cords at ankle height (trap-wires, meant to teach seeing the way mana clung to light), an obsidian corridor dampened with water (simulated ferric dust, requiring low veils), a heap of crates stacked crooked (training to breathe bad air). Corven's voice carried over them like iron:
— Look at the joints. Traps live in the seams.
Mira, who always cast too wide, was forced to shrink her light. She placed three [E] Day-Points no bigger than fingernails on three knots. The glow revealed the hidden lines of cord. Corven, without smiling:
— Better.
Tovan steadied the crates with his foot—no mana left to spare. When one threatened to topple, he pressed a hand, waited a heartbeat, then shifted it. Corven:
— You compensate. Learn not to need to.
Kaelen tested the pavise. The Drakhen weight pulled left; he had to unlearn his old grip. He swallowed the discomfort like a pebble in soup: it went down if chewed long enough.
Darian, armed with his half-sword and new hook, worked a rope dummy. Twice he put his thumb wrong and sliced himself. The third time, the blade moved clean. Corven:
— Stop forcing. Bend.
Ash did not take a station. He took the role Corven had set: shadow. He corrected with taps of his spear instead of words: nudged Kaelen half a step, brushed Mira's staff to stop her wasting mana, pressed Tovan's strap to show weight. Silent method.
— Looks like you read the terrain, Mira whispered during a break.
— Not "in." Against, Ash replied. The ground resists. If you don't feel resistance, it's you being read.
She blinked, then nodded. Fear liked words it could hold on to.
The Ælvari weren't teachers, but Lysseril corrected two students by sliding pins into their veils. The veil stopped grazing mana at the edge. Khor Vess wasn't a teacher either, but he raised Kaelen's strap by one notch.
— Now it pulls on your back, not your arm. Your arm is broken. Your back is large. Use what is large.
Kaelen gave the brief nod of someone who saves his words for oaths.
Then the little song of mockery returned along the palisade. Clean laughter, a word scrubbed before being thrown. Edrik again, fauchon swinging like a dog on a leash.
— Look at them, he said to no one. The Eleven, reserves now. Adorable. They'll carry ropes behind the real fighters. He jerked his chin at Kaelen. You—shield boy—swapped your toy for a barn door. You'll be planted like a post. His gaze slid to Mira. And you, little lamp, I hope you've got a flash in reserve… because outside, beasts don't wait for you to finish breathing.
Mira flushed red with shame and anger. Kaelen, who rarely spoke, answered.
— The day you beg for a veil because you've breathed too much, you'll be glad to find one.
Edrik gave a wink to the onlookers. His lips shaped the word "Omé—" but never finished. Corven was there, three paces away, solid as a wall.
— Evaluations for all, the instructor cut in. Tongues run faster than your legs. Let's see if your legs talk as well.
Nervous laughter scattered. Edrik stepped into the cord lattice with a D-high's arrogance, certain the traps would flatten for him. One wire bit his ankle like a snake. He still managed, because rank forgives mistakes—once.
Ash never looked away from him. Not from eagerness to fight, but because Corven had said shadow. And shadows see trouble before it comes. He noticed, without thinking, that the top knot of the left lattice was looser than the rest—someone had "tested" it.
He tapped it with his spear.
— Tovan. Reinforce top knot. Half a centimeter.
Already moving, Tovan set his weight. The cord tightened to its true line. Nothing showed. Nothing was said. One less problem waiting.
The afternoon slid into briefings.
Lysseril unrolled a ribbon of route across the table, marked with halts (poor springs that still lured human guts), blind turns (three gaps in the ridges), and signals (two short taps for stop, one long-one short for veil, no shouting). She tied each risk to a name.
— Rock Howler (D-high): simple camouflage, likes dry ledges. Snaps knees and vanishes.
— Corrupted Jackals (D-mid): arrive in packs, probe the flanks.
— Blood Wolves (C-low): dislike cold oil, but love ferric dust.
— Mug-suckers (E): ignore them. Nuisance only.
Kaelen made her repeat the signals until he could clap them out by rhythm. Mira tapped them onto her palm with a finger, committing them to memory. Tovan asked about the grain of the road—fine or coarse?—because his footing depended on it. Darian, for once, asked a useful question: "Who closes the rear?" The answer came from Khor Vess himself, voice like stone:
— I close.
It sounded like a promise.
— And the reserve? Lysseril asked, cold politeness.
— Shadow on the left, Corven answered. They nibble at problems. They hold the bottleneck.
His glance at Ash was brief. For Lysseril, that was endorsement enough.
As the Drakhens laid out D-grade mana harnesses for the beasts, a small knot of students gathered by the track. Nothing theatrical—just enough silhouettes to signal trouble. The word "challenge" spread mouth to mouth, too clean to be innocent.
— Not today, Corven cut flatly, without turning. Duels happen after the last lap, under my eyes. Anyone who wants to prove something will prove it tonight.
Edrik smiled a smile that promised. Not now. Later.
— It'll be clean, he assured the crowd.
— It'll be useful, Corven corrected. Or it won't happen.
The word fell like iron. After that, only the sound of harness chains, hoofsteps, and the soft rustle of Ælvari veils remained.
Ash felt the day take its shape: route, veils, halts, challenge. He tested his spear—Absorption rune steady, Shadow Razor clean. He pulled the Ælvari glove tight on his grip hand. The runes hummed faintly, like a bowl struck low.
— Boss, Tovan teased Mira, weary but warm, you'll lock my breathing for three beats when we hit ferric dust, right?
— I… I can, she stammered, clutching her staff. If you don't move too much.
— I always move too much, Tovan said, half-grin. But I owe you to move less.
Kaelen adjusted the new pavise on its higher strap. His dead arm weighed like a promise. He looked at Ash.
— If Edrik pushes tonight, he said, voice flat, I'll take front.
— No, Ash replied. You take walls and angles. Edrik wants a name. We'll make it an exercise.
— And you?
— I'll read. Ash paused. And I'll show.
Kaelen's rare half-smile curved one side of his mouth.
— All right.
By late afternoon, heat shimmered above the courtyard. The beasts of burden stood harnessed in greased leather, hooves restless. A novice released a brake as if it were a toy—the wheel whipped a quarter turn. Khor Vess laid one massive hand on his shoulder, mountain-still.
— Do that outside, you die, he said calmly.
The novice nodded too fast, but he lived long enough to correct it.
Lysseril walked the line of wagons, wooden ledger in hand. She marked four things without comment: the angle of a chain, the height of a veil, the sweat of a horse, the color of a guard-stone fixed to a cart. (Guard-stones were mana crystals mounted at wagon fronts; they vibrated if ambient mana spiked too fast.)
She paused before Ash, just long enough for everyone to notice she had noticed him.
— Your spear holds, she said without music. Your lines are sober.
— I redrew them, Ash replied.
— Don't seek. Hold. Her gaze locked with his. Hold.
Then she passed on.
Mira glanced at Ash, eyes full of questions. He shook his head. Nothing to translate—just advice.
The sun already licked the crest of the wall when the bell rang twice, then a third time, longer. Track-call.
Corven lined up the squads: Three and Seven in front, Eleven as shadow. Brusk the Intendant checked names with his stylus on the credit board. (Even reserves earned a share for escorts—smaller, but a share nonetheless.)
— Short run tonight, Corven announced. Rhythm: march, halts, signals. Tomorrow: outer track. His gaze swept them. Use your eyes. Shut your mouths. Save your strength.
Ash felt the balance in Kaelen's stance settle, Tovan's tighten, Mira's tremble, Darian's vibrate. Tonight would not be a battle—thankfully. But afterward, when the bell ended the march, words would turn into fists.
Ash had no intention of boasting. He intended to show.
The column moved off. Wagons groaned, veils whispered like bottled rain, guard-stones pulsed like calm throats. At the corner of the yard, Edrik caught Ash's eye and mimed a salute of challenge with two fingers.
Kaelen muttered low:
— After.
— After, Ash agreed.
The gate opened onto the inner track. Evening air skimmed the stones. Chalk marks guided the path. The beasts descended the ramp. The Caravan—half trade, half survival—flowed forward like a phrase learned by heart.
Tier 4 didn't believe in miracles. It believed, hard as stone, in what held.
And tonight, holding was already a victory.
The bell rang twice, sharp, then a third time, longer. It was the signal: the inner track closed, beasts returned to the stables, veils were rolled, torches lit on the poles. Night settled, and with it came the hour of duels.
At Tier-4 Academy there was no ceremony. No stands, no sacred gong. Only a yard swept by the wind, circles roughly chalked on stone, and one instructor to make sure no one died too quickly.
Edrik was already at the center, fauchon on his shoulder, cape shortened so it wouldn't tangle. His smile wasn't wide, but it was enough to draw murmurs from the crowd gathered round. He was D-high; his aura carried like a steady breeze, as if the air itself awaited his command.
Ash stepped into the circle in silence. No speech, no promises. His runed spear stood straight, runes faint but steady, gloves tight. To most eyes he was only an Oméga who had survived by luck, shielded by stronger comrades. To Edrik, he was an opportunity to prove superiority.
— So here's the shadow, Edrik said, voice mocking, carried by the wind. You, the Oméga. The so-called miracle. Tonight we'll see if miracles bleed.
Ash didn't answer. He lowered his spear, gaze fixed.
Corven, arms folded, declared flatly:
— Rules: no killing blows. No powers above D-high. You stop when I say stop. Disobey, and I break your weapon. Begin.
A breath swept the yard. The duel began.
Edrik advanced smoothly, fauchon tracing a lazy arc. His wind affinity showed at once: the blade slid through the air lightened, faster than it should. He swung diagonally, a testing strike.
Ash pivoted half a step, planted his spear's butt into the ground, and deflected with a sharp twist. The clash vibrated, but no sparks—only the rough scrape of iron on rune-etched wood.
The onlookers murmured. Few expected him to block cleanly at the first blow.
Edrik smiled.
— Not so slow after all. Let's see if you can keep pace.
He slashed three times: high, mid, low. Each carried by a breath of wind that sped his footwork and skewed his angles. Ash parried each with minimal motion: a turn of the wrist, a half-step back, a knee's bend. His feet slid just enough to never be where the blade landed.
— He's reading him, Mira whispered, tight-voiced.
Kaelen narrowed his eyes.
— Not reading. Anticipating.
Annoyed by the lack of openings, Edrik shifted pace. He raised his fauchon in both hands and loosed a focused gust. The chalk circle blew apart, dust hissed.
Ash sidestepped, slipping through. The grit stung his cheek, but his stance held.
— Refuse to strike? Edrik barked. Then I'll force you.
He spun, blade whirling into a miniature tornado. Ash braced, spear butt to ground, letting the fauchon skim along the shaft. The wind whistled, sleeves snapping, but he did not yield.
Whispers rippled: an Oméga standing before a D-high storm. Unthinkable.
Ash finally moved. A feint, a short step forward. The spear tip darted for Edrik's thigh. The fauchon deflected, iron ringing against runed wood—but Ash had already withdrawn, out of reach.
— Testing touches, Tovan muttered. Not killing strokes.
Edrik sneered.
— You think you can toy with me?
He accelerated. His steps blurred, carried by affinity; each cut was a flurry, each feint a cyclone. Dust billowed, torches guttered, the crowd shielded their eyes.
Ash yielded ground, step by step—but never disorderly. His spear was everywhere at once: bar, lever, fang. Where he couldn't block, he slipped away by a breath, body fluid as water.
Breaths held tight around the circle.
At last, Edrik surprised him. A high feint into a low sweep. Ash barely avoided it, but the wind tore a strip from his boot and staggered him. His spear struck the ground too hard—crack. A fine fissure crawled the shaft.
— There! Edrik barked, grinning. You're breaking.
Ash steadied the weapon. His eyes stayed gray, cold.
— Continue.
Edrik's teeth clenched. He struck harder.
Ash's retreats drew a pattern. Step by step, spiral by spiral, he led Edrik. The D-high, too furious to notice, followed.
Kaelen caught it first.
— He's pulling him to the wall.
Indeed—moments later, Edrik's back brushed the rough stone. His leaps had less room, his broad blade fewer arcs.
Ash lowered his spear, point ready.
Edrik snarled.
— You think you've trapped me?! I'm D-high, not a gutter rat!
His aura burst into a whirlwind. Dust exploded, blinding the circle.
Ash closed his eyes. He didn't need sight. He listened: the whistle of air over blade, the scrape of boots on stone, the breath of arms lifting.
The strike came—a diagonal slash. Ash raised his shaft. Steel met wood, sparks spat. His hands burned with the vibration, the fissure groaned, but the spear held.
He slid aside, kicked Edrik's knee. The D-high staggered. Yet he spun with the stumble, blade whipping back. Ash blocked again. This time the crack spread wide.
Mira gasped.
— The spear will snap!
Ash's grip tightened. His gaze stayed fixed.
Edrik panted now, sweat streaking his face. His blows stayed heavy, but accuracy frayed. Ash moved steady, rhythm intact.
Three thrusts snapped out: one deflected, one grazed an arm, one etched a red line across Edrik's shoulder.
The D-high roared, flung a circular gust that rattled the walls. Ash planted his spear, using it as anchor, and slid around, tip angling for the ribs. The wind shoved it aside, but not fully—steel kissed skin. Blood welled.
Edrik's eyes widened.
The crowd hushed.
Edrik breathed in ragged bursts, fauchon trembling with weight. Ash stood straight, steady, point still raised. His spear was cracked, ready to break; yet it stood.
Corven lifted a hand.
— Stop.
Edrik snarled, aura flaring. Ash didn't blink, tip steady.
— Stop, Corven repeated, voice sharp.
The silence stretched a heartbeat. Then Ash slowly lowered his spear.
The duel ended. Not truly. But Tier-4 had seen enough to know: the Oméga was no weakling.
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout.
The dust was rising in whirlwinds around the circle, erasing the chalk. Only the hiss of Edrik's wind and the dry clash of steel on runed wood filled the courtyard.
The fauchon hammered like an anvil thrown at full force. Each strike was a slap of wind, each step a gust. The spectators, pressed to the edge, stepped back again, eyes wide.
Ash, in the middle, looked small. His spear trembled, the crack widening with each blow. Yet his movements stayed precise. No hesitation. No waste.
— You won't last! shouted Edrik, veins bulging, voice carried by his aura.
He attacked in a rush: high, low, a backhand. Three strikes in one breath. Ash deflected the first at an angle, slipped out of the second, absorbed the third by bending his knees. The shaft shuddered, his wrist screamed, but he remained standing.
Edrik's teeth ground. His aura surged, scattering dust in a storm. Sweat poured down his face, arms heavy, but his blade still swung, wider, harsher.
Ash gave ground step by step, his back nearly to the wall. The crack on his spear deepened, visible even to the crowd.
— There! Break, Oméga! roared Edrik.
Ash tightened his grip, eyes cold as stone.
— Not yet.
He advanced a step, sudden. The spearhead lunged for Edrik's throat. The fauchon swerved, but too late: the edge grazed skin, leaving a red line.
Gasps erupted.
Ash pressed forward. His thrusts drove Edrik back, the D-high panting, forced against the wall of the courtyard. His leaps had no space. His blade no more breath.
Edrik bared his teeth, rage spilling. He spun, unleashing a circular gust. The wall shook, chalk burst in shards. His fauchon howled downward with all he had left.
Ash pivoted, braced on one foot, used his lance as a lever. The tip swept for Edrik's side. The wind deflected—but not fully. Steel grazed flesh. Blood welled again.
Edrik froze, eyes wide.
Ash did not move. His spearpoint stayed lifted, unwavering. His gray gaze locked on Edrik's, expressionless.
The courtyard fell silent. Only Edrik's ragged breaths and Ash's calm rhythm remained.
The crack in the spear still throbbed, ready to break. The fauchon shook in Edrik's grasp, too heavy now.
Corven's voice cut across the silence:
— Stop.
Edrik's jaw clenched, aura flaring one last time. Ash did not blink. His spear stayed leveled.
— Stop, Corven repeated, sharper.
The silence stretched a heartbeat longer. Then Ash lowered his weapon, slowly, his eyes never leaving his opponent.
The duel was finished.
The Academy had witnessed it:
The Oméga was no weakling.
End of Chapter 5.