Chapter 10 – Academy (2)
In truth, the only reason our house was still "just" a viscountcy with not much future on paper… was my father.
My father is one of the most skilled knights in the Empire, and one of the very few recognized as a Sword Master.
Being a Sword Master isn't just a title like mage ranks. For swordsmen, each tier is separated not only by power, but by knowledge, skill, tactics, and battlefield experience.
Tier 1: Novice
Tier 2: Apprentice Swordsman
Tier 3: Swordsman
Tier 4: Sword Adept
Tier 5: Sword Expert
Tier 6: Sword Knight
Tier 7: Sword Master
Each step is a gap you don't cross by luck.
The difference between Expert and Knight alone is a gigantic leap. If a Sword Expert can cut down three hundred men without tiring, a true Sword Knight could cut down a thousand and still keep moving. And above them, Sword Master is something else entirely—someone who can kill armies, not just men.
So why is House Milton still only Viscount and not Duke?
Because after my mother died, my father lost all ambition for titles and status. Elizabeth's death in childbirth broke whatever desire he had for court life. He never wanted nobility in the first place; he called it a chain that hindered his training.
But when you save the Emperor from multiple assassination attempts, end a civil war, and defend borders that should have fallen ten times over, the Empire doesn't care what you want.
The Emperor forced the title of Viscount on him anyway. My father argued that even a minor lord could do the same job. The Emperor disagreed.
So here we are.
***
I walked toward the arena on my very first day, Alice at my side. She clutched the edge of her skirt, worry written all over her face, like she'd personally done something wrong.
"It's okay, Alice," I said, not slowing down. "You did your job. Now just watch me."
"But young master… do you not know how deadly she is?" she asked, voice tight.
"No. Why would I?" I asked back.
"She is Tier 2 already at her young age," Alice replied. "As a mage."
"Interesting," I said. "Then you'll get to watch me show an arrogant child her place."
I cracked my fingers one by one as we walked, more out of habit than necessity.
I wouldn't disgrace the Milton name here.
"Please… please be safe. Don't do anything too dangerous, young master," she said weakly, eyes glistening with the vaguest hint of tears.
"Don't worry about me," I said lightly. "You should worry about the duke."
She blinked.
Then I stepped ahead, leaving her near the entrance as I entered the arena.
***
The arena was already full.
Stone stands climbed upward in layered rings, packed shoulder to shoulder with students and a scattering of professors. The noise was a low roar, conversations overlapping, mana lamps hanging from the ceilings casting white-blue light over the sand-covered stage below.
From above, it looked like a sea of blue uniforms with a single wound of red.
Commoners in red sat clustered together in a tight block at one side of the stands—separated. The nobles in midnight blue were scattered more freely, some in groups according to house, others gathering near professors or better vantage points.
Red and blue did not mix.
In this world, such is life.
I walked down the steps leading to the arena floor.
At the center, waiting near the marked dueling circle, stood Tamara. Blue hair. Red eyes. The walking emblem of her house—cold and proud and utterly convinced the world existed to orbit her.
She looked at me like I was something she'd ordered for entertainment, and the kitchen had finally delivered.
"Ah, Erynd," she said, lips curling. "You do realize this is a magical duel, don't you?"
"Yes. And?" I replied.
Her eyes flicked down.
To my sword.
I wore no caster gloves, no catalyst ring, no staff. Just the standard Academy uniform with a dark scabbard at my hip.
"You don't have mana at all, do you?" she said, voice loud enough for the stands to hear. "Why do you have a sword? Do you actually think you can take me down with a weapon like that?"
The moment she said it, the students around us noticed too.
Whispers erupted.
"He brought a sword to a magic duel…"
"Is he insane?"
"I didn't sense any mana from him at the gate either…"
In the stands, one of the professors leaned forward.
"He doesn't have mana," the professor said, shocked. "His reading at the entrance was almost zero."
In the Academy, when a formal challenge is registered—especially on the first day—most professors attend. It's not just for entertainment; it's a convenient way to evaluate new students' actual combat ability, particularly in magic.
There's a tradition: once a duel is sanctioned, they don't interfere unless someone is about to die in a way that breaks school rules.
So right now, they were just watching.
A "mana-less" noble son had accepted a magical challenge from a duke's daughter.
I looked at Tamara.
"I don't feel like I need to use my weak magic on the likes of you," I said.
Silence for half a heartbeat.
Then laughter crashed over us like a wave.
"Did he say weak magic?"
"He's bluffing."
"He's dead."
Tamara's smile sharpened.
"A crippled mage barking like that?" she said sweetly. "This will be quick."
A senior student wearing a silver armband stepped to the side of the ring.
"Tamara von Hailbrecht vs Erynd Milton," he declared. "Magic duel. Lethal spells forbidden. Surrender, incapacitation, or ring-out determines victory. Both parties consented."
"I consent," Tamara said.
"I consent," I answered.
The senior student raised his hand.
"Begin."
He chopped his hand down.
Tamara moved first.
Of course she did.
A magic circle flared beneath her feet, lines of red and orange spiraling around her as fire mana rushed to her call.
"Flame Lance!" she snapped.
A spear of fire formed at her side and shot toward me, leaving a streak of heat in the air.
Fast. Strong enough to burn flesh, but not kill outright.
For academy standards, "reasonable force."
For me?
Slow.
I drew my sword with a smooth motion, stepping just enough to the side. The flame lance screamed past, close enough that I felt hot air lick my cheek. I angled my blade and used its flat to cut through the trailing edge of the spell.
The fire broke apart, scattering ember fragments over the sand.
I didn't even feel the heat on my hand.
She blinked.
"Oh?" I said. "That was it?"
Her eyes narrowed.
Another circle bloomed, this one mid-air in front of her palm.
"Then try this," she hissed. "Fire Rain!"
Several smaller firebolts formed around her, hovering for a second like a constellation, then fell toward me in a scattered barrage.
Instead of backing away, I stepped forward.
One, two, three steps.
My footwork was simple—basic in appearance, nothing flashy. But every step carried me between the arcs of the falling spells. To the audience, it probably looked like luck.
To me, it was angles and timing.
In a past life, I'd reached at least Sword Expert. Once, Sword Knight. My current body was weak, but technique didn't vanish just because my muscles were smaller.
I moved through the fire like I'd walked this pattern a thousand times.
Any firebolt that came too close met the edge or flat of my sword and broke, harmlessly bursting to the side. Not a single spark touched my coat.
The stands went quieter.
Tamara's lips tightened.
"Still just running away," she said.
She swapped elements.
A blue circle shimmered into being beneath her feet, wind swirling around her legs.
"Gale Burst!"
A compressed blast of air fired toward me, strong enough to knock someone off their feet or slam them into the arena wall. I planted my heel and lowered my center of gravity, sword tip dipping slightly.
As the wind hit, I twisted my body with it—not fighting, but riding the force, letting it slide past as I cut through the center with a quick, precise slash. The compressed air tore open, the pressure dispersing harmlessly around me.
I straightened again.
"Sword technique, not magic," one professor muttered in the stands. "He cut the flow instead of resisting it…"
"Who trained that boy?" another whispered.
Tamara heard none of that.
She only saw that I was still standing, coat unstained, sword loose at my side.
Mana sparked around her more violently now.
"Stop dodging and fight properly!" she snapped.
"Why?" I asked. "You haven't hit me once."
Her teeth ground together.
She started casting faster—shorter, simpler spells. Fire bolts. Wind blades. Small, sharp projectiles that were easier to spam.
To everyone else, it probably looked like a wall of magic.
To me, it looked like holes.
There were always holes.
I stepped in, blade moving in short, minimal arcs. A slight twist of the wrist to deflect a wind blade. A quick flick to cut off a fire bolt's core. My posture barely changed—no wasted swings, no dramatic poses.
Everything was economy.
She pushed forward. I kept walking toward her.
Spell after spell flew.
Spell after spell died against my blade or sliced the air just behind me.
"Is he… reading her casting pattern?" a professor murmured.
"He's cutting where the mana is weakest," another answered quietly. "That's not something you can fake. That's years of live combat."
Tamara's face twisted.
Fine.
She switched again.
A pale barrier wrapped around her—thin, shimmering.
"Try getting close now!" she said. "Mana Shield!"
She began gathering a much bigger spell, something overhead. The air distorted above the arena, heat building as she pulled mana rapidly.
Big spell. Large area.
Bad idea.
She was still young. Even Tier 2, her control couldn't sustain spam *and* a large construct at the same time without consequences.
I sped up.
She focused on the air above, on shaping that power into something impressive for the crowd.
She forgot the simplest thing: a mage mid-cast is vulnerable.
I stepped into her shield.
Not crashed against it—stepped into it.
Her eyes widened.
"How—"
Mana Shield was strong against direct impact. Against arrows, spells, brute force. But a sword guided by precise control and experience? You don't fight the shield. You slide along its flow, find the thin spot, and *enter*.
My sword didn't clash with the barrier. It traced along its surface, pressing where her mana was weakest—where her focus wasn't.
The shield rippled… then parted like disturbed water.
I was suddenly in her space.
Her half-formed spell overhead collapsed, heat dispersing in a wave that made a few in the stands flinch.
Tamara stumbled backward, panic flickering in her gaze.
She tried to pull mana in for a point-blank spell—something, anything—but her breathing was already rough. She'd been dumping mana like a leaking bucket this whole time, trying to crush me with volume.
"Don't come any closer!" she snapped, shoving her hand forward.
A small fireball formed at her palm.
I moved my hand.
Not the sword.
Just my free hand.
I tapped her wrist sideways with two fingers.
The fireball fired harmlessly into the ground at an angle, exploding in a puff of sand.
She stared at her hand in disbelief.
Her aura was frayed. Mana lines around her were shaking. She was still trying to draw more, but her core was screaming for rest. I could see it in the stutter of her breath, in the slight tremble of her legs, in the sweat on her brow.
"You're exhausted," I said. "You should stop."
"Shut up!" she hissed.
She tried again.
A wind circle flickered, sputtered.
I stepped just close enough for her to feel the air of my movement on her skin.
Her casting shattered from pure instinctive fear.
She stumbled backward, tripping over her own foot.
I didn't cut her.
I didn't even touch her.
I followed, unhurried, sword still in a relaxed one-handed grip.
Her back hit the arena wall.
I stopped.
Very gently, I raised my sword and placed the cold flat of the blade against the side of her neck.
Just enough pressure for her to feel it.
Not a mark on her.
"I win," I said quietly.
The arena was dead silent.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her eyes darted from my blade to my face.
She swallowed.
"I… I surrender," she forced out, voice hoarse.
The senior student at the edge of the ring jolted back into motion.
"Winner: Erynd Milton!" he called out, voice carrying through the arena.
The stands erupted.
Shouts. Disbelief. Arguments.
"A swordsman won a magical duel—"
"He didn't cast once!"
"Is that even allowed?"
Up in the professor's section, several instructors were already murmuring to each other, eyes fixed on me.
Sword techniques from a viscount's son with "no mana."
Blocking Tier 2 magic without even drawing on visible power.
Closing into a shield and ending the fight without a single injury.
I removed the blade from Tamara's neck and stepped back.
"Next time," I said softly so only she could hear, "pick a target you can actually bully."
Her face flushed with a mix of humiliation and anger, but she said nothing.
I turned away from her and walked off the arena floor, sword sliding smoothly back into its scabbard.
Somewhere in the stands, I knew Alice was watching.
Somewhere else, the Academy itself was taking note.
A "weak" mage who chose not to use his magic.
A swordsman in a magic duel.
And this was only the first day.