The training grounds sealed themselves the moment Lunaria stepped fully onto the field.
Runes ignited beneath the stone, forming concentric circles that pulsed with stabilizing mana. Tall crystal pylons rose at the edges, humming softly—structures designed to survive S-rank clashes. Hunters filled the surrounding terraces in minutes, whispers stacking atop whispers as word spread.
A spar between guildmasters and the silver-haired S-rank.
The seven guildmasters took their positions with easy confidence. Cloaks fluttered. Mana signatures flared, sharp and bright, each one different—wind, steel, gravity, flame, light. They were powerful. Legitimately so. Rulers not by title alone.
They watched Lunaria like hunters measuring a kill.
He stood still.
Hair loose, silver strands brushing his cheeks. Nose mask hiding his mouth, leaving his eyes to do all the speaking—calm, pale, distant. The cut hair softened his appearance, lending him an almost disarming elegance that sat uneasily beside the weight of his presence.
"Rules?" one guildmaster asked lightly.
"No lethal intent," another added. "Unless you can't help it."
A few chuckles rippled through the group.
Lunaria tilted his head slightly. "I won't kill you," he said. "But I won't pretend either."
That was all the warning they received.
The signal rune flashed.
The field exploded.
Wind tore forward first—compressed blades screaming toward Lunaria from three angles. Flame followed, spiraling heat that warped the air. Gravity snapped inward, trying to crush space itself.
Lunaria stepped.
Not back.
Sideways.
The attacks passed where he had been, tearing deep scars into the stone. Before the echoes faded, Lunaria was already moving, his body slipping through space with frightening economy. No wasted steps. No flourish.
One guildmaster lunged in close, blade humming with reinforced mana.
Lunaria caught the flat of the weapon with two fingers.
The impact cracked the ground.
The guildmaster's eyes widened as the force rebounded through his arm, numbing it instantly. Lunaria twisted, redirected the momentum, and sent the man skidding backward across the field—uninjured, but humiliated.
Another came from behind, gravity spiking again.
Lunaria vanished.
He reappeared above them.
A soft tap of his foot against a shoulder sent the attacker crashing into the ground, pinned there by a pressure that felt like the sky pressing down.
The audience fell silent.
Too fast.
Too clean.
The guildmasters adjusted immediately. Mana surged higher. Formation shifted. They stopped testing and started coordinating.
Light flared—binding chains of radiance snapping toward Lunaria's limbs. Wind hardened into invisible walls. Steel constructs formed mid-air, dropping like guillotines.
Lunaria inhaled.
His aura expanded—not violently, but decisively.
The chains shattered. The constructs disintegrated mid-fall. Wind stalled, crushed flat by invisible weight.
He moved again.
This time, he didn't dodge.
He entered.
He slipped between two guildmasters, hands striking pressure points with surgical precision. One lost balance instantly, mana short-circuiting. Another staggered as Lunaria brushed past him, fingers grazing his shoulder just long enough to disrupt his core flow.
It wasn't brutal.
It was intimate.
Close enough to feel breath, to sense heartbeat, to understand exactly how fragile even strong hunters were at the wrong angle.
The guildmasters felt it too.
This wasn't domination through force alone.
It was control.
One of them snarled and unleashed everything—flames roaring outward, temperature skyrocketing.
Lunaria walked through it.
The heat bent away from him, crushed by layered defenses that never fully manifested. He reached the caster and placed a hand against his chest.
A pulse.
The guildmaster collapsed, mana extinguished, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Silence deepened.
Four remained.
Sweat beaded at their temples—not from exertion, but realization. They were not sparring with an equal.
They were being evaluated.
They attacked together.
Lunaria finally drew the knife.
Not in threat.
In demonstration.
The blade moved like a whisper, tapping weapons aside, carving lines in the air that disrupted spells before they formed. He disarmed one, redirected another's momentum into empty space, and pinned a third to the ground with a single foot—all within the span of a heartbeat.
The last guildmaster hesitated.
Lunaria stopped in front of him.
Close.
Silver hair framing his face, eyes steady and unreadable above the mask. His aura pressed in gently now—not crushing, just enough to make breathing feel deliberate.
"You wanted to understand," Lunaria said quietly. "Now you do."
He turned away.
The final guildmaster dropped to one knee—not forced, but compelled by instinct.
The runes dimmed. The field settled.
No one spoke.
Around them, the city's hunters stared in stunned silence, the lesson burned into memory.
Predators had entered the ring.
And learned—
Some shapes of power could not be claimed.
Only respected.