The room didn't exhale until Elric walked to the far wall and pulled down a long black cloth, revealing a mounted diagram underneath—an arcane combat map segmented into four rings, each one labeled not with magic tiers, but with sword stances.
"Sit," he said without turning.
Chairs scraped the floor. The nobles moved slower now. No whispering. No smirking.
Leon found his spot back near the far right wall, across from Fena. He didn't look for Rellan. He didn't need to.
Elric tapped the outer ring of the diagram. "Foundation. Balance. Tempo. All of you—regardless of crest, name, or inheritance—fail at this."
He turned toward the class again.
"Three of you hold E-rank or higher. Eight are unranked. One—" he paused, letting the room tighten—"won a Crest Duel two days ago, and some of you seem to think that makes him special."
Leon didn't flinch.
Elric pointed to the second ring. "Discipline. Placement. Intention. I don't care who your father is. You swing your sword without knowing where your weight is, and you'll lose a hand."
He walked again. Slow. Heavy-booted steps that echoed like a drumbeat. "Cohort Seven is not a noble's formality group. It is not a stepping stone to appointments or ducal titles."
He stopped in front of Leon.
"It exists," Elric said, voice low, "to break bad habits."
Leon stared back.
Elric moved on.
"Four weeks," he said. "That's how long this trial rotation lasts. At the end of it, if you haven't improved, you leave. Permanently. If I catch you bribing instructors, you leave. If you mouth off, you leave. If you hesitate during a live pairing, you bleed."
Someone near the front shifted. Elric didn't look, but somehow sensed it.
"You will duel. You will drill. You will break. And if you're lucky, you'll rebuild before you're cut in half."
He tapped the hilt of his own sword.
"Those who do," he said, "I might consider taking seriously."
Then he clapped once.
The sound rang like a blade drawn across iron.
"Pair up."
The room hesitated.
Then moved.
Fast.
Fena was already beside Leon before anyone else had turned fully around.
"I'm not going easy," she muttered.
"Good."
Their blades hadn't even left their sheaths when Elric barked, "Form!"
Leon stepped back, angled his shoulder, kept his knees bent. His gauntlet shifted slightly to adjust grip weight.
Fena moved first.
A jab—clean, fast, not intended to land but to test spacing.
Leon absorbed it, countered with a low sweep to bait her footwork.
She didn't bite.
Their clash lasted ten seconds. No strikes landed.
Elric passed behind them. Didn't speak.
Then—"Faster."
This time, the exchange was harsher.
Fena struck with intent now, forcing Leon to step rather than slide, breaking his posture.
He rotated, parried, ducked a follow-up elbow, and almost slipped when his rear foot caught loose grit.
"Your stance is still too narrow," she said.
"Yours is wide enough to invite a trip."
They kept moving.
Elric's voice cut through again. "No talking. This is not a tavern."
Leon reset. So did Fena.
Across the hall, steel sang against steel.
Grunts echoed.
A few yelps. One pair hit the ground hard.
Then came the smell—sweat and oil and blood, faint but present. Real training.
Elric called time after fifteen minutes. Not through yelling—just a single lift of his hand.
Pairs separated.
Leon's shoulders burned.
Fena rubbed her elbow, but didn't look winded.
Elric stood in the center again.
"Some of you can move. Most of you are liabilities. That will change."
He turned his back to them.
"One last thing."
Everyone watched.
Elric paused at the board. "Tomorrow, the pairing changes. You'll draw lots. No repeats until rotation ends."
His tone lowered. "If you have grudges, keep them outside the circle. Or finish them early."
He didn't look at Leon. But the air around Leon shifted anyway.
He felt the glances now.
Not just Rellan's.
Others.
Too many.
He exhaled, slow.
The lesson ended without fanfare. No bow. No dismissal. Elric just walked out through a side door.
But the weight of the room lingered.
Leon turned to leave.
Fena stayed beside him.
"You're on their list now," she said under her breath.
"I've always been."
She frowned. "Not like this."
Leon didn't reply.
His mind was already two days ahead.
When the real duels began.
Leon didn't head back to the dorms right away.
Instead, he climbed the west stairwell toward the outer training balconies — a windswept edge of the academy grounds that overlooked the southern cliffs. It wasn't used for formal drills anymore. Too exposed. Too high up. But that made it perfect.
Empty.
He set his training blade down beside one of the rusted dummies, untied his overcoat, and stripped to his undershirt.
The wind cut across the exposed skin of his arms, but he welcomed it.
Every breath came out heavy.
Every joint reminded him of the strain from drills below.
But his legs still moved.
He stepped into his stance.
Elric's words echoed in his mind — not the threats, but the phrasing.
Foundation. Balance. Tempo.
Leon hadn't focused on footwork since the second month after his regression. He'd been so preoccupied with strength gains, weight loss, conditioning routines… he'd started fighting like someone who needed to prove he was no longer slow.
But speed without control?
That was just another form of waste.
He exhaled, sunk lower into his posture, and began again.
One step. Turn. Reset.
Another. Heel pivot. Reset.
Again.
He practiced the first stance sequence twelve times. On the thirteenth, his left knee twitched from fatigue.
He kept going.
Sweat began to bead down his temples.
Not from heat. From effort.
From restraint.
A shadow moved behind him.
Leon's hand drifted toward his blade before the voice stopped him.
"You don't rest much."
It was Elena.
She wore her formal robes today — not the dueling garb, but her noble-mage ensemble, embroidered with soft lines of enchantment silk. Her hair was tied high, fastened with an ivory clip.
Leon straightened, lowering his sword slightly.
"You should be in lecture."
"I was. Then I wasn't."
She walked closer, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"You're not part of the mage division," he said.
"I audited the advanced spellform class this morning."
"Not ambitious at all, are you?"
"I could say the same."
She nodded toward the sparring form he'd been drilling.
"That looked different," she said. "More refined."
"Cohort Seven doesn't do flowery forms."
She tilted her head, studying his stance.
"No. But you're adapting. That's progress."
Leon glanced at her.
"Did you come to watch?"
"No," she said.
Then added, "But I'm not leaving, either."
He let out a breath.
Then returned to form.
As he stepped again into the new stance — correcting the angle of his lead foot, watching his center line — she circled him slowly.
Not judging.
Not smirking.
Just observing.
"You're not afraid of them, are you?" she asked.
Leon didn't pause. "Who?"
"The nobles. The instructors. The ones whispering about how you got here."
He shifted again.
"Being afraid doesn't help. It only delays the next hit."
"Spoken like someone who's been hit a lot."
Leon cracked a smile.
Finally, she did too.
But then her voice lowered.
"My father says the Board is watching you."
Leon stopped mid-form.
She continued. "There's a bet going around in the inner ring. They want to see if you'll make it through rotation."
Leon turned his head.
"And you?"
She met his eyes.
"I already saw you survive worse."
The wind carried the silence that followed.
Then Leon nodded once and reset his feet.
He had four more sequences to finish before the sun dropped below the cliff.
And now, he had someone watching who wouldn't settle for less.
By the time Leon finished the last form, his legs were shaking.
He held the stance a breath too long—enough to steady himself—then exhaled and lowered the blade.
Elena stood nearby, watching—not his form, but his face.
"Your guard drops left on the reset," she said.
Leon flexed his wrist. "You caught that?"
"Third repetition. You overgrip to fix it."
He nodded once. She wasn't wrong.
She stepped up beside him, eyes on the cliffs beyond. Wind caught her hair, but she didn't brush it back.
"I was taught to watch before acting," she said. "Act too soon, you don't last."
Leon said nothing.
She looked at him.
"You're not like the rest of them. You're not here to impress."
He stared out over the edge. He could hear the sea, even if he couldn't see it.
"I don't have the time."
Elena's voice was quiet. "Then what are you doing?"
Leon's jaw tightened. "Making sure I don't die twice."
She flinched—but didn't ask. Smart.
"I came up to clear my head," she said. "You turned it into a practice ground."
"You stayed."
"I did."
He grabbed the cloth, wiped sweat from his face. His body was still recovering from Elric's drills. Tomorrow would be worse.
"Marrow's going to break someone," he muttered.
"It won't be you."
"You sound sure."
"You've already been broken. It didn't hold."
He glanced her way.
She smiled.
The tower bell rang.
Elena stepped back. "Come to the southern field tomorrow. I'm testing new chains. You'll want to see."
He raised a brow. "A warning?"
"A reminder," she said. "I'm not just watching."
She left without another word.
Leon stayed until the light faded. Then pulled on his coat and took the stairs.
Two flights down, someone waited.
Rellan Faulk.
Leaning on the arch. Cut healing on his jaw. Two quiet figures at his back.
"I knew I'd find you here," Rellan said.
Leon didn't answer.
"You've got Marrow's attention now. But that doesn't mean you belong."
Leon kept walking.
"I didn't ask to."
"You were easier to ignore when you were soft and forgettable."
Leon stopped. Looked at him.
"Then forget me."
Rellan's smile was thin. "Don't mistake tolerance for respect."
Leon stepped past him.
Then heard it.
"The nobles won't forget what your father lost. Or how."
Leon paused—half a second.
Then kept walking.
And never turned around.