The courtyard had been transformed.
No longer just a training ground—it was now a mock battlefield.
Wooden barricades, colored flags, obstacle mounds, and designated 'safe zones' marked the terrain. The academy's instructors stood on raised platforms, scribes beside them, watching and noting.
Cohort Seven had been split into two teams.
And Leon Thorne had been made a captain.
"Don't speak unless it's useful," he said to his group, voice low but firm. "Riva, you're my blade. Jameson, left flank. Cedric, rotate to the rear. If you don't understand something, watch what I do and adapt."
A few mutters. Some narrowed eyes. But no one challenged him—not after yesterday.
The bell rang.
War began.
They spread like chess pieces across the broken ground. Leon darted low, taking cover behind a barricade, eyes scanning.
Rellan was on the opposing team. That alone meant no wasted moves.
From a rise on the left, an opponent raised their blade and called for a charge.
Leon gave no command.
Instead, he moved.
Fast. Precise.
He struck the charging enemy at the edge of their motion, slamming him into the dust with the flat of his blade. Points weren't earned by injury—but by control. And Leon had control.
Riva followed through, covering his blind side.
They advanced.
Pressure built. Students were disarmed, tagged out, called off the field by observers.
Leon rotated back, relaying a quick signal to Cedric with two fingers. A flanking maneuver.
Smoke flares triggered in the center field.
A trap.
Leon narrowed his eyes. "Jameson! Pull back now—!"
Too late.
A sudden blitz. Opposing students emerged from the smoke, forcing them into a retreat. Jameson was tagged. Cedric barely escaped.
Rellan moved like lightning—his team rallied behind him.
But Leon held the line.
He timed his steps, used the terrain. Forced bottlenecks. Drew one opponent in at a time.
The tide shifted again.
Riva disarmed two more.
Leon cut through the middle.
And finally—
It came down to the final exchange. Leon and Rellan. Again.
No war cries. No banter.
Just motion.
Their blades clashed, feet scuffed earth, and bodies twisted.
And this time—Leon won the position.
Blade to chest.
Observer whistled.
Game over.
Elric's voice thundered:
"Victory—Team Thorne."
Leon exhaled, sweat trickling down his temple.
But even as the cheers rose behind him, his gaze remained on Rellan.
The respect was there.
So was the challenge.
This war wasn't over.
It had only changed shape.
Rellan stood slowly, brushing dust off his sleeve. "You're not done surprising me, are you?"
Leon shook his head. "Not until I leave you behind."
The words hung heavy—but not hostile. It was a promise.
Emily stepped down from the gallery with two other students trailing behind her, offering water to the fighters. She handed a canteen to Leon herself, her hand brushing his.
"You fought like you've done this before," she said quietly.
Leon didn't answer right away. His mind still replayed the fight frame by frame.
"I just don't like losing."
She smiled faintly. "That makes two of us."
As the teams regrouped near the edge of the field, Elric descended from the platform.
"Cohort Seven," he began, "That was the best showing we've seen all term. But don't confuse a game with a battlefield."
His eyes scanned the group, lingering on Leon.
"Victory means less when you can't protect what matters. Remember that."
Then he turned sharply and walked off.
Leon stood still, breathing in the sting of sweat, dirt, and something else.
Recognition.
They had seen him now—not as the spoiled son of a fallen house.
But as a leader.
Later that evening, when the sun dipped behind the academy's spires, Leon returned alone to the training yard. The barricades were being dismantled, the flares long extinguished.
But he wasn't done.
He picked up his sword.
And began again.
Hours passed, moonlight slanting across the stone tiles.
Footsteps stirred behind him.
Riva appeared, holding two practice blades. "You're either a masochist… or obsessed."
Leon wiped sweat from his brow and tossed one of his own blades toward her feet. "Pick one."
She smirked. "Obsessed it is."
They squared off again.
Steel clashed under moonlight, and this time, it was not about scoring points or impressing instructors.
It was about mastery.
Each blow taught something.
Each dodge forced instinct.
The world faded. No titles, no rivalries, no noble houses. Just two fighters, inching toward something harder than victory.
Improvement.
As dawn approached, their blades slowed.
Leon dropped to a knee, panting. Riva stood over him, breathing just as hard.
"That all you've got?" she teased, though her arms trembled.
Leon chuckled, low and sharp. "For today."
She offered her hand.
He took it.
And when they stood, something had shifted.
Not just in strength.
But in trust.
They didn't speak much after that. They trained until the first orange fingers of light touched the horizon, then silently walked off in separate directions—tired but sharpened.
By midday, the academy's halls buzzed with the aftermath of the mock battle. Rumors spread fast. Leon's name was whispered with something approaching respect. Some even dared to call him a contender now—not just the fat noble's son who'd gotten lucky.
At lunch, Elric walked past Leon's table and set down a folded note beside his bowl.
"East Yard. Dusk. Don't be late."
Leon didn't respond, but he nodded once.
The rest of the day passed with training, drills, lectures. But Leon's mind lingered on the note.
When the sun dipped low again, he made his way to the East Yard.
Elric was waiting.
No words. Just a nod.
And then he tossed Leon a sword unlike any he'd used before—longer, narrower, perfectly balanced.
"This is how real swordsmen train."
And without warning, Elric attacked.
Leon barely caught the motion.
The next second was heat and motion and instinct. He blocked, dodged, was thrown to the ground, and rose again.
This was no lesson.
This was a test.
And Leon fought.
Not to impress.
But to survive—and to rise.
Again.