The bruises from the night before hadn't even had time to turn dark.
Leon was already back in the East Yard, barefoot. The morning dew soaked into his soles, biting cold. His shoulder still throbbed from Elric's final hit—clean, sharp, intentional. But pain didn't stop him anymore. It was just a part of the ritual now. A reminder that he was still here.
He drew a lazy line in the dirt with his toe. One stroke. Then another. A pivot.
He wasn't even fully conscious of it—his body was already mapping out footwork. Imagining opponents stepping in and falling before they even had the chance to strike.
"You're early."
Elric's voice came from behind—same gravelly tone, no surprise.
Leon didn't turn. "I never left," he replied.
There was silence, then the quiet clack of wood hitting earth. Elric stepped into view, carrying something wrapped in cloth.
"This isn't for show," he said. His tone didn't change much, but there was weight behind the words. He unwrapped the cloth to reveal a blade—sleek, single-edged steel with a faint blue sheen.
"Shadowsteel," he said simply. "You'll be using it in tomorrow's duel."
Leon took it with both hands.
Heavier than it looked. Solid. Perfectly balanced—but it didn't forgive mistakes.
"Why now?" he asked, adjusting his grip.
"Elmont's boy asked for a formal match," Elric said. "You bloodied his cousin during the war games."
Leon blinked. "Didn't even touch his cousin."
"No. But you gave the orders that got him face-down in the mud."
Leon nodded, slowly. "And House Delmont doesn't take kindly to mud."
"Exactly."
Leon lifted the sword, letting the weight shift through his arms. It didn't have the whistle of his old wooden training blade—it had a growl, low and deep.
"Any rules?"
"No fatal strikes. That's it."
"So anything else goes."
"Anything."
Elric turned and walked away without another word.
Leon stayed behind.
And he practiced until the frost disappeared from the ground.
By mid-afternoon, word of the duel had already spread through the academy like wildfire. You couldn't pass a hallway without catching a whisper. Some students looked at Leon as he walked by. Others just got out of his way.
Outside the lecture hall, Riva caught up with him, arms folded.
"You're really going through with it?" she asked.
"He asked."
"And you said yes?"
Leon shrugged. "Better he come at me in a duel than behind my back."
She handed him a small vial.
"Drink this after. It'll help with the bruising."
He raised an eyebrow. "Expecting me to lose?"
She gave him a flat look. "Expecting you to survive."
Night dropped fast.
The dueling platform was lit by torchlight, ringed with benches packed full of students—first-years shoulder to shoulder with upperclassmen. Officials from the academy lined the edges. The instructors sat behind a railing. Elric stood there, arms crossed, face unreadable.
Leon stepped up first. His sword was sheathed at his side.
His opponent followed.
Marcus Delmont—tall, lean, dressed in an elegant dueling coat that shimmered with threads of enchantment. His fingers rested lightly on the hilt, but the way he moved told everyone he wasn't new to this.
A textbook noble. Polished. Prepared.
They faced each other.
The referee stepped between them. "Draw on my signal."
Leon's heart slowed—not out of fear, but focus.
Three seconds passed.
The nearest torch gave a hiss.
The ref dropped his hand.
Steel rang.
The duel began.
And no one—not the crowd, not even Marcus—expected Leon to be the one who closed the distance first.
He lunged.
No hesitation. No drama. Just pressure—hard, fast, and real. The first blow sent Marcus stumbling back, sparks flashing where Shadowsteel clashed with an enchanted rapier.
Gasps echoed from the benches.
Leon didn't stop.
He pivoted into a wide arc, forcing Marcus to leap sideways to avoid the follow-up. Marcus's footwork was smooth, clean, even graceful—but it wasn't made for this kind of pressure. Not like Leon's. His movements were forged from drills, weight, and sweat.
Marcus answered with speed. A flick of his blade—a feint—then a sharp thrust toward Leon's hip.
Leon caught it with his crossguard, twisted under the line, and countered with a strike from the pommel. It connected—Marcus staggered.
The instructors leaned forward.
This fight was not going how they'd expected.
Time blurred.
Strike. Parry. Sidestep. Riposte. The rhythm between them sharpened with every clash.
Marcus tried to flow around Leon's grit, tried to fight with elegance.
Leon adapted. Faster.
He ducked under a high cut, rolled past Marcus's guard, and landed a flat strike behind Marcus's knee. The crowd murmured as Marcus stumbled, teeth clenched.
Leon didn't take advantage.
He waited.
That moment—holding back when he could've pressed—meant something.
Marcus straightened, sweat dripping from his temple. "You fight like a commoner."
Leon's gaze didn't flinch. "I fight to win."
They clashed again.
Steel shrieked. Sparks jumped.
And when it was over, Leon's blade hovered just above Marcus's throat.
The silence afterward was louder than any cheer.
The referee raised his hand. "Victory—Leon Thorne."
No eruption of applause. Just... silence.
Then a few claps. Scattered. Hesitant. Slowly, they grew—until it was real.
Leon stepped back and lowered his blade.
Marcus sheathed his with a quick motion. His face was unreadable. "Your technique is crude. But it works."
Leon nodded once. "You'll adjust."
And just like that, he turned and walked off the platform.
Behind him, the crowd buzzed.
This wasn't the Leon they used to ignore.
This was someone they'd have to respect—or fear.
As he crossed the courtyard, torchlight caught the edge of his blade. And he felt it—something shifting inside him. Not in the academy. In himself. Like something old had been scraped away, and what was left felt closer to who he really was.
He stopped at the gate to the east wing.
Emily was waiting there, leaning against a pillar.
"That was brutal," she said.
"You disapprove?"
She shook her head. "I expected nothing less."
They locked eyes for a moment. The space between them filled with silence—but not emptiness.
Then she said, "You should be careful."
"Why?"
"Because you're not the underdog anymore."
And then she slipped away into the dark.
Leon stood there a moment longer.
Then, gripping his sword, he turned and headed for the training hall.
Already thinking about the next fight.
Already knowing someone else would come for him tomorrow.
And he'd be ready.
The crowd wasn't done talking. By dawn, the story of Leon's win had even reached the instructors' lounge. Teachers who once overlooked him now lingered longer when he walked by—curious, calculating.
That morning, sparring rotations were delayed.
Leon stood by the weapons rack, watching the courtyard. Students were pushing harder now, stealing glances at him between drills.
Elric showed up late.
Didn't say a word.
He posted the list for next week's duels.
Leon's name was at the top.
His next opponent?
Darius Vane.
An upperclassman.
A Rank B swordsman.
Leon stared at the name for a long time.
The challenges weren't stopping.
And neither was he.