From the shaded platform above the dueling rings, Eleanor stood motionless, her arms loosely crossed, blue eyes narrowing with every exchange.
She had been present since early morning, the moment the internal message reached her:
“Victor Blackthorn had matched with Ethan Hartley. Match approved.”
And she came. Not out of formality, not as an instructor obligated to supervise, but out of something else—intent. Curiosity, perhaps. Quiet concern. The kind only a teacher who had invested in her students understood.
And Ethan hadn’t disappointed.
Yes, the result had been expected. Victor was, stronger, and cruelly precise. His style was less about dueling and more about dismantling. Yet Ethan, despite the pain, the disadvantage, and the weight of every blow—he endured. He resisted. Even adapted.
He was getting better.
It was rough, incomplete, a boy still trying to mold himself into something more.
But it was growth. And that was enough, for now.
Still, the match had ended.
And Eleanor had remained.
Because another fight had begun.
And this one?
This one had her full attention.
Below, steel clashed with steel. Flashes of gold and silver blurred across the platform. Julia’s blade, alive with motion, danced in seamless arcs of aggression. A duelist’s precision. A predator’s rhythm. She had always been a powerhouse in motion—but now, something had changed. There was sharpness behind her aggression. Technique layered over instinct.
Illusions…? Eleanor’s gaze sharpened slightly.
Not cast, but crafted. Built into the tempo of the blade itself.
A variant.
Julia’s evolving. Fast.
But the one who held Eleanor’s attention—truly—was the one in front of her.
Astron.
Daggers in hand. Feet sliding across the stone. Movements tight, minimalistic, but never clumsy. She could see it in how he turned his hips on a block, how he used Julia’s own pressure to shift tempo. The way his eyes flicked—not in panic, but in prediction. Every illusion Julia weaved, he tracked. Every false angle she twisted, he filtered. Not all cleanly. Not without strain.
But he saw through them.
And that—
That was no accident.
Eleanor’s fingers tapped softly against her forearm.
When I watched him train, she thought, I suspected it. When he mimicked the Stripes with daggers, when he closed the gap with Irina after barely holding a sword for minutes—I saw it.
Now, watching him exchange blows with Julia—a prodigy swordswoman with nobility-forged technique, aura, and physical mastery—her suspicions evolved.
They solidified.
A daggerist who thinks like a swordsman.
A student who was never taught the blade, yet reacted like someone born with it.
Eleanor’s thoughts grew quieter, her breath stilling as her eyes locked onto Astron’s next movement.
He caught her illusion.
He cut through it.
He retaliated, not with brute force, not with a spell—but with a calculated tempo-break, slipping past her rhythm and striking the core of her form. A counter not taught in textbooks, but formed from reading.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
He’s not just mimicking. He’s adapting in real time.
She watched as Julia grinned—frustrated and thrilled—and backed off, resetting her stance. A thin line of sweat traced her temple. Her core form returned. So did her illusions.
But Astron didn’t flinch.
His stance adjusted.
His breathing slowed.
And Eleanor felt it again.
That anticipation.
The same quiet thrill she had felt only a handful of times in her life.
Watching the start of something rare.
My eyes weren’t wrong.
She thought back to the classification board, to his trait summary, to the occupation list that stamped Daggerist and Bowman into his profile.
But in this moment—watching the way he fought, how he thought in motion—
That label felt wrong.
Or incomplete.
He has the potential to become a swordsman.
And not just any swordsman.
One forged through adversity, silence, and efficiency.
One who had taught himself why a blade moved, long before anyone taught him how.
Eleanor exhaled slowly, her gaze unblinking.
“If someone taught him properly…”
She didn’t finish the thought.
Because part of her already knew—
That she might be the one to do it.
*****
On the platform, Julia lunged again.
CLANG!—SWOOSH!—TCHNK!
This time, three blades came in sequence—two ghosts, one real.
The first cut was wide, aimed high—meant to bait his arms upward.
The second trailed the shadow of the first—perfectly spaced, slightly delayed.
The third? A low stab toward his ankle—meant to punish his guard shift.
Astron blocked the high slash.
Dodged the second.
And—
CLANG!
Caught the third.
Julia’s brow furrowed slightly.
Again…
It had looked like he’d been caught off guard. The stagger. The tilt of his heel. The brief delay between blocks.
But as she looked closer—read the tension in his shoulders, the calm in his eyes—
It felt fake.
She dashed right, her body twisting low, sword slashing through an illusion-imbued arc that mirrored itself a second later.
He blocked the fake one this time—intentionally.
Let the real strike skim his sleeve.
Too convenient.
Too rehearsed.
Julia’s golden eyes narrowed. Her instincts flared.
You saw it, didn’t you?
You knew which was real.
She struck again—harder, faster. Her illusions grew bolder, sharper, embedded in feints and repositions.
Some he clearly missed.
Others?
He pretended to miss.
Not once did he retaliate.
Not once did he counter-strike like someone who had truly misjudged the blade.
He defended. Defended. Defended.
Even when disarmed from one hand, he retreated with precision. Dropped a dagger on purpose to bait her into overextending.
She didn’t fall for it.
Instead, she pressed with a rippling combo of slashes.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!—TCHNK!
And in a blur of steel, her sword hooked beneath his remaining dagger—
CLACK!—CLATTER.
It skidded across the floor.
Astron stepped back. Open-palmed. Chest rising and falling.
The match was over.
Instructor Verren’s voice rang out sharply: “That’s enough!”
The mana barrier flared, then dimmed.
Silence fell across the platform.
The students in the audience exhaled—murmurs, awe, whispers of “She beat him.” and “Did you see how she pressured him?”
But Julia?
She didn’t move.
Her blade stayed up for another breath. Two.
Then she finally exhaled and lowered it, gaze locked on Astron.
He stood still. Not winded. Not ashamed.
Just calm. Like always.
Julia’s jaw tensed. Her steps were slow as she approached him, sword at her side.
“You fought well,” she said flatly.
Astron nodded once. “So did you.”
She blinked.
Then gave a tight smile.
But it wasn’t a satisfied one.
There was no real sting of victory in her chest. No rush.
No thrill.
And that pissed her off.
No wounds. No slips. Not even a real counter in the last minute of the fight.
He could’ve struck back.
Could’ve challenged her.
But he didn’t.
And that hollow feeling gnawed at her ribs like acid.
Why?
“Hey,” she said quietly, voice low enough that no one else would hear. “Were you holding back?”
Astron looked at her—expression unreadable. “I lost.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A pause.
He tilted his head slightly. “Would it matter?”
Julia’s fingers twitched around her hilt.
She didn’t answer.
He stepped past her then, walking off the platform like the fight meant nothing.
And maybe to him—it didn’t.
But to her?
That uncertainty festered.
From the crowd, cheers rang out. Recognition. Admiration.
But in her chest?
Only frustration.
Not because she hadn’t dominated the fight.
But because she couldn’t be sure if she ever truly had.
Because something deep in her gut—her [White Tiger] instincts, her rhythm, her sword—was telling her the truth no one else could see:
That wasn’t Astron’s limit.
And the fact that he chose to hide it?
That he let her win?
That—
That was unforgivable.
Her teeth clicked softly.
Her blade slid back into its sheath with a quiet hiss of steel.
And as she turned from the platform, her smile was gone.
Not defeated.
Just—
Unsatisfied.
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