Celia, Celia
Within a surging white tide of dense, choking smoke—
"Wh… what the hell!"
"Where is he!"
"Everyone, stay sharp!"
"You little rat!"
Dozens of martial artists tore through the space in a tight, frantic sweep, hunting a single enemy.
And in the midst of that killing ground—
"……."
Leon kept his body pressed flat against the earth.
Legs pounded past him in endless succession. Sharp, probing auras stretched out again and again, straining to catch even a whisper of his presence. The gaps between searchers were so narrow a child could not have slipped through. The pressure was fierce enough to snare a gnat.
And yet—
No one found him.
No one could sense him. No one could catch him.
—Slash!
Another silver arc traced a brief line across a throat.
Thud!
Another body crumpled.
"““……!”””
The cadets beside the fallen man snapped their eyes wide—but all they saw was pure white fog, and a comrade's empty, fading gaze as the mana took him and he vanished.
Leon was practicing stealth and assassination.
What did perfect concealment require?
First: footsteps.
Footwork solved that. The Heavenly Escape Steps—a technique said to hide even from the heavens themselves. Leon had drilled it for years, nearly as long as he had trained the Heavenly Spirit Steps. On top of that, he had always possessed an exceptional gift for infiltration. In a racket like this, silencing his footfalls was nothing.
Second: breathing.
A seasoned martial artist could pick up the sound of an opponent's breath without much trouble. So he used the Karaz-style Breathing Method—the technique of Karaz, an assassin whose name had once shaken the entire continent. The secret manual had been locked away in the Crucible Ducal House's vaults; Leon had thrown a tantrum at Duke Rock until the man handed it over. Rumors claimed a true master could last an entire day on a single breath. Leon was not that good—but he was good enough to fool everyone here.
Slow. Long.
Thin. Faint.
Weak. Barely there.
Inhale. Exhale. Again.
Every cadet present was at least an Expert of the lower ranks. Their senses ran dozens of times sharper than an ordinary person's, and combat had wound their hearing even tighter. Still, Leon walked right up behind them and drew a blade across their throats without a single one catching so much as a whisper of breath.
And that same breathing method took care of everything else he needed to hide.
Mana.
Reading the flow of mana was something any martial artist or mage who handled the stuff could do. With a little more refinement, you could even track the mana an opponent was actively moving. The Karaz-style Breathing Method solved that too. Maintain the breath as trained, and change began on its own. The nature of the mana running through his circuits shifted. Instead of crashing like a tidal wave or howling like a storm, it grew soft and still—like a cat that had sheathed its claws. The scraps of mana that usually leaked from his body were drawn back inside and sealed away.
His muscles and joints loosened until they were endlessly pliant. No matter how dynamically he moved, not a single bone cracked or joint popped. His heartbeat lost its force.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
Thump, thump, thumpthumpthumpthump—
It shrank and sped up until it beat like a mouse's heart. The muscular organ that had once pulsed hard and driven blood with power traded strength for speed—and the sound of it dwindled until even Leon himself could barely hear it.
His presence vanished of its own accord. He felt himself thin out into a single thread of wind. There was even a strange freedom to it, as if he had become invisible.
But he was not finished yet.
He buried his killing intent. That part was easy. He was not actually trying to kill these cadets—only to force them out. He approached them the way you approach a log you mean to chop, not a person you mean to murder. He wiped the very idea of killing from his mind.
Last of all: the blade's edge.
He hid that by tucking the reverse-gripped dagger up his sleeve. Drawing the edge only at the final instant—right before the cut—was enough. By then the target's mouth and body were already locked down; even if they noticed, it no longer mattered.
Slash!
Clean. Precise.
He opened the soft place where the vocal cords sat. He did not need the force to take a head clean off—only enough damage to trigger an instant-death ruling and a disqualification. Then he set the stiffened body down and moved on to the next target.
With his presence sealed that completely, Leon kept weaving through the fog.
The enemy could not see him, could not hear him, could not feel him. This place was his playground—a weasel in a henhouse.
That did not mean he slaughtered everyone in sight. He had priorities.
"First, form ranks and—"
—Slash!
"Everyone stay close and—"
—Slash!
"We need to get out of—"
—Slash!
Anyone trying to rally their side. Anyone who kept their cool. Anyone with sharp instincts. The moment someone started saying something useful, he cut their throat. He needed the chaos to hold. He needed to buy as much time as possible before they broke free of this place.
By the same logic, anyone who tried to bolt for the outside died too.
Thud-thud-thud—!
—Slash!
"Wh—what the—?!"
When the comrade running ahead of him suddenly went down, a cadet locked up mid-stride, instinct slamming the brakes on his legs. A few more steps and he would be dead. He felt it in his bones. After that scene repeated a few times, the urge to run for the exit withered fast.
East one moment, west the next—Leon never stopped moving. He ran like a madman. Covering this much ground alone left him no choice. Constant, violent changes of direction were already punishing his ankles and knees.
The new insight into footwork he had gained a short while ago helped; he was faster and more efficient than usual. But he was still human. No matter how good his stamina was, a limit would come.
Twinge!
"……!"
A sudden spike of pain flared up from his dantian, and Leon stopped in place for a moment.
Shit…….
The backlash of forcing mana through his body without rest and driving his flesh past its limits. A short breather would have fixed it—but with cadets hunting him with blood in their eyes, even a heartbeat of stillness was dangerous.
Fuck.
Leon licked his dry lips—and then the volume dial of the battlefield spun hard to the right.
Clang! Clash-clash-clang! Screee!
Steel on steel, and then—
"Ambush!"
"Class C! It's Class C!"
"Damn it, out of nowhere—!"
"One each! Take one each!"
Shouts erupted, louder than anything that had come before.
"Class F is here too!"
"Are you kidding me! Class A just showed up!"
"When the hell did they form an alliance—!"
While Leon bought time, the Class A cadets had arrived.
They had not been hiding nearby from the start. One Leon might have managed it, but smuggling an entire class this deep without being noticed was impossible. So Leon had driven into the heart of the formation, fired the flare arrow, and drawn every eye. The moment the classes in the Grade 1 zone rushed toward that signal, Class A—waiting on the outer edge—followed at a measured distance. While Leon fought his delaying action in the fog, they closed the gap, then punched straight in and attacked.
The plan worked.
They could not use the gear from Classes I and J—the weapons did not match—but the mere fact that Classes A, C, and F had joined forces was enough to put real fear into the enemy. The confusion Leon had already been stoking detonated under the sudden assault.
The battlefield turned messy and wild. The fog-blurred vision mattered. The masks made identification even harder. No one would ever dream these were Class A cadets in borrowed clothes.
And Class A was attacking in small, split teams. From the enemy's position, there was no way to count how many opponents they actually faced. Because Leon had already cut off every attempt to form ranks, they could only thrash in the chaos, swinging blades without even knowing who stood beside them.
Class A, by contrast, had come in with a thorough plan and carefully assigned positions. They drove forward like a storm. These were the same cadets other classes had always tried to keep in check because of their sheer skill. Sweeping up an enemy whose momentum had already collapsed was not difficult.
The field went to hell.
Curses, shouts, and the crash of weapons tangled together until even a full-throated scream was swallowed whole. Heat and excitement cooked the air. Shock and anxiety jumped from person to person like fire through dry kindling. Enemies fell one after another under Class A's blades, and the tide of the battle tilted hard in their favor.
Good.
Having clawed back a measure of his stamina, Leon began searching for his next target with a hungry gleam in his eyes.
In a situation like this, the one he needed to hunt was the most dangerous enemy on the field—the exceptional fighter who might still reverse a collapsing momentum.
Yeah. Exactly like that.
Whoosh! Whoooom!
A spear whirled into view on a spinning gust of wind. Straight. Unhesitating. The strikes pouring from her hands were so fierce his eyes went wide on their own. Above them, short violet hair swayed, and purple light moved through the fog like will-o'-the-wisps.
"Celia, Celia……."
Tap!
Leon murmured the name with a cold little smile, then launched his body forward.