The Aftermath of the Duel
The result the duel had left behind was nothing short of astonishing. An E-Class cadet had actually secured a victory over a B-Class cadet. The moment the news spread, the entire Academy was thrown into an uproar.
And with good reason — a lower-ranked cadet claiming victory in a match against someone three full tiers above was an exceedingly rare occurrence. It had been so long since the last time that even the professors, upon hearing the report, were visibly taken aback.
The story raced through E-Class just as quickly. The male cadets clustered at the back of the classroom, whispering among themselves, went wide-eyed the instant the rumor reached their ears.
"What? He actually won?"
"I'm telling you, it's true. The kids who watched outside the dueling hall told me themselves."
"How did he even pull that off? I can't believe it."
Being fellow members of E-Class, they knew better than anyone just how difficult it was to beat a B-Class cadet. That a student who had enrolled with an F-Rank Mana Manifestation had knocked one down — it defied all reason, and they could only stare in stunned disbelief.
"I saw it myself, and honestly, it was impressive. F-Rank mana, sure, but the guy's body looks like it's been forged to the limit."
"Blocking a spear driven straight down at him, head-on — that part genuinely shocked me."
One after another, cadets who hadn't merely heard the rumor secondhand but had watched the duel unfold with their own eyes began to emerge and weigh in. At that, even the skeptics started pressing for the full story, and in no time the classroom was abuzz with chatter.
"Wait, wasn't it said that he got in by sweet-talking the examiner?"
"Maybe it turns out the examiner's eye for talent was sharper than anyone realized."
As the conversation rolled on, some of them began to see Bell in an entirely new light. Of course, not everyone felt that way — a few cadets who had genuinely believed the uglier rumors stepped forward to pour cold water on the mood.
"Beating a B-Class cadet, of all things, and suddenly the commoner's face gets gilded?"
Those who interjected like this were, almost without exception, souls steeped in aristocratic supremacy. Petty creatures consumed by envy at the very idea of a commoner drawing more attention and earning higher regard than nobles like themselves.
The problem was that not every noble-born cadet shared their outlook.
"Honestly, B-Class isn't exactly something to bow down to. If any of us got matched against a B-Class cadet, you think we'd win?"
"Realistically? Not a chance."
"Right. You could puff your chest all you want, but the second a B-Class kid walks up, you'd all bolt with your tails between your legs."
Several cadets tore down their own pride to come to Bell's defense. In particular, those who secretly nursed a sense of shame about being in E-Class at all competed to speak up. It felt, to them, as if Bell had proven on their behalf that E-Class was not so weak after all.
Once public opinion began tilting Bell's way, the male cadet who had opened his mouth in that lofty, overbearing tone clicked his tongue and slunk away.
"Oh, right. You all hear the news?"
"What news?"
With one troublemaker gone who had been souring the mood, the cadet who had been steering the conversation spoke up again.
"Apparently the B-Class guys are going around saying that if the supervisor hadn't called it, they might have taken it all the way. They're huffing and puffing about it."
"Seriously? Wow, how pathetic can those guys get."
The cadet who spat the words shook his head back and forth as if there were simply no reasoning with them. In a sanctioned duel, the supervisor's judgment is absolute. If anything, they ought to have been grateful that a supervisor had stepped in before things escalated into a real fight and someone got hurt — not muttering sour grapes about how the ruling was wrong just because they'd lost. It was embarrassing to share an Academy with them.
"Is it really worth all that over a single sparring match?"
"It's the first time in nine years a B-Class cadet has lost to someone from E-Class. No wonder they're ugly about it. Heh heh."
More than Bell's victory itself, what delighted them most was the blow it had dealt to B-Class pride. The contemptuous glances that had swept over them just that very day — the same looks from the entrance ceremony, when they'd been sneered at as E-Class trash — flashed through their minds. A-Class was somewhat more tolerable, but the sight of mediocre kids from B-Class and C-Class strutting around like peacocks never failed to make their blood boil. Thinking of how Bell had knocked some sense into exactly that kind of people, they felt they might not need dinner at all tonight.
Creeeeak.
Just then, the front door of the classroom swung open, and a young man stepped through. It was the very subject of all the chatter — Bell himself. His arrival set the classroom abuzz all over again.
Several cadets greeted him like long-lost friends of ten years, rushing forward in a scramble to welcome him.
"Hey, we heard everything! You beat a B-Class cadet!"
"Uh, ah…."
Deluged with an enthusiastic reception from classmates whose attitudes had flipped without warning, Bell was utterly flustered. He wasn't a triumphant general returning from war — it was a single sparring match, and yet they were making this much of a fuss. Embarrassment outweighed any pleasure by a wide margin.
"Don't be shy about it! But how'd you win? You've got until the end of lunch — spill the whole story!"
"Weren't you F-Rank mana manifestation, though? So you won on pure swordsmanship?"
Yet as the questions poured over him, Bell decided this wasn't so bad after all. He had never trained relentlessly in hopes of anyone's recognition — but it seemed true, he realized anew, that being recognized was a pleasant thing in its own right.
And so Bell, who under normal circumstances could barely have exchanged two words with these classmates, found himself wedged among them, unpacking the story of the duel like a bundle of goods at market.
That same evening. Elisha lay sprawled across the bed in her lavish suite in Loperia Hall, rolling restlessly from side to side. The duel she had witnessed was still seared vividly into her memory — the man's unyielding style of combat, every one of his opponent's moves stopped dead, head-on, without a single concession. What astonished her even more was that all of it had been accomplished by pure physical ability, without a scrap of mana involved.
So he really is the Sword Saint's successor after all?
Within Elisha's mind, suspicion was slowly hardening into conviction. Of course, it was still far too early to pass judgment on this alone, but once the gears of thought had caught and begun to turn, stopping them was no simple matter.
Her first instinct was to use her family's people to dig into his origins, but somehow that felt like a filthy course of action, and she balked at it. And even if she asked the man himself, he hardly seemed the type to answer so readily. After all, if he truly were the Sword Saint's successor, the fastest resolution would be for him to declare it openly. Nothing could quell the rumors now swirling around him more elegantly, and the mere title of Sword Saint's successor would be enough to command the world's attention. That he still refrained meant there had to be some reason. Elisha couldn't guess what that reason was — but if it weren't so, there would be no way to explain the situation at all.
If he truly is the Sword Saint's successor, what reason could he have for hiding himself?
Face buried in her pillow, Elisha sank deep into thought. She racked her brain harder than she ever had poring over books of magic in her most obsessive days, yet no plausible line of reasoning emerged. Not this, not that. In her mind's eye, a tiny Elisha scribbled something onto a sheet of paper, scratched her head furiously, and tossed it into the wastebasket beside her. The process repeated itself for roughly five minutes straight.
"Uuugh, I give up!"
Declaring surrender at last, the real-world Elisha raked both hands roughly through her hair. The murmur she'd only been muttering under her breath escaped as a small, strangled cry — an unfortunate bonus. Had her maid Kelsey witnessed the scene, a scolding would surely have come flying at once, but mercifully she was away from her post at the moment.
"The Sword Saint's successor or not, it's not as if anyone's pressing a blade to his throat. So why…?"
Sitting up on the bed, Elisha murmured to herself in a voice drained of all energy — and in that very instant, a sharp crack of lightning tore through her mind, and her eyes flew open wide.
That was it. If someone had a reason to conceal his identity, it meant an enemy existed.
Even the imperial family sometimes traveled the provinces under a hidden identity, for the simple reason that exposing oneself risked drawing the eyes of nameless, uncounted foes. Then let her think of it in reverse. If the Sword Saint's successor had enemies — who on earth could they be? What ungrateful wretch in this world would dare antagonize the heir of the age's hero, the man once hailed as humanity's savior?
The answer had already taken shape in her head.
"The Followers."
The moment the word left her lips, unbidden, a prickling jolt ran through her and gooseflesh rose along her arms. That was it. The Followers. If there existed beings who despised the hero above all others, it was the villains. And what were the Followers, if not the servants of the most catastrophic villain of all — the one the hero had died in the act of sealing away?
Admittedly, according to the official record, the Followers had been utterly annihilated some thirty years ago, when the Sword Saint fell even as he struck down the host of evil. But what if remnants of that horde had survived and were still scheming in the shadows?
There's no way the Sword Saint's successor wouldn't know about that.
Of course, it was far too early for certainty. First of all, was it even plausible for a successor of a Sword Saint who had died thirty years ago to appear only now? And supposing the Followers truly did linger on, why had the fact never once surfaced to the outside world?
Let it go, for now.
Sensing the speculation in her head swelling beyond all control, Elisha closed her eyes. At present, it was nothing more than a fanciful hypothesis. She couldn't presume to fix his identity on the strength of a single duel, and whatever deductions lay beyond it were far too dangerous — the kind of thing that must never be spoken aloud, carelessly or otherwise. And so she resolved to seal it behind her lips. Rather than scratch at a scab and make an needless mess by investigating this matter, it would sit easier on her conscience to simply forget it for a while. If ever evidence emerged that could prove the man was the Sword Saint's successor — or confirm the survival of the Followers — she could pick up the thread of her reasoning then without any loss.
Before long, Kelsey returned to the room, and Elisha asked her to keep silent about what she had said a few days prior. Kelsey, without pressing for the particulars, nodded with a solemn expression. And small wonder — Elisha's face looked grave enough to unsettle anyone.
Having ordered the lamps extinguished, Elisha pulled the covers up over her head and settled into bed. If anything could tame the tangle her thoughts had become, she suspected, it was sleep — and nothing else.