Leonhardt's Fiery Challenge
The marble floor of the First Training Hall within a 20-meter radius had caved in like a crater. The Class 1 freshmen, who had just brushed the threshold of hell moments ago, stood frozen stiff, warily eyeing one another. The heavy silence was shattered by a voice on the verge of death.
"Cough. A-attention, everyone."
Professor Arthur, slumped in the corner of the training hall, staggered to his feet. With trembling hands, he pulled a bitter-tasting mana recovery potion from his pocket and downed it in one gulp. His face pale, he picked up his tattered clipboard.
"Though we just witnessed Her Highness the Lady's exemplary demonstration of... mana control training, the evaluation will continue. Everyone, gather in front of the intact training dummies on the right."
Sprawled in the plush spectator seat, I inwardly gave a standing ovation to his tear-jerking professionalism.
Man, that teacher's got grit. Dealing with a half-demolished classroom on day one and still pushing the lesson through. A true role model for us wage slaves.
I clicked my tongue and glanced down at my right hand. My rough hand was tightly entwined with Reina's smooth, gloved ones, securely bound atop her thigh. Having turned the training hall into a wasteland, she leaned on my shoulder as if oblivious to all the stares, letting out a drowsy, ecstatic hum.
Anyway, I'd firmly leashed the beast and preserved the peace of the training hall. Now I could just relax in the VIP seats and watch the students' PE class.
"Now, I'll call roll in order. Julian von Vander. Step forward."
At Professor Arthur's call, the silver-haired, bespectacled heir to the noble faction's leader, Julian, strode elegantly to the center of the hall.
Memorizing the profiles of my future class before the semester even started was occupational habit. Though I was a student now, not a teacher, my mind had already cataloged every spec on these 15 Class 1 blood clots: families, factions, main weapons, the works.
Julian von Vander. 18 years old. Eldest son of the noble faction leader and top scorer this intake. Genius wielder of formless sword ki.
Shing—.
Julian lightly drew his waist sword and swung. What kind of thing was that training dummy? The freshman orientation pamphlet boasted it was 'ultra-high-density compressed magical steel that wouldn't scratch even under a full day of greatsword strikes from a regular knight or a direct hit from a siege cannon.' Rumor had it one dummy cost as much as a lesser noble's mansion.
Yet an invisible, razor-sharp, transparent aura sliced through the air, cleaving the pricey steel dummy's upper half as smoothly and cleanly as tofu. The cross-section that thudded to the floor gleamed like a mirror.
Gasps erupted from the surrounding nobles.
Oh. Top-scorer material right there. Neatly demolishing a mansion-priced teaching tool in one clean strike—no mess, no fuss.
"Next, Elarra von Sterling."
My gaze shifted to the countess in her flashy dress-like training uniform.
Elarra. 18 years old. Heiress to the Sterling Count family, the empire's top trading house maintaining neutrality. Extreme ice magic specialist.
Elarra raised a graceful hand gesture, fan covering her mouth. Crackle! Dozens of sharp ice spears materialized in the air and rained down on the dummy in unison. In an instant, the right side of the training hall froze over like midwinter.
Whoa, built-in AC. Perfect sniper material. And sharp instincts too.
"Next, Bastian de Kael."
Bastian. 18 years old. Marquis scion and Julian's right-hand man in the noble faction. Wind-attribute rapier user.
Bastian haughtily tilted his chin and drew his rapier. Invisible-speed thrusts peppered the air dozens of times, leaving whirlwind gouges across the steel dummy's surface.
"Next, Chloe de Valua."
The imperial faction marquis heiress who picked a fight with me earlier. Explosive lightning magic.
Chloe whipped her golden hair and slammed her staff down. Lightning crashed from above, charring the dummy black.
I watched the dazzling parade of magic and auras exploding one after another, rubbing my chin.
Damn, every one of them looks CG'd to perfection. Insane power no commoner would see in a lifetime... but...
I glanced down at Reina's silver crown of hair, where she fiddled with my fingers while leaning on my shoulder.
...maybe because I already saw our problem child's natural disaster—crushing space itself just because she was 10 meters from me.
Lightning flashing and ice flying held no thrill. It felt like watching school festival talent show acts.
The shockwaves from the empire's finest bloodlines wafted to the spectator seats, but after years marinating in Reina's lethal gravity field, my body—now maxed out on resistance—didn't even twitch a hair.
"Next, Leonhardt von Leonis."
Leonhardt. 18 years old. Heir to the Lion family, called the Empire's Shield in the imperial faction. Battle maniac pursuing only strength. Main: flame aura.
The short-cropped redhead hunk thudded to the center. He roared, hefting a greatsword his own height. Crimson flame aura erupted like a furnace, melting the steel dummy red-hot in one go.
The heat stole your breath.
Aigoo. Total sweat-rag PE major auditioning for the spot. Energetic's good, but he reeks.
As I stifled a yawn indifferently, Leonhardt—who'd melted the dummy—slowly turned, his beastly eyes locking dead on me in the spectator seats.
"Hey, Baron Evans over there."
"...Huh?"
"I saw your unshaken calm despite this clash of heat and power. Man up, come down here, and spar with me!"
The hot-blooded fool proudly sweat-drenched, pointing his greatsword in passionate challenge.
Feeling every Class 1 blood clot's gaze swivel to me, I sighed deeply inside.
What the hell? Why pick on me outta nowhere? I was just chilling with my honey.
I wanted to smack his back and bark, "Teacher's exempt from PE, punk. Quit playing with fire and set off the alarms—go mess with the scarecrow some more." But sadly, reality me was just a lowly baron's son.
In this rigid class society, openly showing annoyance or rudeness to an imperial faction core marquis heir was suicidal.
For a 10-year vet of K-corporate life at social max level, the key was the 'sly deflection' technique: butter up the opponent while perfectly dodging responsibility.
I gripped Reina's leather-gloved hand binding mine and rose slowly. With flawless, impeccable noble etiquette, I spoke.
"Young Lord Leonis, your splendid and ferocious flames impressed me deeply—even from the spectator seats, their might reached me fully."
Politest tone, softest smile. At my courteous opener, Leonhardt's charging momentum faltered slightly.
"However, young lord, most regrettably, I am currently engaged in the vital duty of assisting Her Highness the Lady's 'extreme mana control training' right at her side."
I continued, furrowing my brow in feigned distress.
"If I dared accept your excellent proposal and stepped away under pretense of a duel, only for Her Highness's power to slip control and repeat the prior incident... Could you, young lord, fully shoulder that horrific aftermath?"
"T-that is...!"
Leonhardt's smug face flashed bewilderment. He'd seen with his own eyes the insane gravity pulverizing the floor—he couldn't bluster "I'll take responsibility!" even as a hothead.
But before he could speak—
"......"
Reina's head, peacefully warming her hands on my thigh, turned slowly. Her violet eyes glinted at Leonhardt. No sound escaped her lips, but my eyes clearly read her cool lips moving amid the silver strands.
[Sweaty punk bothering my Cadel?]
With that silent verdict, an overwhelming, displeased killing intent poured from her body, piercing past the spectator seats straight to Leonhardt.
Sizzle—!
Leonhardt's flame aura, roiling hot enough to melt the world from his greatsword, fizzled out with a pathetic hiss like doused in ice water.
"Guh...!"
Leonhardt braced on his massive greatsword like a cane but sweat poured from his broad forehead like a waterfall. Struck dead-on by the empire's top sword's horrific intent, even a Lion heir's legs would buckle.
Sigh, here we go again. This kid's gonna kill with stares at this rate.
I sighed, tapping Reina's hand to rein in her menace. Surveying the now-settled scene, my eyes met those of Class 1's VVIP brats and ladies watching us from the side.
Noble faction top dog Julian adjusted his glasses with intrigued fascination; elegant ice-lancer Countess Elarra peeked slyly over her fan.
Tsk tsk. They really all 18? Those eyes are shady as hell.
I just prayed this tiring PE class would end soon and lunchtime would hurry up. Tasty food awaited.