One Exchange, and a Kneel Before the Master
The sand hissed bleakly beneath Elena's boots as she climbed the stone steps of the dueling arena. Draped across her shoulders, a navy coat rippled in the chill wind — a worn old garment, yet it snapped like the banner of a commander returning from the battlefield. In the bandaged girl's hand hung a shabby training sword, carrying not a single mote of mana.
The moment Elena stepped into the center of the stage, roaring laughter and jeers erupted from the thousands of spectators packing the colosseum.
"Puhaha! What in the world is that decrepit stick of wood?"
"And that shabby coat draped over her shoulders? Looks like she fished it out of the Class E dumpster!"
The vulgar mockery of the noble students blanketed the air. Every contempt the world held for a discarded failure pressed down heavily upon one girl's shoulders.
Front row of the noble seats. Hermann, head professor of Class A, tilted his chin up and let a vile sneer curl across his face. In his hand he already held Elena's notice of expulsion, stamped with the official seal.
'Struggle all you like — you're nothing but vermin crawling through a gutter.'
Hermann fingered the corner of the document, certain of his victory. A crippled girl who couldn't gather a handful of mana, pointing a blade at his beloved disciple, a 3rd-Circle Sword Expert. His lips twisted at the thought of sweeping Class E away for good today.
──But not everyone in this vast arena joined the laughter.
In the topmost VIP box overlooking the Grand Arena, Seraphim — headmaster of Thera Imperial Academy and a 7th-Circle Great Mage — gripped the railing, his face rigid. His aged gaze was fixed not on the wooden sword, but on the baggy navy coat draped over Elena's shoulders.
'...That worn coat...?'
A faded navy longcoat, cuffs frayed, rumpled and creased. It was the instructor's coat that Ethan Valentier — the continent's hero whom he had barely managed to bring here — always wore.
'That recluse who found everything a bother... took off his own coat and gave it to that child?'
A chill of tension shot down Seraphim's spine. If that indifferent man had given up his outer garment, it could only carry a weight of meaning far beyond anyone's guessing.
Just then, beside Seraphim, a girl seated behind a silver veil quietly rested her chin on her hand. Dazzling platinum-blonde hair and sapphire-blue eyes. It was the First Imperial Princess, Sylvia de Helios — once exiled to the annex when her frigid mana ran rampant.
"...How interesting."
A cool voice slipped from between Sylvia's lips as she observed Elena through the gap in her veil.
"They say she's a held-back student clutching a mana-less wooden sword. But that stance, that center of gravity... those belong to anything but a loser."
Sylvia's fingers tapped lightly against the leather armrest. The nobles snickered at nothing but the old sword and coat, but the princess's senses were detecting an entirely different underside. The aura radiating from Elena's whole body held not a speck of a loser's fear or timidity — only the cold silence of a blade calmly trampling the contempt of thousands. Elena's red eyes, framed by the collar of her master's coat, were aimed at one thing alone: the prey before her.
At the center of the arena, a mere dozen paces separated the two. Leonardo von Lentz, Class A's top prospect gleaming in silver light armor, arrogantly drew his slender silver sword.
Shiiing—
Blue-white flames bloomed up the blade as it slid free of its scabbard, and with a hiss of tearing air they swallowed the entire sword in dazzling light — a brilliant mana aura proving the might of a 3rd-Circle Sword Expert. The dust of the arena floor was swept up in the blue gale, spinning into a fierce vortex.
"I don't know where you dug up that rag of a coat."
Leonardo snorted and leveled his sword's tip at the nape of Elena's neck.
"Failure of House Arden. I'll grind every one of your bones to dust along with that wooden sword. The only place left for you is the bottom of a gutter."
Abuse sharp enough to scrape bone. But Elena's expression stayed cold and settled as midwinter ice. As if the words weren't worth answering, she simply adjusted the coat collar on her shoulder and let the wooden sword in her right hand drop to a slant — a careless posture, with no mana and no guard. At that look gazing down on him as if he were an insect, thick veins bulged across Leonardo's forehead.
"How dare you look at me with those eyes...?!"
Then the presiding mage-professor tapped his magic amplification stone and declared the duel open.
"Thera Imperial Academy regular promotion mock tournament, special designated match — the duel begins!"
The instant the words fell, an explosive storm of mana burst from Leonardo's entire body.
KWA-BOOM—!
The barrier-stone floor crushed inward, fragments spraying in every direction. The secret sword art of the Marquisate of Lentz: 'Swift Sword of the Azure Heavens — Heaven-Piercing Gale.' Third-Circle mana accelerated the muscles of his lower body, driving his frame into the realm of sound itself. His form vanished from sight; only three streaks of blue afterimage charged forward like lightning.
"Vanish, you failure of a girl!"
From the stands erupted a roar loud enough to burst eardrums.
"There it is! Lord Leonardo's Swift Sword of the Azure Heavens!"
"It's over! The moment that pathetic wooden sword touches his mana blade, it'll burn away without a trace!"
Amid the frenzied cheering, the blue-white sword rushed straight at the space between Elena's brows. Less than a handspan remained before the tip touched her forehead. One-tenth of a second more, and it would have been a moment of gruesome ruin.
The very instant the blue-white storm of mana swallowed her vision white — even inside that blinding flash, Elena's red eyes didn't so much as tremble a single eyelid. No fear. No bewilderment. In the girl's ears, only one sound rang clear: the languid, weary voice that had drifted from a rocking chair for the past seven days — her master's.
'Kid. The ones obsessed with looking flashy get drunk on their own mana aura and can't see the gaps in their own sword path. Don't flinch at a pretty fireworks show.'
Ethan's offhand advice, tossed out as the rocking chair creaked and he tugged his coat tighter around himself.
'That axis where the wrist turns so grandly — strike the joint's gap like you're flicking it away. What cuts isn't mana. It's the angle of the blade.'
Elena's breathing sank deep and still. One. Two. Three. The moment she held her breath for three counts, exactly as her master had taught, a strange sensation took over her vision. The lightning blade charging at the speed of sound turned sluggish, as if by a lie. At the heart of the raging mana vortex, a warped 'gap in the sword path' surfaced like a transparent thread — a crude central axis hidden beneath all that splendor, the instant's flaw where his wrist angle had drifted minutely off, drunk on its own mana.
Elena drained every ounce of strength from her right hand. The old wooden sword, wrapped in not one mote of mana, slid smoothly through the air. It was no desperate blow wrung out with all her might — it was the utterly natural trajectory of the Pure Sword Principle, like nudging the path of a falling leaf. And the wooden sword's edge bored precisely into the very center of the blue-white storm.
CRACKLE— KWA-BOOM!
With a thunderclap that shook the Grand Arena, a miracle that mocked common sense occurred. The wooden sword, driven in at a perfect angle, pierced the core of Leonardo's mana vortex head-on.
KWA-CRASH—!
Like a window shattering, the blue-white sword aura burst into powder and scattered through the air. Then the silver sword in Leonardo's grip split in half as if by magic and leapt skyward.
"...Huh?"
The instant that witless gasp escaped, the tip of Elena's wooden sword hammered down mercilessly into his wide-open solar plexus.
WHAM—!
"Gahaaak—!"
With his final cry, blood and bile fountained from Leonardo's mouth. His body ricocheted like a cannonball and slammed head-on into the magical barrier wall at the edge of the Grand Arena.
THUD— KRUMBLE!
Unable to bear the tremendous impact, the barrier wall split, blue cracks spidering across its face. Leonardo, streaming with blood, slid limply down the wall and crumpled to the ground, the whites of his eyes showing. A perfect knockout, unable to twitch a single finger. Start to finish, it had been a single exchange.
Tap.
Somewhere in the stands, a cheering flag slipped from someone's hands and drifted limply to the floor. That dry little sound was the beginning of a terrible silence that swallowed the Grand Arena whole. The vast colosseum, packed with thousands, froze like a stone tomb. The students who had been pouring out mockery stood rigid, mouths agape and unable to close, their minds unable to accept the scene before their eyes.
"Wh-what... what is this?"
"Lord Leonardo... got slammed into the wall?"
"What did I just see? A wooden sword... shattered 3rd-Circle sword aura?!"
What tore through the stillness was confusion bordering on screams. Students muttered and slapped their own cheeks, and even the mage-professors at the judges' table stared blankly at Leonardo beneath the barrier wall, magic wands dropping from their hands. Shattering a family's secret sword art in a single exchange with a training sword carrying no mana at all — it was a shock that sliced every common law of magic and knighthood to ribbons, from the ground up.
Front row of the noble seats. The color had drained from Professor Hermann's face, leaving it the hue of rotten earth. The expulsion notice in his grip crumpled to shreds inside his trembling fingers.
"Th-that's impossible... that gutter rat of a girl... a mana-less failure, beating my finest disciple in a single exchange...?!"
Ragged, wheezing breaths leaked from Hermann's dry throat. That once-arrogant face was grotesquely contorted with terror and shame.
Meanwhile, in the topmost VIP box, Headmaster Seraphim had shot up from his seat like a spring and was gripping the marble railing hard enough to crush it. The wrinkled eyes of the 7th-Circle Great Mage were flooded with immense astonishment.
'That was... the ultimate art — reading against the grain of mana's trajectory to cut out the gap itself!'
Superimposed in Seraphim's mind was the image of the legendary hero of five years ago, who alone tore apart the Demon King's armies — that absolute realm which cut down all creation relying not on mana's firepower, but solely on flawless principle and the edge of a blade.
'In all the Empire, only one person could teach a monstrous sword principle like that...'
Seraphim's gaze bent toward the far side of the stands, toward the darkest, most secluded shadow. Beside him, the First Imperial Princess Sylvia, silver veil pushed back, had sapphire eyes spitting cold blue fire. The slender fingers gripping her armrest trembled.
'She didn't use a single mote of mana. She crushed the core of 3rd-Circle sword aura with nothing but blade angle and weight shift?'
Sylvia's lips went dry. It was nothing like the Count of Arden's secret sword arts — a sword principle so perfect it was grotesque, one that existed in no textbook of the Imperial Knights. A delicious thrill spread in a cold rush down the girl's spine.
'Behind that girl... just what kind of monster is lurking?'
Within the princess's heart of cold ice, an ember of immense curiosity and obsession toward the unknown figure behind it all began to burn.
At the center of the arena, though colossal shock and uproar shook the stadium, not a speck of agitation touched Elena's expression. She didn't spare a single glance for Leonardo, collapsed and foaming beneath the barrier wall. To the girl, a defeated opponent was nothing but a weed unworthy of her sight.
Clack.
Elena quietly returned the old wooden sword to her waist. Then she raised both hands and tenderly smoothed the collar of her master's navy coat on her shoulders, brushing away any speck of dust the wind might have left with the utmost reverence. There was no intoxication of victory, no arrogant superiority — only a blind, single-minded devotion: to preserve the garment her master had lent her without a single flaw.
Having straightened her clothes, Elena slowly turned. Her cold, ruby-red eyes were not aimed at the cheering crowd. At the edge of the Grand Arena, on the shadiest, loneliest bench in the stands, lay a young man sprawled at an angle in a loose white shirt and black slacks — a man who had given his navy coat to his disciple and now reclined with his legs crossed, yawning long and hard. It was Ethan Valentier.
Crunch, crunch.
Ethan rolled the cheap peppermint candy around his mouth and frowned.
'Good grief, that brat... I told her to hit and get out, and she went and caved in the barrier wall.'
Looking at the hideous cracks in the barrier wall, Ethan held his head in his hands. With damage that bad, the repair bill might well get sent to Class E — and if it came out of his salary, even his candy budget would be stretched thin.
'Hurry up and finish the announcement already. I've got a nap waiting at the faculty housing.'
It was the very moment Ethan grumbled inwardly and moved to rise from the bench — before he could even get up — that Elena, standing tall at the very center of the arena, suddenly bent her knees. A resolute motion, without hesitation or pause.
Thud.
The girl's knees touched the cold arena floor with perfect grace. In the middle of the circular stadium, pierced by thousands of stares, she clasped her hands together and bowed her head deep toward Ethan sprawled on the corner bench. And a clear, ringing voice split the air above the Grand Arena.
"Master! As you taught me, I have cleared away the weed!"
──!
The instant the cry burst out, every noise in the Grand Arena was erased as if by magic.
Master?
Weed?
The sword path you taught?
Where Elena's gaze had landed — the eyes of thousands of students, the frozen mage-professors, Hermann with his rotten expression, Headmaster Seraphim clutching the railing, and Princess Sylvia behind her veil — all poured down at once, like lightning, onto a single point. The bench in the very corner of the stands. Toward Ethan Valentier, the scrawny, pale young man lying there in nothing but his shirt, sucking on a peppermint candy.
KWAGWANG—!
The bombardment of thousands of stares tore through the air and struck the crown of Ethan's head. His jaw, mid-roll of the candy, locked up hard.
'...Huh?'
The candy nearly slid down his throat.
'Hold on. Why are you looking at me and bowing? Thousands of people are all staring at me right now...?'
And in Ethan's ears rang the chilling sound of a retiree's modest plan — to live out his remaining years in peace, drawing his pension — shattering to pieces.