The name slipped from Marcus’s lips like a ghost from the past.
His voice cracked, barely a whisper. But it was enough.
Dalen froze beside him. "Wait... what?"
He leaned over Marcus’s shoulder, peering at the phone screen in his hand.
Round 3 — Ezra Celestrian.
The name glared back at him like a slap to the face.
Dalen’s breath caught in his throat. "That... that can’t be right."
His mind whirled in disbelief.
Ezra Celestrian? Isn’t he... wasn’t he dead? The novel didn’t even give him a full Chapter. Just one line. Marcus’s childhood friend—killed before the story began. There wasn’t even a proper description of him.
Heart pounding, he turned to follow Marcus’s stunned gaze.
There—at the far end of the platform—stood a figure.
Silver-white hair, wild yet elegant, catching the morning light. Eyes like storm clouds—sharp, unreadable, and calm. He stood still, arms folded loosely, as if the chaos around him didn’t touch him at all.
Dalen blinked. That can’t be him... but it is.
Marcus stumbled forward. His legs felt like they weren’t his own. Evelyne caught his arm before he collapsed again.
No. No, no, no—this must be a mistake. I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming...
But the chill running through his spine told him otherwise. The weight of the moment. The sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. It was all too real.
He stared, wide-eyed, as the boy—no, the ghost of his past—stood there like nothing had happened.
The friend he had failed to protect.
The one whose death haunted him even now.
Why? How? How are you here?
Lyria, confused by the sudden tension, followed their line of sight.
Then her eyes widened.
The boy who had helped her catch that thief outside the merchant district. Quiet, unassuming—but sharp as a blade underneath.
A smile tugged at her lips, though her brow furrowed in confusion. "Oh," she said softly. "So... you’re my second opponent."
The words broke the silence like a drop of water on still glass.
Marcus jerked back to attention.
He looked at her. Then back at Ezra. Then at the duel list again.
Ezra, seemingly unfazed, stood calmly as the crowd buzzed around him.
He just watched them—all of them—like a stranger looking in from the outside.
And that’s when Marcus felt it.
The wall between them.
That’s not the Ezra I knew.
Then, before anyone could approach him, a loud, commanding voice echoed across the arena.
"Well now! Eyes forward, everyone!" boomed Professor Sergei Vlastovich, a broad grin on his face. "Let’s not get distracted, hmm? It’s time for battle, not drama!"
The students quickly straightened up at the sheer weight in his voice.
Sergei chuckled, then added with force, "Positions, young warriors. Save the gossip for after the matches!"
Professor Katrina crossed her arms and glanced at Marcus. "Mr. Ardent? You sure you’re okay?"
Marcus blinked and forced a nod. "Y-Yes, Professor. I’m fine."
She gave him a brief look of concern but then turned back to the rest of the class.
"Very well. Let’s begin the first round."
A large screen above the combat arena lit up, displaying the list of first-round matchups:
Lyria Estelle vs Nina Feris
Evelyne Grace vs Mira Lane
Xavier Cress vs Ralph Dune
Renji Halter vs Ivan Cross
Ezra Celestrian vs Dravis Morningstar
The crowd stirred with excitement. And among them, a tall boy with sharp blue eyes stepped forward.
His every step carried weight—power, pride, and presence. Dressed in a fitted combat uniform trimmed with the sigil of the Morningstar clan, his blue hair shimmered under the arena lights. His last name alone commanded respect. Grandson of the Fist Emperor. One of the top-ranked students in the second year.
His gaze swept the crowd. He noticed the group near the back—Marcus Ardent, Evelyne, Dalen, and Lyria—all looking shaken. Marcus especially looked like he’d seen a ghost.
What’s this? Marcus Ardent... looking that rattled over his opponent?
Dravis narrowed his eyes, curious for a second.
Maybe this Ezra guy is stronger than he looks...
Then he glanced at the name again.
Nope. Doesn’t matter.
First-round opponents are always weak. That’s how they structure these duels. Warm-up fights. The real challenges come in Round 2 or 3.
With that, he walked to the center of the stone platform, rolling his shoulders as he arrived.
Across from him, Ezra approached in silence.
Ezra gave a small, polite bow. "Take care of me."
Dravis paused, slightly surprised by the formality. From the way this guy smiled earlier, he’d expected some cocky attitude or nervous energy. But this?
Just... calm. Relaxed.
Still, Dravis wasn’t impressed.
He returned the bow stiffly. "Yeah. You too."
Whatever. He’s probably just trying to act cool. Let’s make this quick.
Meanwhile, on the sidelines, Ezra’s thoughts were different altogether.
Dravis Morningstar... grandson of the Fist Emperor. A prodigy in close combat.
They’ve really lined me up with the main characters, huh? First him. Then Lyria. Then Marcus.
A small smirk tugged at his lips.
Alright. I’ll give them a proper show.
His gaze flickered briefly toward the sidelines—but with no emotion.
The old Ezra cared about you. The one who died.
But this is my body now. And I’ll choose my own friends.
A professor stepped up between the two duelists.
"Standard rules. No killing. Go all out. If anyone’s injured, our healing team will respond immediately."
Dravis rolled his neck. Ezra stood still, relaxed but focused.
The professor raised his hand.
As the word echoed through the training grounds, Dravis Morningstar moved like a lightning bolt.
Ezra stood casually, holding his sword in one hand like it was barely worth gripping. There was no formal stance, no pressure, no tension in his shoulders. It irritated Dravis.
He’s underestimating me.
Water-infused mana surged around Dravis’s gauntlets, coating them in a bright blue shimmer. He twisted his body mid-step, aiming to end it in one devastating strike.
A subtle purple glow flickered across Ezra’s blade.
At the last moment, Ezra stepped aside and redirected the blow with a single, efficient motion—no wasted movement, just precision. The strike was deflected harmlessly to the side.
Dravis’s eyes narrowed.
Without pause, he pushed off the ground and spun, coating his leg with mana. His foot tore through the air as he launched a high-speed roundhouse kick at Ezra’s side.
But Ezra ducked—by a flicker of a second.
Dravis gritted his teeth and pressed on, throwing a barrage of punches. His fists were fast, fluid, relentless—each one backed by years of training and his peak Rank 2 power.
But Ezra moved like water itself.
His blade traced arcs in the air, intercepting every blow with flawless timing. Sparks scattered around them like tiny comets, illuminating the arena with each clang of steel and mana.
Students nearby had paused their own training, crowding around the barrier lines.
"He’s got crazy footwork!"
"Is he new?! That swordplay is insane!"
The clash continued—Dravis struck at Ezra’s face with a fierce punch, but Ezra leaned back just enough to let it pass. The next kick aimed for his chest, but Ezra blocked with the flat of his sword. The blade didn’t even shake.
He thrust his blade forward—not to pierce, but to push. A sudden surge of strength launched Dravis off balance and sent him skidding backwards across the platform, dust scattering under his boots.
Dravis steadied himself, panting lightly.
Not a single clean hit... Everything’s getting blocked or dodged...
"Alright," he muttered. "No more playing around."
He punched the air—and water mana spiraled around his arm as he shouted:
A long, spear of ice formed instantly, sharp and fast, shooting straight toward Ezra like a missile.
But Ezra didn’t flinch.
He raised his sword calmly and twisted his body. Violet mana coated the blade—and then swirled around him like a spinning disk.
In a flash, Ezra spun like a chakram, creating a rotating shield of violet energy. The ice spear collided with it—and shattered on impact, breaking into glimmering shards that scattered across the floor.
Before the fragments even landed, Dravis was already moving again.
Water surged beneath his boots as he blink-stepped forward, appearing right in front of Ezra and swinging a mana-boosted punch at his chest.
Ezra blocked it again. Effortlessly.
He’s still holding back!
Dravis’s eyes widened.
Before he could throw another punch, Ezra stepped in. He pushed him back with the sword’s flat side—again mimicking the training beatings his master used to give him.
Desperate, he raised a water shield.
But Ezra’s next move was too fast.
His sword—now glowing with violet mana—cut straight through the shield and stopped just short of Dravis’s throat.
Ezra’s eyes didn’t waver.
"Checkmate," he said with a slight smile.
No injuries. No wasted moves. Just total, undeniable control.
Silence fell over the field.
"Winner: Ezra Celestrian!" the instructor’s voice boomed.
"The next match will begin in ten minutes. Go rest for now."
Ezra lowered his sword and stepped away, giving Dravis a respectful nod.
He didn’t say a word.
But his smile lingered.
"Holy crap, he just broke Dravis’s water shield like it was nothing."
"He’s... strong and hot? I want him as my boyfriend," said one girl, eyes sparkling.
"I think I just found my new favorite student."
Around the stands, a small but growing crowd had gathered. Whispers turned to cheers. Phones kept rolling.
Just like that... a fanclub began to form.
Standing near her waiting zone, Lyria tightened her grip on her wand.
Her eyes had followed every move of Ezra’s fight. Every dodge. Every block. Every cut.
She wasn’t smiling anymore.
Her opponent’s name shone on her wristband: Ezra Celestrian — Round 2.
She took a deep breath.
He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t roar or show off.
But Lyria could feel it—every time he moved, it was as if the duel danced around him.
This isn’t just talent. It’s discipline. Technique. Intent.
Who... are you, Ezra?
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