Clashes of weapons—well, wooden weapons—echoed through the grassy fields as dozens of spars went on among students fighting vigorously to earn their credits.

Just like Grim had said, the class was to have a practical session for the day, and true to her word, she had led them out, instructing them to change into their P.E. tracksuits, which were assigned alongside their uniforms.

Since the training room would be far too small to contain the whole class, the school's largest park had been reserved by the professor, who—just like her students—had donned a black and white tracksuit as she stood on the backlines, silently assessing her students.

Seated on the grassy pigment with an unzipped tracksuit was Art, his expression relaxed as he, too, performed his own assessment—primarily on Trish.

The crazy swordswoman, wielding a generic wooden sword, was currently engaged in fierce swordplay with Cheshire. With no aura beckoned to their call, they both moved with graceful steps, lunging forward with powerful strides and clashing with their blades.

"Trish!"

"Cheshire."

Each harboring their own displeasure, they leaped back. Trish, the first to land on her feet, dashed forward once more, both hands on the hilt and her sword tilted up for a deadly stab.

Cheshire, overwhelmed by her speed, quickly brought her sword in front of her, guarding against the attack that pushed her back a few meters. Trying to regain her balance, a shadow loomed over her, causing her to roll to the side in panic as the space she had stood in was nearly severed by Trish, who—having leaped up—descended with a downward slash.

"I guess some things never change."

Lifting her wooden sword off the ground, Trish whispered, dodging a swing from Cheshire only to counterattack with her own, aimed at her sides. Reacting in time, Cheshire managed to parry the strike, pushing Trish's attack back, but the swordswoman, unfazed, blankly looked at her and performed a casual, almost laid-back attack.

Feeling something was wrong, Cheshire dodged instead of parrying—only for the sword to accelerate at the last second, striking her shoulder and causing her balance to crumble. Subjected to unimaginable pain, her breath hitched, unable to scream as she fell to her knees with a pained expression.

"You... what did you do?"

Looking up at Trish, who blankly stared down at her, the blonde tilted her head and responded nonchalantly.

"You dodge when uncertain, guard when cornered, and parry when familiar with an attack. I just needed to adjust my strikes to your flow, and I could catch you off-guard."

Pulling the wooden sword from Cheshire's shoulder, she walked away, her expression once again blank and full of boredom.

"Hey, this isn't done!" Cheshire screamed at the top of her lungs, trying to gain Trish's attention, but she was ignored. The swordswoman had long turned her interest to another target—Valarie Lost, the only student still trying to stabilize her aura in an isolated part of the field.

As Trish tried approaching her, she caught sight of Professor Grim glaring at her to stop. She didn't want to, but she understood she was far too weak now to exercise disobedience—and she also didn't want to disgrace her new master, who was watching her alongside the professor. Displeased, she turned back, her gaze surveying the area for a new challenge.

Her eyes first settled on a dark-haired boy with scarlet eyes, but his fighting style was too annoying for her to deal with, making her reconsider.

Then came the dual-wielding pink elf, who seemed to be fighting demons and gods just to keep her eyes open. For that one, Trish didn't attempt an engagement—fighting an opponent who could barely stay awake wasn't pleasing.

After searching and searching, she finally saw someone interesting: a brown-haired maiden holding a wooden bow.

As her delicate fingers brushed across the silk threads of the bowstring, she met Trish's gaze and waved at her.

Taking it as an invitation, Trish placed the wooden sword over her shoulder and approached, her eyes burning with fierce fighting spirit.

"Name?"

"Cradle."

Rising from the ground, Cradle took the quiver that came with the bow and wore it like a backpack while responding to Trish. She didn't seem to mind the demanding tone as she took a wooden arrow from her quiver and carefully nocked it into the bow.

"Let's keep a distance, shall we?"

Swiftly taking aim at Trish, she remarked gently, while Trish reciprocated with a twisted smile.

"Let's begin."

The moment she spoke, the arrow embedded within Cradle's bow was released. The graceful swordmaster brought her sword forth to slap the incoming projectile aside—only to be met with another arrow whistling through the air with unparalleled precision, aimed at her shoulder.

Borrowing footwork from her technique without outright using aura, she twisted her shoulders inward, causing the arrow to rip through part of her tracksuit while leaving her unharmed.

"Fast!"

Having long distanced herself from Trish, Cradle nocked another arrow, took aim once more, and—with her composed exterior cracking slightly—remarked:

"As expected of the Sword Saint's heir."

Releasing the arrow at Trish, she began to circle around her while unloading a rapid volley of shots.

The swordmaster, tracking all the arrows and observing that they would strike her simultaneously, pushed her leg forward, her sword stance imitating the quick draw from the East as she executed both rotation and perfect timing to perform a fluid spin, redirecting all the arrows with an elegant circular swing.

"She's a monster."

Seeing all her arrows swept away, Cradle paled but didn't stop. Taking her final arrow, she pulled back the string and took aim—but never fired.

Her specialty lay in sniping from afar, so from the beginning, she knew she wouldn't win. Had she been allowed to use aura, she was confident she would have landed at least one hit—but without aura and her specialty at play, she had been at a disadvantage from the start.

"I give up!" Announcing with a sour expression, she let the arrow fall from her bow and raised her hands in surrender.

"She at least knows her limits."

Commending her silently, Trish nodded before wandering off in search of another entertaining opponent.

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