"I saw you," William began. "Or rather… heard you last night."

The boy—5'8, thin build, messy brown hair—turned toward him.

No surprise in his eyes. He had sensed William coming.

The blond added, "You must be one of the first students who got kicked out, right?"

The boy let out a long breath. "Here to mock me?"

William shook his head. "Mock you? No. You're already a joke on your own. I'm just curious why someone as strong as you didn't enter the second round."

William didn't fail to notice the destruction surrounding them—scorched walls, cracked floors, deep dents in reinforced stone. Even now, he could feel the boy's Aether subtly leaking out, coiled and restless.

The brown-haired boy glanced at him and replied, "You're selected for the second round. Go celebrate."

William chuckled. "Jealous?"

The boy pursed his lips and looked away.

William tried again. "Your mother is in the council, right? Domella?"

That stopped him. He snapped back around, hair whipping, eyes wide. "How do you know that?"

William shrugged. "I met her once. Her skill fascinated me. And yesterday, someone used sound waves to inform us about the rules. It wasn't hard to connect."

The boy clenched his fists, then sighed. "Yeah… she's my mother. But don't tell anyone else."

William hummed. "Ashamed of her?"

He shook his head. "No. She's ashamed of me."

That caught William off guard.

The boy squared his shoulders. "So? What do you want? A chat doesn't suit you."

William grinned. "True. I just wanted to see your skills up close."

"Why? Are you trying to learn my moves for the third round?"

William chuckled. "Not strategy—curiosity. Most students here have amazing gifts, yet they use them like amateurs."

"And? What's your verdict on me?"

"Well, we will see about that."

The boy narrowed his eyes. "So? A spar?"

William nodded. "Not a full fight. We're both mages who rely on sorcery more than fists. Let's make it pure magic."

His gaze sharpened.

"No physical contact. Dominate with magic alone."

The boy's lips curved. "I'm Mark."

"William."

For a heartbeat, they held each other's gaze—then both jumped back at the same instant.

Mark moved first.

The moment his feet hit the ground with a heavy *thud*, something invisible slammed into William's chest.

A blunt force—huge and sudden—sent him flying before he could land.

William's eyes widened.

Yellow circles spun in Mark's black irises as he lifted his right hand, slicing the air left and right. The space trembled, sound waves twisting into sharp jolts that shot toward William.

The blond snickered. He thrust a telepathic barrier forward.

*DOOOM.*

*DOOOM.*

*DOOOOM.*

Three explosive pulses hammered the barrier—one aimed straight at his torso.

'He's fighting like he knew I'd challenge him… monstrous chanting speed.'

William knew he couldn't let Mark seize the battlefield.

Mark's voice suddenly boomed, amplified by magic. "Sorry, but catch THIS!"

The sound alone made William's skin crawl. His barrier stayed up—but it wasn't enough.

*DOOOOOOM*

The shockwave crashed into him, dragging him across the room. Even through the barrier, his bones rattled. His feet slid until his back slammed into the wall.

For over five seconds, the pressure didn't let up.

When it finally ended, William dropped to a knee, legs trembling.

"Hah…" He forced himself up, a grin forming. "As I thought—you're an exceptional mage."

Mark exhaled hard. "…You're not going to attack?"

William replied, "I didn't get the chance. But now—"

Mark suddenly felt his body sink. His shoulders grew heavy, legs shaking.

It felt like stepping into a gravity chamber.

His vision blurred. "W-What—?!"

William tilted his head. "You shouldn't have given me time to breathe."

He lifted his left hand, fingers straight, and slashed downward.

"Huh?!"

Mark heard the shift—the air pressure trembling. Instinct screamed. He let the weight drop him flat to the ground.

**SHUWANK!**

A deep, clean gash tore across the wall behind him.

Mark stared at the scar, swallowing hard.

Then he looked at William and asked, voice shaking, "Are you… sent by my mother to kill me or something?"

William chuckled, "I knew you would dodge it."

Mark sighed, "Well, don't trust my skills just yet."

The two warriors took their stance once again. There was no doubt, this spar was much more interesting than the joke they went through last night.

….

"Tired already?" Lancelot asked, lounging on a thick branch inside the training compound.

Below him, Kevin knelt in the dirt, gasping for air. A sword was stabbed into the ground beside him, his trembling hand barely holding on to the hilt. Blood trickled from thin cuts along his arms and cheek—marks not from steel, but from the wooden twig Lancelot used to beat him down.

A sword versus a twig.

And Kevin still couldn't keep up.

Lancelot let out a slow, disappointed sigh. "You complained that you were disqualified yesterday because of 'unfitting circumstances,' that you couldn't use your skills freely because they gave off too much illumination." His voice sharpened. "So I gave you the perfect battlefield today. The sun is bright, the field is wide open, and your sword is right beside you. Everything you said you needed."

Kevin's shoulders shook. He couldn't lift his head.

"And yet… what?" Lancelot continued. "You lasted for half a minute?"

A breeze passed through, brushing the grass, but Kevin couldn't even steady his breathing.

Lancelot shook his head, his voice colder. "When I decided to take you, I believed—at the very least—you'd have desperation. Hunger. A will to grow." He hopped down from the branch, landing before Kevin without a sound.

He looked down at him.

"But now," he said quietly, "I'm starting to regret choosing you."

Kevin gritted his teeth and forced himself back onto his feet.

Lancelot's brows lowered as he watched the sunlight bend—literally bend—toward the boy. Thin rays curved and poured into Kevin's body, as if the sun itself reached down to pull him upright. The cuts on his arms sealed in seconds, his breathing evened, and the trembling in his legs settled as he grabbed his sword once more.

"I… might be a disappointment in the name of a swordsman," Kevin said, voice rough but steadying, "but I'm a warrior at heart."

He raised his blade and pointed it at Lancelot. "I won't go down this easily."

Lancelot hummed—a hint of interest flickering in his eyes.

He stepped off the branch, dropping lightly to the ground. His right hand stayed tucked in his pocket, and in his left, he held the same wooden twig that had been cutting Kevin down all afternoon.

"Good," Lancelot murmured, lifting the twig with casual ease.

"Then give me your worst."

°°°°°°°°°°

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