The morning sun hit Sector 9, reflecting off the polished silver trench coat of the figure stepping out of Room 901.
Sephorae Vespera locked his door. He adjusted the collar of his coat, the fabric shimmering like liquid mercury. He ran a gloved hand through his slicked-back violet hair.
He did not look like a robot, nor did he look like a victim. He looked like royalty that had ascended to a higher plane of existence. The silicone prosthetics were flawless, hiding the scars under a face of striking, porcelain beauty. His polarized yellow contacts shielded his eyes, giving him a piercing, predatory gaze that made him look less like a student and more like a weapon in human skin.
He walked with a rhythmic, absolute stillness.
As he entered the Commoner District, the silence was immediate. The students who remembered him as the loud, arrogant, "evil" prince were stunned into silence. They expected him to be shouting orders or sneering at them. Instead, he simply looked through them.
"Is that... Vespera?" a female student whispered, her eyes widening. "He looks... incredible."
"He's so quiet," a male student muttered, unnerved. "He used to scream at us for looking at him. Now he doesn't even care we exist."
Sephorae ignored the whispers. He did not engage. Irrelevant.
The Arena of Ten Thousand
Sephorae entered the Central Combat Arena. Ten thousand students. One hundred instructors.
He walked to the edge of the ring where Instructor Thorne was waiting.
"Vespera," Thorne grunted, crossing his massive arms. "You're late."
Sephorae stopped. He stood perfectly still, his posture relaxed but commanding.
"I am here." His voice was low, calm, and devoid of the pettiness that used to define him.
Thorne scoffed, unsettled by the lack of fear. "Goran! Teach the Prince his place."
Goran, the C-Rank brute, stepped forward holding a massive warhammer. He grinned, ready for the usual trash talk. "Nice coat, your highness. Did daddy buy it for you before he disowned you?"
The old Sephorae would have screamed insults. The new Sephorae said nothing. He simply stepped into the ring, his yellow eyes bored.
"Are you deaf?" Goran shouted, annoyed by the lack of reaction. "I said I'm going to break you!"
Sephorae didn't touch his weapon. Instead, he dropped into a stance that silenced the crowd.
He planted his feet wide, bending his knees deeply to ground his center of gravity. He raised his chrome-plated left hand high, palm open near his face, protecting his head. He kept his right hand low near his waist, loose and ready.
It was the stance of the Sovereign Guard.
Goran roared and swung the hammer. A heavy, rib-shattering arc.
Sephorae did not dodge. He didn't even flinch. He watched the hammer incoming with terrifying focus.
CLANG.
The hammer stopped dead in mid-air. It didn't hit Sephorae's coat. It hit a glowing, crimson hexagonal crest that materialized instantly in front of his raised left hand.
Sephorae's arm didn't buckle. The crest absorbed the shock completely.
"Try again," Sephorae said softly.
Goran roared and swung again. Overhead smash.
Sephorae adjusted his hand slightly. CLANG. The crimson crest flashed brighter, the intricate sigil spinning for a microsecond as it ate the kinetic energy.
"Stand still!" Goran screamed, winding up for a massive, mana-infused haymaker.
Sephorae waited. The energy in the crest was at maximum capacity.
As the hammer came down, Sephorae dropped the stance and lunged forward with his right hand.
"Void Rejection."
He drove his palm directly into the center of the hammer's force.
BOOM.
The stored energy discharged in a violent red laser-like blast. Goran was launched backward, tumbling across the floor until he hit the ropes, unconscious.
The Confusion
The arena was dead silent.
"He blocked it with a sigil?" a student whispered. "He didn't use a barrier spell. He just... stood there."
Instructor Thorne landed in front of Sephorae, shaking the ground. He grabbed Sephorae's shoulder.
"You don't walk away," Thorne growled. "That wasn't standard magic. You redirected the vector of his attack. How?"
Sephorae didn't pull away. He looked at the hand on his shoulder, then up at Thorne with cold indifference.
"You are unprepared to understand," Sephorae stated simply.
Thorne blinked, taken aback by the arrogance. He shoved Sephorae back. "You want to prove yourself? Kael. Valerius. Front and center."
Two elites jumped into the ring. Kael, a B-Rank speedster. Valerius, a fire mage.
"Put him on the floor," Thorne ordered.
The Shift to Precision
Sephorae adjusted his coat. He dropped the Guard stance entirely.
He placed his left hand on the hilt of his sheathed katana, his thumb resting on the guard. He stood upright, perfectly still, his right hand hanging loose.
Kael spun his daggers. "You blocked Goran. You won't block me."
Kael vanished, appearing behind Sephorae for a leg sweep.
Sephorae did not turn. He used Drift Step.
His body blurred, sliding sideways across the floor without moving his legs, as if reality had dragged him to the left. Kael swept empty air.
Kael blinked. "What?"
He attacked again. A flurry of strikes.
Sephorae drifted backward. Then left. Then right. He moved with efficient, frictionless glides, his coat fluttering as he evaded every strike by a hair's breadth. He looked bored.
Kael screamed in frustration and lunged for the chest.
Sephorae vanished. Phantom Stride.
He reappeared instantly behind Kael in a blur of blue particles.
Before Kael could turn, Sephorae spun. He didn't draw the blade. He swung the sheath, striking Kael three times in the back with blinding speed.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Kael crumpled to the floor.
The Abyssal Gyre
"Burn him!" Valerius shouted.
A cone of orange fire engulfed the ring.
High in the stands, Selene Vespera watched, her face pale. She remembered her brother as a whining, cruel boy who delighted in hurting servants. This man down there... he was a glacier.
"He's not even scared," she whispered, disturbed. "He's not angry. He's just... nothing."
Inside the fire, Sephorae did not run.
He unclipped the sheathed katana. He held it in front of him and spun it rapidly in his palm.
Abyssal Gyre.
The vacuum pressure created by the demonic arm spinning the weapon tore the fire apart. The flames scattered, unable to touch him.
Valerius's eyes widened. "Impossible."
Sephorae stopped spinning the weapon. He re-sheathed it with a sharp click.
He walked through the dissipating smoke.
Valerius swung his magma sword in a panic.
Sephorae ducked under the swing. He rose up, using the sheath to uppercut Valerius under the chin.
CRACK.
Valerius was lifted off his feet and slammed onto his back, unconscious.
The Silent Exit
Sephorae stood over the bodies. Three wins.
He didn't cheer. He didn't smile. He slicked his violet hair back with a gloved hand, then rested his hand back on his weapon, assuming his resting stance.
The arena was buzzing. The hate was still there, but it was mixed with fear and grudging awe.
"He took down two B-Ranks without drawing his sword," a girl whispered. "He beat them with the scabbard. That's... kind of amazing."
"He's not F-Rank," a boy said, shaking his head. "Look at him. He's terrifying."
Sephorae turned to Instructor Thorne.
"Am I finished?"
Thorne stared at him, analyzing the boy's breathing. He wasn't even winded. Thorne stepped aside.
"Go."
Sephorae walked into the dark tunnel, his silver coat trailing behind him. He did not look back. He did not offer an explanation. He simply left them to their confusion.