Soren couldn't believe that this quest had a difficulty rating of C; it felt like bullshit.
Except it wasn't bullshit in the way he had first assumed.
It wasn't that the quest was lying to him.
It was that he had walked into this arena with the quest rating acting like a safety rail in his mind, and now he was realising that the rating didn't just mean he could survive, it also meant he had gotten stronger than he thought.
Stronger enough that a Class E student spamming spells at him looked… bad.
A week and a half ago, before the forest, he would have been sweating already, flinching at every circle, convinced that any hit would ruin him, because his body had been weak and his confidence even weaker.
Now he was watching Doron's casting and questioning, with genuine disbelief, if this was really it.
The thought didn't make him proud.
It made him quiet.
It made him aware, in a way he hadn't been before, that the forest had forced growth into him whether he had wanted it or not.
"Uh, hey. Don't take this the wrong way, but… is this really it? Where did all that confidence come from?" Soren asked, because the disbelief slipped out before he could stop it, head tilting.
A laugh burst from the stands, bright and cruel, and Soren didn't even have to look to know Felix was responsible.
Doron's face twisted, rage flooding up like a fire spell caught in a clogged circle.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY—?!"
"I… You know what, just forget it," Soren said with a sigh, and he meant it, because he wasn't here to therapise a noble's ego.
The reaction alone told him everything he needed to know, and Doron couldn't handle that, couldn't stand in front of witnesses while being silently categorised as pathetic, so he did what people like him always did when their self-image cracked.
He tried to scream it back into shape.
"I'LL MAKE YOU PAY!!"
"Maybe get those anger issues checked," Soren replied, and he let a faint smirk show, because he felt that someone like Doron deserved it.
Doron's flushed face went from red to darker red in real time, and right on cue, his mana destabilised.
The magic circle in his hand collapsed with a wet crackle, the lines snapping apart as if someone had cut the thread holding them together.
Doron jerked his hand back like the spell had bitten him, then tried again immediately, jaw clenched hard enough to creak.
Another circle.
Another collapse.
Another.
Soren watched, and whatever amusement he had felt drained into something duller.
'He can't even hold a spell anymore.'
It wasn't strategy.
It wasn't bait.
It was just a boy choking on his own emotion and calling it power because it was the only kind he had ever been allowed to have.
For a moment Soren considered ending it cleanly, with a spell, something polite enough that no one could complain, but the memory of what he had to do to get this far rose, and he suddenly found he didn't feel polite.
Instead, he felt like he had earned the right to finish the fight quickly, especially given the disappointment he felt about the fact that this is what he had went through all of that for.
'This is getting sad,' he thought, then corrected himself as Doron kept flailing and snarling, 'No, it's getting annoying.'
He shifted his stance.
For the first time since the duel began, Soren stepped forward.
Not with the clean confidence of someone showing off, but with the blunt decisiveness of someone who had learned what wasted time cost, and who didn't feel like humouring Doron's pride any longer.
He didn't cast.
He didn't bother forming a circle just to prove he could.
He simply moved.
Dust kicked up under his shoes as he closed the distance in a straight line, shoulders low, posture lacking any graceful academy formality, more like a person running down prey than a duellist gliding into position, and Doron's eyes widened in sudden alarm the moment he realised what was happening.
Because magic was supposed to make distance safe.
Because nobles like Doron liked ranged duels for the same reason they liked status, it meant they could talk loudly while believing the world couldn't touch them.
Panic flashed across his flushed face when he lifted his hands again and nothing stable formed, the lines of his circle appearing for half a heartbeat before shattering under the strain of his own fury.
"W-Wait—!"
Soren didn't slow.
Thud!
His kick landed cleanly in Doron's stomach, not flashy, not elegant, just solid impact driven through the centre, the kind of strike that made breath vanish and pride fold at the same time.
Doron doubled over with a strangled noise.
Before he could even fully fall, Soren's hand shot out and caught a fistful of that glossy brown hair, yanking Doron upright the way you might drag a stubborn animal back into place.
It was instinct more than cruelty, rough and immediate, the same pragmatic brutality the forest had taught him, and for a second he was aware of how wrong it probably looked in an academy arena, how it wasn't the "proper" way to end a duel, but the thought came and went without sticking.
It was the only way he knew how to fight, after all.
Doron's head snapped back and his eyes went wide with terror.
Soren shifted his leg again.
Doron, finally understanding where the trajectory was going, began to flail.
"Wait, wait! No! Stop! Not there—!"
Soren's mouth twitched.
He could have stopped.
He could have ended it with a shove, a push out of bounds, a clean knockdown, he knew that, and the fact he knew it at all was its own quiet marker of growth, because just over a week ago he wouldn't have had the control to choose.
Now he did.
And he chose to be petty.
"It's a mock duel, you'll live," Soren said, voice mild, as if offering comfort rather than doom.
Thud!
The second kick landed lower, brutal and precise enough that Doron made a sound that didn't resemble a word, his whole body jerking as if the strike had unplugged him.
He crumpled, hands flying instinctively to cover himself, face twisted in shock and humiliation, tears springing immediately as if his body was determined to drown the moment before his pride could process it.
Soren released his hair, letting Doron drop the last inch onto the arena's floor.
For a breath, the arena was quiet in that particular way it got when people realised something had happened that wasn't technically against the rules, but still made them wince.
[Soren Arden wins.]
The announcement rang out, crisp and neutral, the barrier flickering as it disengaged, and Doron stayed on the ground, shaking, both hands clamped over his "precious spot" like it was the only thing he had ever truly loved.
Soren looked down at him.
He didn't feel guilty.
Nor did he feel particularly heroic..
Mostly he felt satisfied in a small, childish way, the kind of satisfaction that came from being insulted for no reason and getting to respond with consequences.
So he smirked.
Doron's watery eyes snapped up to catch it, and even through tears his outrage tried to claw its way back.
"Y-you…! C-crazy bastard…! You'll pay for this—! Cough—!"
"Oh wow, a noble cursing, how crude," Soren joked, then waved a hand as if he was over it. "Well anyway, make sure you get healed."
Then he turned away before Doron could find a new script to scream from.
As he walked back, a few murmurs followed him from the sparse stands, half-disgusted, half-amused.
— Ew, what's wrong with her?
— Ugh, his kind of personality is the worst.
Soren didn't bother turning his head.
He didn't care.
In the forest, goblins had laughed while they tried to kill him, and the sound of a couple of teenagers giving him weird looks after that felt… thin, like paper pretending it was a blade.
Besides, what difference was it if a few more people avoided him?
Felix was already grinning when he reached the steps.
"Did you have fun, little hedgehog?"
"Yep," Soren said, sitting down, breath barely elevated. "It was great. Did you hear what he was saying?"
Felix snorted, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
"Yeah. 'Do you know who I am?!' Fucking moron."
Soren let out a quiet huff, the laughter in it more real than he had expected, and he realised, mid-exhale, that this was part of the loosening too, the way his body was remembering it could laugh at something without it being hysteria.
"What kind of backing does he even have to have confidence like that?" Soren asked, frowning as the thought finally caught up to him.
"Supposedly, he's from a viscounty in central Fialova," Felix said, tone casual in the way that implied gossip was a sport.
Soren paused.
Then paused harder.
"…Wait," he said slowly, the words coming out with genuine confusion. "His status is lower than mine?"
It didn't feel real, because Doron had carried himself like a prince, like someone untouchable, like the world was obligated to kneel.
But the Arden family, even as a count family, carried actual weight, not in the glittery capital sense, but in the kind that came with blood and battlefield history, with Valefor's raids and old scars and a name people had learned to respect because it had kept them alive.
A viscount family in the capital, especially a nameless one, was… cushioned.
Not nothing, but not the towering pillar Doron had performed himself as.
Felix's grin widened as if he had been waiting for that exact reaction.
"Yeah. That's what makes it so funny. He's just loud, not important."
Soren blinked, his confusion sharpened into something else.
Not contempt for Doron, Doron was too small for that, but a clearer understanding of social power as theatre, as something you could wear like a uniform and insist it meant you were strong.
Felix kept talking, still amused.
"He'll probably get into trouble for trying to abuse his status, though. He was so loud about it that even people watching other duels started paying attention."
Soren hummed thoughtfully.
'So he really was just a loud idiot.'
"Seriously," Felix added, "I know it's just a rule in name only, but if he's that public about it, he's basically begging to be punished."
Soren leaned back, gaze drifting over the arena again, watching other students throw spells and swing weapons in patterns that looked rehearsed, controlled, safe.
It still felt strange how easy his chest felt, but the answer as to why was simple, really.
This wasn't survival.
This was an academy.
A harsh academy, a judgemental academy, an unfair academy, but still a place where the ground wouldn't turn into a grave just because you stumbled.
Sure, in the future, there would be events that would break the gentle, youth-filled atmosphere, but those were still a long way off.
So for now, he didn't need to worry about danger, not while he was within the walls of the academy.
The TA's voice rang out again.
[Rank 23 of Arcane Studies and Rank 25 of Martial Studies, please come down to the arena.]
"That's me," Felix said, standing smoothly, rolling his shoulders like he was about to dance rather than fight. "Cheer for me."
"Don't worry," Soren replied, deadpan. "I'll cheer my heart out for Rank 25."
"That's the spirit, little hedgehog."
Felix patted his shoulder with annoying fondness, and Soren recoiled with a disgusted twist, swatting at the hand as if it carried disease.
Felix laughed and walked down.
Soren leaned forward again, elbows on his knees now, attention drifting across the arena out of idle curiosity at first, because if he was going to be stuck here all day he might as well find something entertaining.
Then golden-blonde hair caught his eye.
It wasn't subtle.
It never was.
Alex stood down on the arena floor, posture straight, expression focused in that irritatingly earnest way, like he had been born holding a sword and a destiny and hadn't yet realised how heavy either could be.
Soren's lips parted.
Then he grinned.
Not a small smile, not a polite one, but a grin that looked almost boyish on his face, bright and excited in a way that made him feel briefly ridiculous yet not care at all, because this was it, this was the scene, this was the moment he had waited for since he had first stepped into the Martial Studies building just to confirm the protagonist existed.
He leaned closer to the railing without realising it, eyes intent, heartbeat quickening for a reason that wasn't fear.
Not because he wanted to steal anything.
Not because he wanted to interfere.
But because some part of him still loved the story, still loved the spectacle, still wanted to see the impossible thing happen with his own eyes.
————「❤︎」————