It was the second day of the tournament.
Rick stood on the stage, sword already drawn, its edge angled toward his opponent—Ark. Yet his thoughts were not on the crowd, nor on the blade aimed back at him. Instead, his mind drifted to a memory from the swordsmanship hall.
You've really reached the External Art, huh?
The instructor's voice echoed clearly.
"Yes," Rick had answered with a nod.
"It's hard to believe," the instructor had muttered, scratching his head. "The one who struggled the most in mana training is the second one to reach it. Anyway, why are you here? There's still time before class."
Rick's eyes had burned with resolve.
"Instructor… tell me. Is there any way for me to reach the top ten in the tournament?"
"Top ten?" The instructor had stared at him in disbelief. "It would be a miracle if you even won your first day's matches."
But Rick had not flinched.
Seeing that determination, the instructor had sighed and finally spoken.
"Listen carefully, Rick. Your mana pathways are narrow. That makes it difficult for mana to circulate—and your total capacity is far lower than others. But…"
He paused.
"There are ways for you to fight on equal ground with someone stronger."
Rick had leaned forward.
"Ways?"
"Three," the instructor said.
Now—on the stage—the memory sharpened.
"First," the instructor's voice continued in his mind, "is your body. In terms of raw physical strength, even some second-years can't overpower you."
Rick tightened his grip.
"Second is your aura. Your mana flow may be narrow, but when it moves, it compresses. Impurities are stripped away. The purer the mana, the greater the force it produces."
A faint pressure gathered around Rick's body—subtle, controlled.
"And third…"
The instructor's gaze had fallen on Rick's sword.
"…is that blade. Even though it reject mana but still it's a unbreakable sword. Used properly, it gives you an advantage no one else has."
The instructor had placed a hand on Rick's head, smiling.
"Use all three tomorrow. And don't worry—when it comes to determination, no one comes close to you."
"Are you daydreaming already?"
Ark's voice snapped Rick back to the present.
The crowd roared around them. The arena trembled with anticipation.
"You really think someone who reached External Art can beat me?" Ark sneered, aura flaring faintly around his blade. "I'll end this quickly."
The instructor raised his hand.
"Match—begin!"
Rick was about to move first when Ark's voice cut through the noise.
"If you're not going to attack," Ark said coldly, "then let me do it."
In a single breath, Ark closed the distance.
His sword rose from below, slicing upward in a clean, precise arc. The strike was fast—far faster than most in the crowd could follow—but Rick reacted.
Steel met steel.
Rick barely managed to interrupt the attack, the force driving him back several steps. He steadied himself and immediately began moving, circling the arena, searching for a blind spot.
Ark followed.
The two ran side by side, neither willing to give ground, until there was no choice left but to clash head-on.
Their swords collided again.
The sharp ringing of steel echoed through the arena, drawing cheers from the spectators. They reveled in the fight—but Rick did not. Every strike from Ark was precise, disciplined, the result of proper swordsmanship training. In contrast, Rick's style was rough and unrefined, something he had learned through raw experience and guidance from Andrew rather than formal instruction.
Each exchange forced Rick to give a little more ground.
His arms ached. His breathing grew heavier.
Let's end this now.
Ark poured mana into his hand, the energy flowing seamlessly into his sword. The blade shimmered as power gathered along its edge.
Rick did the same.
He forced his mana into his hand, pushing every ounce of strength he had into a single moment. When their blades met once more, the collision sent violent gusts of wind sweeping across the stage.
The crowd fell silent.
The most shocking part was not the force of the impact—it was the result.
Rick stood his ground.
He had survived Ark's attack.
A smile slowly formed on Rick's face as both fighters strained against each other.
"What's wrong?" Rick said calmly. "I thought you were going to end it."
For the first time, Ark did not respond with anger.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
"I can't believe it…" Ark muttered. "Even though I didn't fully use the Sword-Aura… that should have been enough to defeat you."
He took a few steps back. Rick did the same.
They stood on opposite sides of the arena, staring at each other in silence.
But then,Ark said calmly, lifting his sword until the blade hovered inches from Rick's face, "I acknowledge you, Rick."
His voice, clear and unwavering.
"I acknowledge that even if they had not surrendered, they would never have won against you. And out of respect for that… I will use my full power in this strike."
As the final words left his mouth, a pale glow bloomed along the length of his sword—mana condensing, humming, wrapping the steel in visible light.
Sword Aura.
The crowd erupted before Rick could even react.
"He's using Sword Aura?!"
"Why use it now? He could've ended this earlier!"
Voices overlapped, excitement drowning reason. An A-Class student scoffed from the stands, a smirk on his face.
"He just wants to finish it clean. There's no way he loses to someone that weak."
The crowd buzzed, eyes locked onto the stage—everyone waiting to see Rick fall.
But Rick wasn't afraid.
He was smiling.
"So this is it," he murmured. "The real deal."
Even though he couldn't control it perfectly—despite the instability, the lack of finesse—this was Sword Aura. A flawed imitation, perhaps, but real nonetheless. Earlier, he had held back, using only fragments of his mana. Now, Ark was serious.
So was he.
Rick tightened his grip.
Mana surged— through his arms, his legs, his chest. It wrapped around his body unevenly, roughly, but with raw intent. His stance lowered. His breathing steadied.
The next second—
Both of them ran.
Steel met steel.
The sound cracked through the arena like thunder. Dust all over the arena.
And the next thing everyone saw was Rick on the ground outside the arena.
Meanwhile Rick, he was staring at the sky.
He lay beyond the edge of the stage, his body heavy against the ground. For a moment, nothing made sense—until realization struck.
He had lost.
A laugh escaped his lips, quiet but genuine.
And then the announcement rang out:
"The winner of the first match—Ark!"
The arena exploded.
Meanwhile, within the crowd—
"Did you see that?" Willy asked, eyes wide.
"Yeah," someone beside him replied. "And i am sure Everyone our class saw it too."
"As the swords collided, Rick had been blown backward, crashing onto the stage with a heavy thud. But before being blown he landed a hit on Ark."
"But seeing Ark standing," Willy said with a smirk. "I don't think it was that strong."
Another student leaned forward. "Stopping a sword with one hand and countering at the same time… he really does have talent."
Willy nodded. "Yeah. Whatever happens, I'm mote excited about that guy—Rome."
Soul stood nearby, silent. While Willy turned away, Rome remained still, eyes locked on the stage, saying nothing.
Rick rose slowly.
He brushed the dust from his clothes, retrieved his sword, and left the stage without a word. On the opposite side, Ark watched him go—then turned and headed toward the exit as well.
Once out of sight, Ark stopped.
He leaned against the wall, clutching his stomach as he took a sharp breath.
"Damn it…" he muttered.
His teeth clenched.
"I can't believe he landed a final blow before going down—and that strong, on top of everything."
Using the wall for support, Ark straightened, forcing his breathing to steady.
"Thank goodness I held my ground," he said quietly. "If I had lost… it would've destroyed my image. As a noble, he couldn't afford to look weak."
With one final breath, Ark clenched his fist and walked away from the arena.
After his defeat, Rick headed toward the resting area where his teammates were seated.
"Hey," someone called out. "Come sit here."
Krai waved as Rick approached.
"Yeah, I am coming." Rick muttered as he dropped beside them.
After sitting there Rick saw Rome filled with anger. " Hey what's wrong with you? " he asked.
After a moment of silence, Rome spoke.
"I'm frustrated."
"Why?" Rick asked.
Rome exhaled. "Because those people were mocking you. They're weaker than you—and they still laughed."
Rome's eyes darkened with anger.
"Don't mind them," Krai said calmly. "You should've focus on your match."
Rome glanced up.
"Yeah, Krai is right. You should focus on your match."
Rick paused—then smiled faintly.
Hearing that, Rome let out a slow breath. The tension drained from his shoulders, and at last, he calmed down.
After that, the rest of the matches continued one after another. Each bout flowed smoothly, victories decided cleanly. By the time the final match ended, the rankings were clear.
The Top Ten had been decided.
Seven students from A-Class.
Two from B-Class.
And one—from D-Class.
All ten stood upon the stage as the crowd erupted into cheers and applause, the sound rolling like thunder through the arena.
"That was… interesting," Nuel said, clapping lightly.
"What do you think, Grol?" he asked.
"Yes," Grol replied. "This year is good."
Nuel paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
"By the way, we should promote that student—Rome. With a performance like that, I don't think anyone would disagree."
"I agree," Grol said slowly. "But there's one more student worth considering."
Nuel turned toward him. "You mean the one who fought Ark?"
"Yes," Grol replied. "At first, I thought it was luck—him defeating Vein. But after today… after seeing that fight, I'm certain he has talent."
He folded his arms.
"We should consider promoting him to B-Class. And Rome to A-Class."
Nuel exhaled and shook his head.
"Rome is easy," he said. "But you know most instructors in this academy come from noble houses. After the incident with Vein, they don't see Rick in a favorable light."
Grol frowned.
"It would be difficult to push him directly into B-Class," Nuel continued. "At best… we can promote him to C-Class."
His gaze drifted back toward the stage.
"This is really pathetic," Grol muttered. "For instructors to act like this."
But hearing that Nuel said nothing for a while and then,
"Well," Nuel said as he stood, brushing dust from his coat, "when are you leaving?"
"The supplies and soldiers are ready," Grol replied. "We'll move at midnight—toward the Eastern border."
"In that case," Nuel said while turning away, "good luck."
Grol remained standing, watching as Nuel left the VIP seating area.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Leave it to me."
His eyes returned to the arena—lingering, thoughtful.
Meanwhile, after the match, Rick waited outside the arena with Leze and Krai, all three lingering near the exit.
Not long after, Rome finally came out.
"Hey!" Rick called out, waving his hand exaggeratedly to grab Rome's attention.
Rome noticed them and walked over, a little stiff.
"Well, well—look who it is," Rick said with a grin. "The star of the day."
"It's not like that," Rome replied quickly, turning his face away, clearly embarrassed.
"Oh, come on," Krai laughed. "You don't know how people reacted when you made it into the Top Ten. They were surprised. Look around—everyone's staring at you even now."
Rick glanced around and noticed it too. Heads turning. Whispers spreading.
"I'm sorry for interrupting," Leze said quietly, "but I think we should choose a different location."
As if on cue, a large crowd began gathering around them.
They didn't waste any time. Soon after, the group moved away and returned to their room to talk in peace.
"I'm pretty sure after today you'll be promoted to a higher class," Krai said as he lay back on his bed.
"You really think so?" Rome asked, still half in disbelief.
"I'm sure," Leze added calmly.
Rome nodded, then paused. "But… where did Rick go?"
"Wait for a moment," Krai said with a smile.
The door suddenly opened.
"I'm back."
Rick stepped inside, his arms full of bags and equipment.
"What is all this?" Rome asked, confused.
"It's party time," Krai replied instantly.
"What—wait!" Rome exclaimed.
"Today we're celebrating your placement in the Top Ten of your first year!"
Rick just smiled.
Hearing that, Rome said nothing more—only gave a faint smile in return.
That night, they stayed up late, chatting, laughing, and eating together.
After that, the third day arrived. Second-year students began their matches.
But since there were only about Eighty three students remaining in the second year, everything ended quickly.
But the most exciting day of the tournament was the fourth day—the day the third-year students entered the arena.
That year's third-year batch had already broken a record in there first year. It was the largest intake in the academy's history, with over four hundred students accepted in a single year.
The batch was so massive that the academy had been forced to expand—new training grounds were constructed, additional dormitories built. Even now, by their third year, the total number of students remaining was still close to two hundred, a figure far higher than that of the current first-year.
But numbers alone were not the reason for the excitement.
The true reason lay elsewhere.
Many of the students in this batch came from prestigious noble families, heirs of influence and power. And above all else—among them stood someone whose presence eclipsed every other name.
The Crown Prince of the Asther Kingdom himself was a third-year student.
Now, at last, the most anticipated day had arrived.
The arena buzzed with life, overflowing with spectators. Voices echoed endlessly as people crowded the stands, eager eyes fixed upon the stage where the top ten fighters stood ready.
The air was thick with anticipation.
And then—
It was time for the battles to begin.