Jeremy Velico was known across the academy for one thing-- his sword moved like a silent hurricane.
As the legitimate heir of House Velico, a humble knight family with no title but an unbroken martial lineage, Jeremy was the pride of the Swordsmanship Department. He graduated top of his class, mastered the Gale Form, and was whispered to be a swordsman who could one day rival nobles born with higher standing.
'Theodore Capel,' he thought, eyes narrowing.
A senior student, who was once a known delinquent. He never trained properly, and was rumored to be a frequent visitor of the red-light district.
Yet, upon entering the Imperial Lyceum of Argentwolf Academy, Capel reformed his behavior and became one of the Twelve House Prefects under the Battlefield Command Department.
Now, he was infamous for never using his scent. An "alpha" who didn't even release dominance pheromones in battle.
A swordsman who couldn't use the Alpha's mark in battle, in Jeremy's eyes, was a bird without wings.
'He's got to be talented, sure, but I've trained all my life for this. I'll win.'
He needed Caesar Anson's attention-- the Crown Prince's fiancé, and the Head Prefect of Battlefield Command Department. Defeating one of his subordinates was the perfect way to be noticed, and be a step closer towards his goal: to climb high enough to stand among the empire's future leaders.
The duel began under the midday sun that burned above the coliseum-like arena, but that wasn't the source of the tension. Students crowded the tiers, whispering behind gloved hands, murmuring in surprise that an underclassmen had actually dared to challenge Capet after what happened last time.
"The second-year's really doing it?"
"They say he ranked top of his class in swordsmanship."
"So did the last one who tried."
Jeremy ignored the murmurs. His eyes stayed fixed on the calm figure before him.
Capet stood with one hand behind his back, his other hand resting lightly on the hilt of a long, dark sword-- its edge faintly glowing red, as if heated from within. His black hair was tied back neatly, but strands had slipped loose, framing a face too composed, too quiet.
And those eyes-- gold like molten glass-- watched him with unnerving stillness.
Jeremy gripped his blade tighter. His scent flared-- sharp, metallic, cutting through the warm air like ozone before a storm. It was an unspoken declaration: You're in my domain now.
But Capet didn't react. Didn't flare his own scent in response. Didn't even twitch.
It was like trying to provoke a statue.
In any normal school, the betas and omegas especially would have immediately bowed their heads, searching for escape on instinct alone.
But here, among alphas only, there was a different kind of reaction.
Hell, even they shifted in place, caught between two primal urges: challenge the threat or bow to it.
It was just unsettling, seeing Theodore like this.
"Jeremy of House Velico," the instructor called. "Prefect Capet of the Fourth House. Begin when ready."
Jeremy saluted with his sword. "Thank you for accepting my challenge, Prefect Capet."
Capet's golden eyes lifted, meeting Jeremy's. Calm. Flat.
"You're welcome."
Then silence.
Even as the starting bell rang, Capet didn't move first. He only shifted his weight, just slightly.
Jeremy grinned. He's waiting for me.
Fine.
He raised his blade, invoking his family's technique-- Gale Form VIII, the Skyfang Waltz.
A gust of pressure swept through the arena, sand lifting into the air.
Then, the wind thickened around him, turning his sword into a flicker of green light. Students gasped as he lunged, closing the distance in a breath, strikes sharp and rhythmic. His movements were elegant-- like dancing through air.
The first slash swung toward Capet's throat.
Clang!
A single parry. Capet's blade met his with minimal movement.
The redirected force twisted Jeremy's wrist.
What-?
The second strike cut horizontally. Capet turned his blade, deflecting it again, guiding the energy sideways. Each impact was gentle, no counterattack, no aggression, only control.
Jeremy grit his teeth and struck again, faster.
A dozen blows.
Then three dozen.
Capet didn't step back once.
He merely pivoted, minimal footwork, and redirected Jeremy's momentum. Wind magic whistled and howled, tearing through the arena sand-- but Capet's blade sliced through the storm with precision, redirecting gusts back toward Jeremy.
Each time Jeremy advanced, his own magic turned against him.
'He's… he's reading me.'
A faint murmur rippled through the audience.
"Capet's not even sweating."
"I doubt he ever does."
"He just blocks every time."
Jeremy heard them, and his heart beated faster in his chest. So, he pressed harder, channeling more wind, his sword splitting into blurring afterimages.
His technique was supposed to overwhelm opponents-- speed beyond the eye. But those gold eyes followed him, calm and unblinking.
"Your form." Capet murmured mid-parry, voice steady. "It's Velico style, isn't it?"
"What-!"
Capet's sword turned. His offhand pressed against Jeremy's chest-- a light push. But Jeremy stumbled backward as if struck by an invisible force, air pressure bursting outward. The redirected wind slammed into him.
Dust exploded across the training ground.
Students shielded their faces.
When it cleared, Jeremy stood panting, hair disheveled, uniform cut at the sleeve. He had drawn first blood-- his own.
"How-" He gasped. "You used my-"
"You haven't mastered your sword style yet," Capet said simply.
Jeremy snarled, ashamed at the soft laughter that rippled through the crowd. "Don't-don't patronize me!"
He lunged again, this time channeling Gale Form IX — Tempest Cleave. The move twisted his magic into a whirling arc, designed to crush defenses. The ground cracked under his boots as he slashed downward, sending a condensed blast of slicing wind toward Capet.
Students cheered-- this kind of technique was rarely seen from a second year.
But Capet didn't even lift his blade.
Instead, his right hand traced a subtle sigil in the air. Fire bloomed from his palm-- quiet, condensed, golden-red. It met the incoming wind, and the collision roared.
BOOM-!
Heat seared the arena walls. Dust spiraled high.
When the smoke thinned, Jeremy was crouched, panting, eyes wide. His sword was nowhere to be found.
And, Capet stood untouched.
His blade rested casually against Jeremy's shoulder, the faint glow of magic fading from his fingers.
"Your wind burns easily," Capet said. "It scatters when forced apart."
Jeremy trembled-- not from fear, not yet, but from disbelief. He had trained since childhood, day and night, to earn his position. How could someone like Capet-- someone without training, and without any visible style-- reduce him to this?
'He's just reacting at this point.'
Capet's blade shimmered once more ,and in the next instant, pain flashed across his shoulder where the flat of Capet's sword struck.
Then silence.
The crowd had gone quiet, then restless.
"That's it?"
"He didn't even attack him seriously."
"Capet's terrifying."
"At least he lasted longer than the last one."
Jeremy barely heard them. His vision wavered. The last thing he saw was Capet sheathing his sword, turning away-- like the fight had never mattered.
The crowd parted with him instinctively.
'How can someone fight like that?' Jeremy wondered bitterly, consciousness slipping.
Jeremy's vision blurred as the medics rushed in. He caught one last glimpse of the Prefect's retreating form-- black hair, golden eyes, and one hand behind his back.
Later, after Jeremy had been carried off and the arena cleared, whispers lingered in the halls.
"Velico's pride got the better of him."
"He thought the Margrave's son was easy prey."
"Why Capet, though? Why not challenge another Prefect?"
"Because Capet doesn't use his scent," someone answered. "Velico probably thought it'd be a easy fight."
"And?"
"And that's what makes it worse."