The academy moved differently the next morning.
Students didn't walk.
They sprinted.
They whispered.
They stared.
Rumors about Leon's solo Rift clear had spread across every hall, dorm, training field, and cafeteria table. By sunrise, half the academy knew he had killed a Rank-E monster at Level 2. By mid-morning, the rumor had evolved into absurd versions: that Leon severed a Guardian's head with a flick, or that he tanked a vine explosion with his bare hands, or—Damian's contribution—that he fought "like an emotionless battle ghost fueled by destiny."
Leon ignored all of it.
He stood in the training yard with two wooden daggers in hand, moving through the same sequence he had practiced long before awakening. His form was precise. Clean. Efficient. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just perfect control.
Luck didn't swing the daggers for him.
But it did let his body learn faster.
Let his mistakes correct smoother.
Let his stance adjust naturally.
He was still Level 2.
But his foundation was solid.
In the distance, Damian watched him from behind a tree, clutching a notebook labeled:
LEON'S DAILY POSSIBLE CAUSES OF DEATH
Damian whispered, writing rapidly,
"Upper-year duel potential hazards… bruised ribs… broken pride… brain damage… heart failure…"
Leon paused mid-swing. "Damian."
Damian jumped. "AH—! Nothing! I'm not writing anything! Definitely nothing about your organs!"
Leon blinked. "You're loud."
"SO ARE MY FEELINGS!"
Instructor Hale approached from the far end of the yard, shaking his head. "Damian, stop harassing Leon with your panic diary."
"It's a danger analysis document!"
"It's anxiety on paper."
Damian pouted. "It's love—"
Leon cut him off. "Stop."
Hale sighed deeply. "Come on, both of you. Varron summoned Leon for morning evaluation."
Damian gasped. "Already?! But the upper-year assessment is in a week! Does he want to break him before the test?!"
"Varron doesn't break students," Hale said.
"He threatens them spiritually," Damian corrected.
"He doesn't do that either."
Leon walked beside them without comment.
Damian whispered, "Leon, listen… when you meet Varron, remember: if he asks you to chop a boulder, say no. If he asks you to spar a bear, say no. If he asks you to—"
Leon didn't respond.
He stepped inside the Combat Hall before Damian could finish.
The hall was empty except for Varron standing at the center, arms folded, eyes sharp like steel forged under pressure.
Varron looked at him.
"Leon Gray. Step forward."
Leon complied.
Varron studied him with no hint of warmth. "Here's the truth. You have one week before you face upper-year fighters. They're not monsters. They think. They adapt. They aim to exploit weaknesses."
Leon waited silently.
Varron continued, voice low, "Your strength is not your rank. It's your mind."
Damian whispered from behind, "And luck! Don't forget luck—"
"OUT," Varron ordered without looking.
Damian fled instantly.
Varron faced Leon again. "You fought instinctively in the Rift. Good. But instinct can only win so long. If you want to compete with upper-years, you need techniques."
Leon nodded.
Varron stepped back. "Show me Mana Blade."
Leon drew his dagger and channeled mana. A thin blue crescent burst forward, slicing cleanly through the air.
Varron didn't blink. "Again."
Leon repeated.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the twentieth release, his arm ached slightly.
By the thirtieth, his breathing deepened.
By the fortieth, sweat dampened his sleeves.
But he didn't slow.
Varron watched every movement with forensic precision. "Your form is acceptable. Not exceptional. Mana dispersion is uneven. Left shoulder stiffens after three casts. Center of gravity shifts backward on release."
Leon listened without defending himself.
Varron nodded. "Good. You don't argue. You learn."
He walked to the wall and grabbed a wooden sword. "Attack me."
Leon didn't hesitate.
He rushed forward, daggers aimed cleanly for the opening in Varron's stance—
—and hit nothing.
Varron had moved just a fraction. He didn't dodge dramatically. He didn't leap. He simply shifted his weight—and Leon's strike passed harmlessly by.
Leon instantly struck again. Close-range. Low slash.
Blocked.
A step back.
Mana Blade.
Deflected with a flick.
Varron didn't counterattack.
He didn't overwhelm Leon.
He simply avoided.
Simple.
Minimal.
Effortless.
Every motion he made felt like a statement.
This is the difference between level and mastery.
Leon lunged again, swapping dagger grips mid-strike, altering angles.
Varron tapped his wrist lightly with the wooden sword. "Overextension."
Leon spun, reversing momentum.
The sword touched his collarbone. "Open guard."
Leon retreated.
The sword's tip rested against his chest. "Dead."
The fight was over before it began.
Hale, watching silently from the door, winced.
Damian cried, "LEON—NO—!"
Leon stepped back without frustration. His pulse remained steady.
Varron lowered the sword. "Good. You process data quickly. You do not panic. You do not freeze. That is the only reason you lasted longer than a beginner."
Damian wailed, "He lasted three seconds!"
"Three seconds is long," Varron said.
Damian blinked. "Huh?"
"Against me," Varron clarified.
"Oh," Damian whispered. "That makes sense. Still horrifying."
Varron placed the wooden sword down. "Your weakness is clear. You lack experience with human opponents. Upper-years will not fight like beasts."
Leon listened.
"Your strength is your adaptability," Varron continued. "You adjust mid-movement. You correct errors quickly. Coupled with Luck… you can surpass them."
Damian raised his hand. "Can I skip the duel on Leon's behalf?"
"No," Varron said.
"Can I duel his opponent instead?"
"No."
"What if I pay—"
"No."
Damian sobbed internally.
Varron stepped closer to Leon.
"In one week, you face fighters with real combat skills. Sword users. Mages. Shield specialists. Some already Level 10–18. You must be ready."
Leon nodded.
Varron's eyes glinted. "Then we begin intensive training."
Damian fainted again.
Leon tightened his grip on his daggers.
The training was only starting.
Hours passed.
By midday, Leon's arms burned.
His legs trembled slightly.
Sweat dripped down his jaw.
But his eyes remained steady.
Varron had drilled him ruthlessly—precision exercises, reaction drills, short bursts of speed, defensive angles, footwork corrections, mana flow discipline.
Luck didn't reduce effort.
Luck didn't remove exhaustion.
But Luck aligned his learning.
Mistakes corrected faster.
Adjustments settled smoothly.
Movements refined naturally.
By the end of the session, Varron finally nodded.
"You're progressing faster than expected."
Leon didn't respond. He focused on catching his breath.
Varron's voice lowered slightly—not softer, but less harsh.
"You survive because you are calm. You grow because you are relentless. Do not lose that."
Leon nodded once.
Damian ran to him with a towel. "Leon! You're alive! Barely! I'm proud and traumatized!"
Leon walked past him.
Damian followed. "Let's eat! You need food! Protein! Mana-rich vegetables! Herbs for trauma—mine and yours!"
Leon kept walking.
Damian sighed. "Why do I feel more tired watching you than you do training?"
Leon didn't answer.
He knew the truth—
This week would decide much more than an assessment.
It would decide the path ahead.
He couldn't afford to fall behind.
Not here.
Not anywhere.
He would grow.
He would change.
He would strengthen.
Whatever the cost.