The crowd roared like a storm after Aaron left the arena, voices crashing into each other with excitement, fear, and disbelief. Leon's victory over three upper-years had shaken the academy, and now—every eye stayed locked on him.
Not admiration.
Not awe.
Expectation.
And danger.
Damian clung to Leon's arm like a terrified squirrel. "Leon… I know you're calm and collected and emotionally allergic to fear, but we should leave before the next lunatic challenges you."
Leon didn't move.
The referee cleared his throat loudly, drawing the audience's attention.
"Next match—special evaluation will continue. Next challenger—!"
The crowd immediately began screaming names at random.
"Aaron!"
"No, too early!"
"Let the second-years try!"
"Pick ME—just kidding, no thanks!"
Damian sobbed quietly. "Why are people volunteering to die? What is wrong with this school?"
Leon remained silent.
The referee lifted a slip of parchment. "Next challenger—"
A loud metallic clang echoed inside the arena.
Every head snapped sideways.
A tall figure had landed on one of the stone ridges—silent, balanced, and completely unannounced. His presence cut through the noise like a blade.
The crowd sucked in a collective breath.
Damian squeaked, "WHO—WHO IS THAT?!"
Leon stared at the newcomer, eyes narrowing slightly.
The man wore the red-trimmed uniform of an upper-year but with a distinctive insignia pinned to his chest—a silver fang wrapped in crimson cloth.
Damian turned white. "That insignia… no way… he's from the Elite Combat Track…"
Students whispered frantically:
"That's insane…"
"He's the top of Year Four…"
"He's stronger than Aaron!"
"Why is HE coming down?!"
The newcomer dropped lightly to the arena floor and straightened. He was taller than Aaron, lean but muscular, with jet-black hair tied back and a cold expression like carved obsidian.
The arena went dead silent.
He spoke softly—but his voice carried.
"Referee. I volunteer."
The referee sputtered. "A-Are you sure? This is a special evaluation—"
"I know."
No hesitation.
Damian clutched his heart. "WHY?! WHY WOULD A LEVEL 20 FIGHT A LEVEL 2?! JUST GET A JOB AND LIVE A NORMAL LIFE!"
Leon watched the man quietly.
The referee looked at the panel. "Name?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked directly at Leon.
"I've been waiting to see you up close."
Damian screamed, "WHY DOES EVERYONE TALK LIKE A VILLAIN AROUND YOU?!"
Finally, the man spoke:
"Rylan Thorn. Level 20. Elite Combat Track."
The arena erupted in disbelief.
"Level 20?!"
"He's not even supposed to be in this assessment!"
"He's taken down monsters that instructors avoid!"
Damian fell to the ground, limp. "Goodbye, Leon… It was nice knowing you…"
The referee paled. "Rylan—you understand that if you enter, you cannot use lethal force."
Rylan cracked his neck. "I'll try."
The crowd screamed.
Leon remained unmoved.
Rylan walked forward until he stood ten paces from Leon.
His eyes were sharp and calculating. "You're calm. Even now. Interesting."
Damian yelled from the dirt, "STOP CALLING HIM INTERESTING! HE DOESN'T WANT TO BE INTERESTING!"
Rylan ignored him.
He pointed at Leon. "Your match earlier was impressive. But that wasn't real combat. Not to me."
Leon tilted his head. "Then what is real combat?"
Rylan smirked faintly. "Pressure. Instinct. Killing intent. The ability to adapt while the world tries to crush you."
Leon didn't blink. "Then show me."
Rylan's smile widened. "Good. You won't run."
The referee's voice trembled. "I-Is both sides ready?"
Rylan raised his fists.
Leon lowered his stance.
Before the fight could start, though—
A cold, sharp presence cut across the arena.
Leon felt it instantly.
His Luck pulsed violently, almost like a warning.
The watcher.
He felt it again.
Stronger.
Closer.
Leon slowly turned his eyes toward the top of the arena's barrier wall.
Damian followed his gaze. "L-Leon… what are you looking at…?"
There—
half-hidden in shadow—
a dark silhouette leaned casually against the barrier.
Unmoving.
Watching.
Focused only on Leon.
Not on Rylan.
Not on the envoy.
Not on the fight.
Just Leon.
Damian trembled. "Leon… is that… a student?"
"No," Leon said quietly.
The silhouette didn't flinch. Didn't hide.
Instead—it raised a hand as if greeting Leon.
Leon's instincts sharpened.
The silhouette smiled.
A smile too calm for a stranger.
Too familiar for a threat.
Too deliberate for coincidence.
Then it vanished.
Just like that.
Damian collapsed again. "WHY DO WE HAVE A GHOST STALKER NOW?!"
Rylan observed Leon's reaction. "You noticed something."
Leon turned back to him. "You wouldn't understand."
Rylan's eyes gleamed. "I don't need to understand. I only need to test you."
The referee swallowed. "Match will begin in ten seconds!"
Damian screamed, "TEN SECONDS?! GIVE HIM TEN YEARS!!"
Students pressed forward eagerly.
Instructors tensed.
Seraphine Arclight leaned forward, interest sparked.
Rylan lowered his center of gravity.
Leon's daggers were steady in his hands.
Luck thrummed under his skin—more insistent than before.
Another warning.
A big one.
But the fight was starting.
Rylan whispered, "Don't disappoint me, EX-rank."
The referee raised the flag.
"BEGIN!"
Rylan moved instantly—a blur of motion, faster than anything Leon had faced so far.
Not charging.
Not swinging wildly.
Testing.
A faint flicker of killing intent touched the air.
The crowd gasped in fear.
Damian prayed.
Leon stepped forward.
Ready.