The crowd fell silent.
Not a whisper, not a breath — only the still hum of restrained fear.
Every gaze locked on Asher Valcren, the young heir whose words cut sharper than any blade.
The things he said weren't mere insults — they were a public declaration of how insignificant Mira seemed in his eyes.
Mira's hands trembled as her nails dug into her palms. Rage burned in her chest like molten iron.
"You think you're high and mighty just because of your family?" she hissed, her voice trembling between fury and humiliation.
Asher tilted his head slightly, a faint, mocking smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes gleamed with a draconic coldness that made even the air around him feel heavy.
"Aerthyn… yes, now I remember," he said softly, his tone dripping with disdain. "Your family once claimed descent from dragons. And yet…" He took a slow step forward. "You can't even perform a single form of Dragon Swordsmanship. Not even a spark of Dragonic magic. How disappointing."
A murmur rippled through the stands.
The words hit harder than any spell.
Everyone knew the story — the Aerthyns had been mocked across the empire for that very lie. To bring it up here, in front of everyone, was like driving a blade into Mira's pride.
"You dare say that!" Mira roared, her fury igniting.
Her mana surged like a storm breaking free of its cage. The ground beneath her cracked, arcs of light bursting outward. She vanished from sight — her dash so fast that only the distortion in the air marked her path.
A deafening shockwave followed. The sheer velocity shattered the marble tiles, cracked the walls behind her, and would have deafened every spectator had the arena's barrier not held firm.
BOOM!
The air trembled. Dust and shattered stone filled the space between them.
Then — silence.
As the dust cleared, the sight before them struck like lightning.
Mira's blade — the sword of her bloodline, forged with centuries of pride — was stopped.
By a single finger.
Asher stood motionless, his index finger lightly pressed against the blade's edge. His coat rippled softly in the mana breeze. Not a single hair on his head had moved. His expression was calm — almost bored — and that made it terrifying.
The spectators froze. No one blinked. It was as if time itself held its breath.
Even Mira's heartbeat seemed to stop.
Dean Seravane, however, simply watched with a knowing look — as if this outcome had never been in question.
With a simple flick of that same finger, Asher sent Mira flying backward. She landed on her feet, trembling, barely able to breathe.
For the first time, the proud president of the Student Council felt fear.
Not fear of defeat — but of him.
Why does facing him feel like facing Father?
Why does his aura… feel like death itself?
Asher exhaled softly and raised his hand, palm open to the sky. His voice came out low, steady, yet it carried across the entire arena.
"Let me show you," he said, "what true dragon blood can do."
The air thickened. Everyone braced for devastation — a storm of flame or a spell that could tear the field apart.
But instead, he whispered the most basic of incantations.
"Magic Missile."
Gasps rippled through the stands. Confusion followed.
The simplest spell known to mages? Against Mira Aerthyn?
Then the air exploded.
A surge of mana burst forth, so dense it felt like the world itself had taken a breath and screamed. The small, glowing projectile Asher summoned was no longer a mere spell — it was a falling star, thrumming with ancient power.
Those with weaker constitutions collapsed instantly. Their mana veins quivered, refusing to move under the crushing weight of his presence. Even Mira's body froze — every muscle locked, every instinct screaming that she stood before a predator beyond comprehension.
The missile struck.
The explosion was silent for a moment — then came the roar.
Mira's sword shattered into a thousand glowing fragments that scattered like fireflies. The force sent her crashing into the arena wall with enough impact to crack the stone. She didn't bleed — Asher had controlled his power with surgical precision — but her body crumpled under the pressure.
The dust settled.
No one spoke. No one moved.
The world itself seemed to kneel before him.
Then, a single voice pierced the silence.
"Long live the Heir of Valcren!"
The words spread like wildfire. Cheers erupted, shaking the stadium.
And that day, only one name thundered through the skies —
ASHER VON VALCREN.
The arena had fallen into silence — the kind that follows catastrophe.
Mira lay broken upon the marble floor, her breathing shallow, her pride shattered before the thousands watching from the stands. Healers rushed to her side, golden healing circles flaring to life around her as chants filled the air.
But the crowd wasn't chanting her name.
They were roaring another.
"Asher Von Valcren!"
The sound thundered through the arena, shaking its very foundations. Even the seasoned teachers stood frozen, disbelief painted across their faces.
Then, from the back of the stands, a calm but resonant voice broke through.
"The victory belongs to Valcren."
The crowd turned. Dean Seravane stood with an approving smile, his robes gleaming in the sunlight.
Asher glanced toward him, expression untouched by emotion.
"Thank you, Dean," he replied evenly, his golden eyes glowing faintly not with warmth, but with quiet power.
Seravane's smile deepened, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "Shall we talk in my cabin, Mr. Valcren?"
Asher gave a short nod. "Lead the way."
They walked side by side through the corridor as murmurs followed them.
Every step Asher took seemed deliberate regal. The aura around him was suffocating yet mesmerizing, the kind that made even the proudest nobles avert their gaze. To the students watching, he wasn't a person. He was something else a reminder of what true supremacy looked like.
Inside the Dean's cabin, the heavy scent of parchment and incense filled the air.
Seravane took his seat, gesturing for Asher to do the same.
"Tell me," the Dean began, folding his hands, "why enroll in the Academy when you've already reached a level comparable to Samael?"
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then, Asher's lips curved into a faint, almost nostalgic smile.
"The only reason I joined," he said quietly, "was to keep a promise."
"A promise, hmm?" Seravane mused, running his hand through his beard. "I see. Well then, Asher Von Valcren welcome to the Royal Academy."
Asher stood, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Appreciated," he said curtly before turning to leave.
The dorm corridors were still alive with whispers as he passed whispers of awe, fear, and fascination. His assigned quarters lay beyond the main halls, where only the elite resided: the S-Class Dorms, reserved for those whose accomplishments surpassed reason.
When Asher entered, the soft glow of mana crystals lit his golden eyes, making them gleam like molten metal. He stood by the window, gazing out over the vast Academy grounds.
A faint wind stirred his silver hair as he murmured to himself,
"Promise… one I intend to keep."
And in that quiet, the name Valcren once again began to echo
a name the world would soon kneel before.