A wave of anticipatory silence fell over the arena, broken only by the announcer's magically enhanced voice.
Announcer: And now, emerging from the shadows... a descendant of the fire that forged this empire, the scion of House Valehart... Lucien Valehart!
He entered not with a rush, but with a conqueror's stroll. The crowd's cheers were a mere backdrop to his presence, which was heavy with an arrogance so profound it felt like a physical force. He didn't acknowledge the spectators; his molten gold eyes were fixed ahead, already victorious in his mind. In the glass-enclosed balcony above, figures leaned forward, their interest palpable.
Student 1: Man... I already feel sorry for the one who has to fight him. Talk about rotten luck.
Student 2: Yeah, out of all the people, he had to draw Lucien's name? Well... it's not like we're gonna save him. He laughed, a nervous, hollow sound. Haha!
Student 3: (Joining in the forced laughter) Yeah, what a nightmare.
Announcer: And as for his opponent... please welcome... Shiro Asahina!
A different kind of silence descended—one of confusion. The slender, white-haired figure who walked into the opposite side of the arena moved with a languid, almost sleepy gait that stood in stark contrast to Lucien's predatory confidence.
Student 3: Eh? Isn't that a girl? Wait... did the announcer say Shiro? Isn't that a boy's name?
Student 4: Wait, are you telling me that's a boy? And why did they only say his name? No family name? No hometown?
Student 5: He just really looks like a girl. A pretty, utterly clueless one.
Lucien's eyes, previously glazed with boredom, sharpened. The air around this person felt strangely familiar—that same infuriatingly calm aura from the courtyard and the exam hall. The pieces clicked into place.
Lucien: It was you... he said, his voice a low, disgusted drawl. So what are you, huh? You were supposed to be a boy. This... this charade is a disgrace to every man on the planet.
Shiro didn't respond. It was as if Lucien's words were leaves falling on still water, creating no ripple. Instead, he raised a hand toward a nervous-looking arena helper standing near the edge of the ring.
Shiro: Excuse me.
Helper: (Startled) M-Me? Yes, what can I do for you?
Shiro: Can I borrow a katana? If it's not a problem.
A collective gasp, followed by a surge of disbelieving whispers, swept through the entire training ground. Even the murmurs from the balcony grew louder. Who in the name of the Five Nobles showed up to the most important fight of their life without their own weapon? Your katana was your soul, your birthright, the very channel for your mana. To not have one was unthinkable.
Shiro, looking as half-dead and uninterested as ever, paid the growing noise no mind.
Helper: You... need a what?
Shiro: A katana, please, he repeated, his tone perfectly even. A long one, if you can. Maybe the longest you've got. Thanks.
As the helper scurried off, utterly bewildered, Lucien's composure finally cracked. The insult was beyond anything he had ever endured.
Lucien: Oi! Who do you think you're ignoring?! he barked, his voice losing its cultured edge. You don't answer my question and then have the audacity to show up without a katana?! Is this a joke to you?!
Shiro simply tilted his head, his expression one of genuine, blank confusion, as if Lucien was speaking a foreign, guttural language. This blatant disregard fanned the flames of Lucien's anger.
Finally, the helper returned, straining to carry a sheathed katana. It was absurdly long, its scabbard nearly touching the ground. When Shiro drew it, a fresh wave of confusion rippled through the crowd. The blade itself was a monstrous four and a half feet of polished steel. It was a weapon for a giant, a ceremonial piece, not a practical combat tool. How could this waif-like boy even lift it, let alone wield it?
The announcer, looking deeply uncertain, cleared his throat.
Announcer: Umm... Well then... Let the fight begin!
Lucien sneered, falling into a classic, open-handed fire-casting stance.
Lucien: Not making the first move? Fine by me. I'd like to finish this quickly. I'm a busy man, you know.
Shiro (quietly): Well then... don't mind me.
Shiro shifted. It wasn't a formal stance from any known school. It was simply... readiness. He muttered two quiet, unintelligible words under his breath. Then, he moved.
It wasn't a run; it was a blur. He closed the twenty-foot gap between them in the space of a single heartbeat, the long katana a silver streak as he swung upward from below in a devastating arc aimed at Lucien's chin.
Lucien's eyes widened a fraction. He hadn't expected that speed. He jerked his head back, the tip of the massive blade whistling past his face, close enough to feel the displacement of air.
Student 6: Whoa! Did you see that?! That's some serious physical strength! He moved like a bolt of lightning!
Student 7: If he thinks raw speed is enough to take down Lucien, he's so dead... That just pissed him off.
The taunt was right. Lucien's surprise morphed into cold fury. The game was over.
Lucien: Art Style: Fire! Second Form: Infernal Crest!
A dome of roaring flames erupted around him, a swirling vortex of heat and power. It was an offensive defense—a worst-case scenario for any short-range attacker. To get close was to be burned to a crisp.
Shiro, however, had already backed away the moment he saw the first spark of mana. He retreated just beyond the barrier's reach, the heat making the air around him shimmer.
Lucien: Backing up already? I thought you were here to attack me. Haha! Lucien laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. Looks like that was just a dream for someone like you!
Not letting up, Lucien thrust his palm forward.
Lucien: First Form: Crimson Trio!
Three vertical blades of condensed fire shot forward one after another, screaming across the arena. Lucien didn't let up, his attacks coming in relentless, furious waves. But Shiro, relying completely on a terrifying, preternatural physicality, began to dodge. He weaved between the fiery projectiles, his movements economical and fluid, closing the gap once more.
This time, he feinted. A shallow lunge from the left, designed to draw Lucien's guard and attention. Lucien, confident in his superior power, took the bait, shifting to block the false attack.
It was all the opening Shiro needed.
The real strike came from the right, the long katana a blur of controlled motion.
Shing.
And just like that... in their very first exchange, Lucien Valehart took the first hit.
A shallow, stinging cut bloomed on his left arm, parting the fabric of his impeccable uniform. It was a minor wound, physically. But for a noble, for a Valehart, it was a cataclysm. Hit by a nameless, katana-less stray?
The arena fell into a stunned hush.
Student 4: Whoa! Did you see that?! That kid just landed a hit on Lucien!
Student 2: Now that's impressive...
Lucien looked down at the cut, then back at Shiro. His face, for a moment, was a mask of pure, uncomprehending shock. Then it contorted into a visage of unrestrained fury. The air around him began to thicken, to grow heavy and hot. His mana surged like a storm breaking over a mountain, a palpable pressure that made the weaker students in the front rows gasp.
Lucien: You dare... Who do you think I am, you piece of shit?!
Shiro sensed the cataclysmic shift immediately. This was no longer a duel; it was an execution. He didn't retreat. Instead, he slid one foot back, lowered his center of gravity, and gripped the hilt of the long katana firmly with both hands. Holding the blade horizontally at his right side, he settled into a fixed, unwavering attack stance. He was going to meet it head-on.
Lucien raised his own katana to the sky, the blade glowing with incandescent, white-hot energy. The very air crackled, sucking the oxygen from the arena.
Lucien: Now die, you shit! Sixth Form: Pyrocl—
Before he could finish the chant, a voice, calm yet absolute, cut through the maelstrom of power.
???: That is enough.
The match was abruptly halted.