Just as the fight was reaching its apocalyptic peak, the interruption came. The one who stepped into the ring wasn't a referee or a guard. He was a man whose very presence commanded the arena's attention: Professor Aldren Veylor.
He was in his late thirties, with a quiet intensity that seemed to still the very air. His stone-grey eyes missed nothing, scanning the scene with the precision of a seasoned warrior. Medium-length black hair and a short, well-trimmed beard framed a face that was both sharp and composed. He wore the official Academy coat, sharp and formal, a symbol of unquestionable authority.
A few minutes earlier, on the balcony...
Young Instructor: Sir... did you hear that? It's Lucien Valehart.
Professor Veylor: That kid has power to spare. To use Fire Art with that level of raw output... just what I'd expect from a Valehart. His tone was analytical, not impressed.
Instructor 2: He's cocky, though. Look at his stance. He doesn't even think this is a fight. He's toying with him.
Instructor 3: Well, would you? That other kid didn't even bring a weapon. Who shows up to a duel at Shikai Academy like that? It's suicide.
Professor Veylor: Not someone reckless, Veylor countered, his eyes narrowing. Someone confident... or someone who is unbelievably careful. Watch closely.
While the other instructors were fixated on Lucien's display of power, something else entirely had caught Professor Veylor's sharp eye.
It was Shiro.
It was a fundamental law: you could not effectively use an Art Style without your own katana, a blade attuned to your mana. But this boy, wielding a borrowed, oversized weapon, seemed to be doing the impossible. And just before his lightning-fast attacks, his lips moved. It wasn't a shout, not a grand chant for a powerful Art... it was a whisper. A quiet, two-word phrase that was swallowed by the noise of the fight. Almost like a... trigger.
Professor Veylor watched, mesmerized, as Shiro launched the decoy attack from the left and then, with breathtaking speed, landed the real strike from the right. The blow connected. Lucien's pristine uniform was marred.
He actually hit him, Veylor thought, a jolt of surprise running through him. And that whisper... he did it again. That's not an Art Style chant. That's something new. Something... different.
Then Lucien snapped. The air grew heavy with the promise of utter annihilation. Lucien was gathering mana for his Sixth Form—a technique that had no place in an entrance exam, a technique that could maim or kill even with the protective rules in place. And yet, Shiro... he wasn't retreating. He wasn't trying to get out of the blast zone. He was lowering his stance, gripping that comically long blade, preparing to counter. He was going to try and cut through a Valehart's ultimate technique.
Professor Veylor (thought): This is going to get someone killed. This has gone far enough.
Professor Veylor: Stop this fight. Right now!
Back to the present...
With a casual flick of his wrist, Professor Veylor unleashed a controlled shockwave of pure force. It wasn't a destructive blast, but a precise, concussive wall of air that exploded through the space between Shiro and Lucien. It was like a giant's hand shoving them apart, disrupting Lucien's mana flow and forcing Shiro to plant his feet to avoid being knocked over. Both boys were frozen, stopped in their tracks, as the professor stepped calmly between them.
The moment the professor declared the match over, the terrifying tension shattered. Shiro's aggressive stance melted away into his usual slouch. Without a word, without a single glance at Lucien or the professor, he walked over to the stunned helper, handed back the long katana with a quiet Thanks, and simply walked out of the arena, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
Everyone else was left trying to process the whirlwind of events.
Lucien, his face a thundercloud of humiliation and rage, rounded on the professor.
Lucien: Why did you do that?! Don't you know who I am?! And to think someone of your station would come down here to protect a commoner! This is an outrage!
Professor Veylor didn't flinch. He took a single step closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register meant for Lucien's ears alone.
Professor Veylor: I didn't come to save him... he whispered, his grey eyes locking with Lucien's golden ones. I came to save you.
Without another word of explanation, Professor Veylor turned and strode from the arena, his coat flapping behind him. The message was clear: the discussion was over.
Professor Veylor (thought): To think he'd try to take on that much power head-on... either that boy is the dumbest soul I've ever witnessed, or he's the most dangerous. There's something wrong here. I need to keep a very, very close eye on him.