Rumors in the Academy of Aetherion traveled faster than light magic.
If you sneezed in the library at 8:00 AM, by noon, three different noble factions would be debating whether your cold was a biological weapon or proof of genetic inferiority.
It was an ecosystem—carefully balanced on information, speculation, and the uniquely malicious boredom of teenagers who possessed too much power and not enough war to expend it on.
So naturally, when I stepped into the main academic block the morning after my outing with Viola—
The air felt thick enough to chew.
It wasn't subtle.
Eyes followed me.
Whispers began the moment I passed and stopped the moment I turned my head. Conversations fractured mid-sentence. Fans paused mid-flutter.
"I heard she finally dumped him."
"Took her long enough. Imagine being the Valeris heiress and dragging that around."
"I heard he cried in the garden."
"Pathetic. A Leonhart in name only."
I kept walking.
Face neutral.
Back straight.
Internally? I was rolling my eyes so hard it physically hurt.
'Cried in the garden?'
'Really?'
'That's the best they've got?'
Honestly, I expected more creativity. Something theatrical.
"He summoned a demon out of heartbreak."
"He challenged the heavens to a duel."
At least give me dramatic credit.
But no.
To them, I was Rias von Leonhart—the Weakest. The background character. And now, conveniently, the discarded fiancé.
The narrative was simple.
Viola—the brilliant, beautiful heroine—had finally come to her senses. She had cast aside the dead weight and aligned herself with her destined path.
Which, of course, meant Aurelius.
Technically, I was the one who ended it.
But explaining that to an audience already holding pitchforks was a waste of oxygen.
Let them talk.
In this world, being underestimated wasn't an insult.
It was a weapon.
I adjusted the collar of my uniform, feeling the cool weight of the steel sword resting at my hip. My mana flowed quietly beneath my skin—dense, compressed, obedient.
"Let them bark," I muttered under my breath.
"Biting is what matters."
*****
The morning class was held in one of the largest training amphitheaters in the academy.
A circular arena of sand and stone, surrounded by tiered seating that rose like a coliseum. The air smelled faintly of leather polish, ozone, and dried sweat baked into old stone.
This was where "realistic combat simulations" took place.
Which, translated properly, meant:
Knights bullied mages up close.
Mages bullied knights from afar.
And everyone called it "tactical education."
At the center stood the instructor for the day.
'Garrick Holt'.
Combat Division Supervisor.
The man who once looked at my body and declared it "trash."
And then looked at my mind and called it "sharp."
He stood with arms crossed, posture immovable, like a boulder that had decided to attend class.
When he spoke, he didn't need amplification magic.
"Today," Garrick barked, his voice slamming against the stone walls, "we discuss Pressure."
He began pacing.
"A sword does not cut because it is sharp. A spell does not burn because it is hot. They work because you impose your reality upon the target."
Silence settled heavily.
"Many of you possess raw power," he continued. "Mana pools large enough to drown villages. Family techniques older than this academy."
His gaze hardened.
"And yet, if I stepped into this ring with a wooden spoon, I would beat you to death before you finished chanting."
A few nervous laughs escaped.
Most students didn't laugh.
They knew he wasn't exaggerating.
"Why?" Garrick asked.
Silence.
"Because I understand pressure."
He stopped walking.
"I know how to make you doubt your swing before you begin it. Combat is not mathematics."
He tapped his temple.
"It is conversation."
"And the one who speaks loudest usually wins."
He gestured toward the arena floor.
"Demonstration. Two volunteers. One attacker. One defender."
Hands shot up immediately.
Of course they did.
Prestige in the Academy was oxygen.
Garrick ignored the eager ones.
His gaze drifted over the rows lazily.
He paused on Aurelius.
"Too easy."
He glanced toward Ione, who was staring at a floating dust mote as though it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Too… complicated."
Then his eyes shifted downward.
"Thorne."
A tall student rose.
Gareth Thorne.
Heir to a Marquisate famous for heavy cavalry and spear mastery.
Ranked seventh in first-year combat standings.
Dark hair slicked back. Expensive uniform. Smile calibrated between confident and insufferable.
"Yes, Instructor."
"Step down. You're the attacker."
Gareth vaulted into the arena with theatrical ease, summoning his mana-reinforced spear from a spatial ring.
The weapon gleamed.
He twirled it once.
Of course he did.
"And the defender…" Garrick murmured.
Gareth cleared his throat.
"Instructor," he projected smoothly, "if we are demonstrating pressure… shouldn't I face someone who struggles with it?"
A subtle ripple moved through the seats.
Garrick's eyebrow lifted.
"Oh?"
Gareth turned slowly.
His gaze found me.
The smile sharpened.
"I hear Rias von Leonhart has been going through a difficult time," he said sweetly. "Perhaps sparring will help him find clarity. Or… perspective."
The hall went silent.
It wasn't subtle.
It wasn't polite.
It was a public execution request.
I sighed internally.
'I wrote this guy', I thought tiredly.
'Why is he stepping on me?'
Garrick looked at me.
"Leonhart," he said evenly. "Do you accept?"
I could refuse.
Fade back into irrelevance.
Let the rumors define me.
But then I remembered—
The line in the stone.
The feeling of certainty.
And the fact that the Sword Sovereign's art did not tolerate cowardice.
I stood.
"Sure."
I didn't jump theatrically into the arena.
I walked.
Step by step.
Boots echoing in quiet stone.
I stepped onto the sand.
"Training weapon?" Garrick asked.
I glanced at the rack.
Then at Gareth's gleaming spear.
"No."
I drew my standard-issue academy sword.
Plain. Unremarkable. Functional.
Compared to Gareth's weapon, it looked almost insulting.
He laughed.
"Don't cry when it breaks."
Garrick stepped back.
"Standard rules. First clean hit or surrender. Excessive force means expulsion."
A pause.
"Begin."
Gareth didn't rush.
He circled.
Letting his Earth-attribute mana flare outward.
Dense. Heavy. Yellow-brown aura thick around his body.
It reinforced him like armor.
"You know, Rias," Gareth said lowly, "I almost pity you. First your talent. Then your dignity. And now… Lady Viola."
He thrust experimentally.
The spear tip halted inches from my face.
I didn't blink.
"Realized you're alone?" he pressed.
I studied him.
His stance.
His balance.
His grip.
His mana leakage from the shoulders.
A month ago, he would have looked overwhelming.
'Now?'
He looked slow.
"Are you done talking?" I asked calmly.
His eye twitched.
"Fine."
And then—
He exploded forward.
BOOOM!
Sand burst outward.
His spear became a streak of golden-brown force aimed directly at my chest.
To the audience, it must have looked devastating.
A rank-7 elite charging at full force.
But to me—
It looked predictable.
[Mana Compression] activated silently.
Time didn't stop.
It simply… clarified.
I saw the trajectory.
The imbalance in his weight.
And then—
I saw it.
The Line.
Faint.
Pale.
The invisible seam where force concentrated—and where it hollowed.
I didn't block.
I didn't dodge.
I stepped in.
Forward.
Three inches left.
The spear grazed my uniform.
My blade rose.
Not a slash.
A tap.
Clink.
A soft sound.
But I applied Judgement of Heaven.
Not power against power.
Will against vector.
For a split second, I disrupted the flow of his Earth aura.
Physics took over.
His spear veered violently sideways.
Momentum betrayed him.
He stumbled forward, completely exposed.
I pivoted.
Smooth.
Clean.
The hilt of my sword drove into his solar plexus.
Thud.
Air exploded from his lungs.
Before he recovered, I swept his leg.
He crashed face-first into the sand.
Two seconds.
Charge.
Clink.
Thud.
Silence.
Gareth wheezed, confusion plastered across his expensive face.
I stood above him, sword already sheathed.
"You grip too tight," I said calmly.
"And you let your aura fix your balance."
I tapped the scabbard lightly.
"Pressure isn't about being loud."
I turned away.
"It's about being right."
I walked toward the stairs.
Then—
"Don't turn your back on me!"
A roar.
He lunged.
Cowardly.
Desperate.
I heard someone shout.
"Look out!"
Viola's voice.
I didn't turn.
I felt his intent.
Jagged.
Unstable.
Pathetic.
My hand moved.
I drew.
[Judgement of Heaven: First Form — Severing the Gale]
A single reverse arc.
Blind.
Absolute.
SHING!!!
A thin crescent distortion carved through the air.
It sliced the mana gathering at his spear tip.
Sliced through the wooden shaft.
Stopped one millimeter from his throat.
The top half of his spear spun uselessly away.
A thin line of blood appeared on his cheek.
I sheathed the blade slowly.
Click.
Final.
"I said," I murmured quietly, "you were wrong."
The broken spear shaft slipped from his hand.
His knees gave out.
He collapsed into the sand.
Shaking.
I climbed the stairs.
This silence was different.
It wasn't confusion.
It was recalibration.
Three hundred students quietly rewriting their assumptions.
I passed Viola.
Her hands covered her mouth.
Shock.
Pain.
Something unspoken.
I didn't stop.
I passed Aurelius.
He was watching sharply.
Calculating.
He gave a single nod.
Acknowledgment.
I passed Ione.
She examined her nails.
But as I passed, she murmured:
"Sloppy footwork on the second turn."
I almost smiled.
"I'm working on it."
"Winner: Leonhart," Garrick announced.
His voice sounded… satisfied.
I exited the arena.
Only then did my hand tremble slightly.
It wasn't flawless.
It relied on surprise.
On concept over brute force.
But as I walked down the quiet corridor—
The air felt different.
Lighter.
The title "Weakest" no longer clung to me.
It slid off.
Like an old coat.
And I left it—
In the sand.