## CHAPTER 14: The Unseen Blade
Silas stepped onto the elevated dueling tile with the heavy fabric of the academy's activity hoodie still pulled low over his brow. The shadows of the Western Bastion seemed to pool beneath the hood, obscuring his hair and the upper half of his face, leaving only a pale, resolute jawline visible. He held the standard-issue wooden sword with a grip so loose it appeared careless, yet there was a stillness to his frame.
His opponent, a tall noble with sharp, hawkish features, stepped into the ring with a flourish, his own wooden blade vibrating with a faint, blue mana-charge. The crowd of students fell into an expectant hush. After the raw power of Edna and the effortless strength of Zerav, and the unmistaken precision of Louisa, everyone wanted to see what the third Commoner brought to the arena.
"**FIGHT!**" Master Erwin's voice boomed.
The noble didn't waste a second. He launched himself forward, his boots kicking up dust as he channeled mana into his legs for an explosive burst of speed. He was a blur of blue-tinted movement, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
Silas didn't charge. He didn't even raise his guard. He simply began to walk—a slow, rhythmic pace toward his oncoming attacker.
They collided in the center of the ring. The *crack* of the wooden swords meeting was like a gunshot, the sound vibrating through the slate floor. Silas had caught the heavy strike with a minimal flick of his wrist, his posture unyielding despite the noble's momentum.
Finding himself momentarily blocked, the opponent jumped backward, his boots skidding as he reset his stance. He snarled, insulted by Silas's casual approach, and boosted forward again, aiming a horizontal slash meant to disarm.
Silas didn't parry this time. He took a single, calculated step to the right. As the noble whistled past him, driven by his own overextended force, Silas's leg was already set. It was a precise, immovable anchor in the noble's path.
The boy tripped over Silas's heel, his momentum turning into a chaotic tumble. He slammed into the stone tile with a sickening *thud*.
"Ugghh!" the noble groaned, the sound of the impact echoing off the high ceilings. He rolled across the ground, gasping for air as he struggled to find his bearings. He moved a trembling hand to his lower back, his eyes squeezed shut in a grimace of pure agony.
He stayed there for a moment, his right hand clutching his spine, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl to keep a cry of pain from escaping. His left hand hammered against the floor in frustration, the physical pain nearly unbearable, but the sting of humiliation being far worse.
He forced his eyes open and saw Silas. The hooded boy was still walking—that same, slow, inevitable pace—taking soft steps toward him.
Panicked and fueled by a desperate need to keep the commoner away, the noble pulled his hand from his back and pointed his palm at Silas. A jagged red beam of raw mana shot from his fingertips, hissing through the air.
Silas's reaction was terrifyingly efficient. He didn't dive; he didn't even break his stride. He slanted his torso lightly to the right, the red beam passing so close it scorched the fabric of his hoodie. He didn't even look at the blast.
The opponent shook his head, his face pale and sweat-beaded as he forced himself to stand. He staggered, his knees buckling twice before he finally stayed upright. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his fallen wooden sword and began to limp toward Silas. His pride wouldn't let him quit, even as his body screamed for him to stop.
Their swords clashed once more, a desperate flurry of wood against wood. But Silas was no longer playing defense. As the blades locked, Silas twisted his wrist in a complex, circular motion. The torque was immense. He didn't just block the weapon; he snared it. With a sharp, sudden jerk, he twisted the wooden sword clean out of the noble's hand.
The practice blade was sent flying across the room, clattering against the far wall and sliding into the shadows.
The noble stood there, unarmed and trembling, but his eyes were filled with a frantic, burning rage. He refused to call for a forfeit. His right hand began to emit a pale, sickly white glow—a sign of a forced mana-overload. He clenched his fist, his eyebrows furrowed in a mask of pure hate, as he prepared to strike with his bare hands.
Silas stopped walking. He stood just a few feet away, the shadow of his hood still masking his eyes, watching as his opponent prepared for a final, suicidal charge. The air around Silas seemed to grow cold, as if the very heat was being sucked into the dark void beneath his hood.