Chapter 23: Edward vs Leon (2)

In the vast dueling arena, the air rang with the clang of steel and the roar of fifty matches unfolding all at once. A cacophony of shouts, cheers, and gasps swelled and receded like ocean waves against the towering walls of the coliseum. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light piercing the domed ceiling, illuminated by the faint, shimmering glow of unleashed mana across the many rings. The very ground seemed to thrum with the concentrated energy of hundreds of active participants and thousands of eager onlookers.

The gallery was packed—hundreds of spectators crowding the stands. Fellow participants, seniors from upper years, even members of the teaching faculty—all had gathered, eyes scanning the chaos below.

Yet beneath their composed expressions, they all shared one quiet thought:

Let this round end quickly.

Their eyes, though idly tracking the lesser skirmishes, held a palpable hunger for the true spectacle. Every minor victory, every swift defeat, was merely a tick of the clock, bringing them closer to the moment they truly craved.

Because what everyone truly awaited was the main event—the clash between Rank 1 and Rank 2.

But amidst the noise and distraction, something was happening in Ring 22. A duel that few noticed, yet one that slowly demanded attention—strike by strike.

Most of the early-round matches were fleeting, brutal affairs, ending in a handful of hurried exchanges. They were meant to be quickly dispensed with, background noise before the main acts. But in Ring 22, something subtly defied that expectation. It wasn't the sheer explosiveness that caught the eye, but the sustained, relentless quality of the exchange, a magnetic pull, building from the sheer precision and power on display.

Two boys stood locked in combat.

Steel met steel, sparks flying with every impact. The sound was less a simple clang and more a visceral shriek, a metallic scream that cut through the general din, sharp and insistent. Each collision sent jolts up the fighters' arms, reverberating through the very ground beneath their feet. The air crackled, smelling faintly of ozone and heated steel, as if the very elements were struggling to contain the force of their blows.

Their blades didn't just clash—they conversed in force and fury, each answering the other with equal strength. It was a grim, beautiful dialogue, spoken in the language of disciplined aggression.

Every block was a question, every riposte an emphatic answer. They moved in a dangerous, intricate dance, their forms blurring, their footwork a silent, deadly rhythm, each fighter a perfectly balanced pendulum of offense and defense.

One moved with effortless grace—blonde hair catching the light like a banner of confidence. His movements flowed like water, each parry and thrust executed with a deceptive ease that belied the immense power behind it. He was a master of his craft, his every action radiating innate talent.

The other, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, fought with a silent, burning resolve. His defense was unyielding, his counter-attacks sudden and precise, like viper strikes. There was a raw, unyielding determination in his eyes, a flicker of something fierce and untamed that pulsed beneath his calm exterior. He fought with the desperate hunger of someone with everything to prove, and perhaps, nothing left to lose.

Neither backed down.

Neither gave ground. Their wills locked as fiercely as their blades, a silent contest of endurance and defiance. Each knew the stakes, each understood the message being delivered with every blow: I will not yield.

And though the crowd hadn't realized it yet… They were too caught up in the superficial spectacle, too eager for the main event to truly see the masterpiece unfolding before them. But the air around Ring 22 was growing heavier, charged with an undeniable energy, slowly drawing peripheral glances from even the most distracted observer. It was a pressure building, a silent crescendo that would soon burst into full, undeniable recognition.

A storm was brewing—quiet, focused, and far more dangerous than anyone expected.

And at the heart of that storm, in Ring 22, Edward fought. He gripped his sword like a lifeline, knuckles bone-white, the hilt groaning under the strain. Every strike he hurled was met with an answering thunder, every movement swallowed whole with infuriating ease.

Neither he nor Leon ceded an inch. They stood their ground, unyielding, two fortresses of will smashing against each other, blow after grinding blow, with no crack, no tremor of surrender.

But Edward knew.

This wasn't Leon at full strength. Not even close. This was a mockery, just toying like a predator with its doomed prey.

Leon was holding back, as always. Edward had meticulously watched his previous duels, recognizing the chilling blueprint of his inevitable domination. Leon dissected opponents with cold, surgical precision, measuring their rhythm, their very soul. And only then did he move with real intent, a sudden, merciless unveiling of overwhelming power.

He kept his true self hidden, buried beneath layers of polished technique and tactical restraint, a profound wellspring of destructive force he deemed unworthy of lesser struggles.

He was doing the same now.

Observing. Calculating. Measuring the depth of Edward's futile resistance.

But Edward didn't care. Not anymore. His fury was a cold, constant fire in his gut, burning away all fear.

Let him do it.

Let him measure and analyze and play safe. Let him dally in his arrogance.

Because in the end, everyone is free to make their own choices—but no one, not a single soul, gets to choose the unforgiving consequences that follow.

"You're holding up well, Mr. Brightwill," Leon said, his tone polite but edged with something colder. "I'd heard stories about your swordsmanship back in middle school. I was hoping to face someone formidable. But… is this all you have?"

Edward smiled internally.

He never thought the roles would reverse.

Now Leon was the one mocking him.

Funny how fate worked.

Compared to what Edward had once said to Leon in that vision, this provocation almost sounded gentle.

"You've got quite a mouth for a pretty boy," Edward replied, his tone cool. "But your tactics don't impress me."

Still, neither of them slowed down.

Their blades never stopped. From the very first second, they'd been clashing nonstop, exchanging blow after blow like a violent rhythm only the two of them could hear.

But Leon had seen enough.

Edward was strong—stronger than most opponents he'd faced in previous duels.

But this was where it ended.

Leon was one of the lucky—or unlucky—Class A students who had to fight five duels instead of four. He couldn't afford to waste time. He had to conserve energy. Which meant—

It was time to end this.

His rhythm fractured.

Suddenly, his movements were faster—sharper—more refined.

Each strike came with more weight, more precision, more intention.

And slowly, Edward started to get pushed back.

He held his ground at first, but it was obvious—Leon had shifted into offense.

And Edward was losing ground.

Edward's counterattacks grew more desperate. Fierce, yes—but not enough to push Leon back. He tried to turn the tide, but Leon's blade struck his forearm—right where the old injury from a previous fight still lingered.

Leon wasn't trying to cripple him.

No, that wasn't his style.

He was sending a message:

"This is the difference between us."

He wanted Edward to yield.

But Edward wasn't the type to bow out from pain.

He didn't even look at the wound.

Didn't flinch.

Instead, his strikes became relentless—wild, even. The kind of attacks born from sheer determination, from someone who refused to step back, no matter how much it hurt.

Then, Leon landed a kick to Edward's side.

A crack echoed faintly beneath the din.

Edward groaned, his body folding slightly from the impact, a sharp, searing pain blossoming in his ribs, but the next strike came before he could recover. A sword slash grazed his cheek—a shallow cut, but enough to leave a line of blood.

It didn't stop there.

Leon drove his free hand into Edward's ribs with a solid punch, and for the first time, the duel began to feel one-sided.

Painfully so.

From the stands, it looked like a matter of endurance now.

How long could Edward hold on?

Where was his breaking point?

Each clash brought new cuts to Edward's frame.

That was the brutal difference between Core F+ and Core E-.

It wasn't something you overcame with mere willpower.

The gap in power—in realm—was something you felt in your bones. It punished every movement, crushed every hope. It stacked against you with every breath, a suffocating weight.

Edward tried to close the distance again. He tried to break the rhythm.

But Leon met him head-on.

Steel screamed as Leon's sword knocked Edward's aside—and then plunged into his shoulder.

Leon exhaled, his expression shifting for the first time.

Not triumph.

But… pity. Perhaps even a hint of weariness, a touch of a bitter understanding.

He didn't want to drag this out anymore.

He wanted to end it cleanly.

Leon stepped forward.

But then—

His eyes widened. A sharp pain lanced through his leg. A gasp tore from his throat, pure, unadulterated shock overriding the agony. The sudden, burning intrusion shattered his focus, a violation he hadn't even conceived possible.

He looked down.

A dagger—small, curved, and wicked—was buried in the side of his thigh. Deep. Right where the vital tendon met muscle.

Since when?

His gaze snapped to Edward.

He was still standing. Barely. A ghost of a man, yet undeniably present.

Blood streamed freely from multiple lacerations. His breathing ripped through his ragged chest. His clothes were shredded. He looked utterly broken—should've been a corpse on the floor.

But his eyes… they were terrifyingly calm. Dead calm, like the surface of an abyssal lake.

In his right hand, he still clutched his sword.

But in his left, a second blade glinted—a lethal whisper of steel.

A dagger. A true killer's tool.

"...Well," Edward muttered, his voice low but steady.

His stance shifted.

And with it, something else changed.

The figure standing before Leon didn't look like a swordsman anymore. He didn't feel like a student, or even human.

He felt like something else entirely. Something primal. Something forged in the deepest shadows.

Edward's eyes, once sharp, now narrowed to predatory slits.

His voice was quiet—a deathly whisper that nevertheless froze the very air between them.

"Looks like it's time to make this duel… brutal."