Chapter: 24 Edward vs Leon (Final)

Leon's eyes, wide with shock, snapped from the dagger in his thigh back to Edward's face. He didn't move to pull the blade, didn't even clutch the wound. He just stared—confusion blooming into disbelief. His perfect blue eyes burned with a silent question: How?

Then he heard it. That whisper Edward had let slip, a quiet promise meant only for him.

Edward didn't wait. He moved.

Like a ghost.

The dagger in his left hand reversed its grip as he stepped in. His sword came down—Leon blocked it, the clang sharp and desperate. But a second threat blurred, a wicked arc of steel. The dagger swept toward Leon's chest in a tight, ruthless arc.

Leon barely dodged, the cold edge a breath from his heart.

Edward's movements had become unpredictable. No longer a swordsman's fluid patterns, but something primal—calculated, brutal, erratic.

Leon countered, struck back with all his honed skill—

But Edward was already moving, an elusive shadow.

His foot slammed into Leon's thigh—right where the dagger was still buried.

"Agh—!" The groan tore from Leon's throat, raw with pain, buckling his stance, forcing his next motion violently off-balance.

Edward didn't stop. He smiled—a cold, crooked thing that didn't reach his eyes, like a predator savoring the end. It was a rhythm that denied breath, denied space, a chilling counterpoint to Leon's agony.

Leon, now truly cornered, swung his sword in a wide, desperate arc. Mana flared at his fingertips, his ring glowing, amplifying the strike with raw magical energy.

Edward's sword was knocked from his hand, spinning away, clattering against the edge of the ring. A loud, undeniable sound of loss.

Leon didn't waste the moment. He surged forward, despite the agony radiating from his leg, his eyes sharp with a desperate, furious intent. This was his chance to finish it.

Edward had only the dagger now.

He raised it, parrying Leon's powerful sword strike with the short blade—absorbing the blow through sheer grit and precise positioning—then circled swiftly.

His elbow lashed out, a sudden, brutal force crashing into Leon's nose. A trick picked up from Yelena.

Crack.

Leon staggered back, pure surprise flashing as his hand instinctively flew to his now-bleeding face.

By the time he looked up, Edward had retrieved his fallen sword—dagger sheathed once more beneath his sleeve, a hidden menace.

Leon seized the brief reprieve to pull the dagger from his thigh—his hand shaking, slick with his own hot blood. It was messy, a tearing sensation, but utterly necessary.

Edward stood still, watching him without a word, his expression unreadable, a silent, deadly judgment.

Leon held the bloodied blade a second before tossing it aside, disdain warring with the burning pain.

Then, they locked eyes again.

And this time, they both moved.

No hesitation.

No posturing.

Just pure, unadulterated violence.

Their swords clashed—an elegant storm of steel and instinct, a furious ballet between the hunter and the hunted. The arena air thrummed with the sheer, unrelenting force of their blows.

It was a duel that made even the most talented seniors stop and stare, their young faces pale with a mixture of awe and dawning terror. Even the teachers had risen from their seats, their usual composure shattered, their gazes riveted on Ring 22.

Each of Leon's strikes—precise, trained, enhanced by years of mastery—was met with an immediate, unexpected answer. Edward blocked, twisted, countered, adapted.

He was evolving.

With every clash, Edward grew sharper. Faster. More refined. His movements, once chaotic, now flowed with a chilling, efficient grace.

Leon felt it. That uncomfortable, gnawing sensation creeping into his spine—Edward was reading him, dissecting his every move, every pattern.

Then he saw it.

A faint blue hue in Edward's eyes.

A cold, analytic glow.

They didn't just watch—they dissected. Like a devil reading a script he'd already memorized, every future movement laid bare.

That gaze… it unsettled even the strong-hearted, the veterans of countless duels.

There was nothing human in those eyes anymore. They were the eyes of a calculating machine, or something even older, something primal.

Leon blinked—and Edward was already there, an impossibly fast blur.

Another blow.

A sharp, stabbing pain bloomed in his side, beneath his ribs.

Leon looked down in disbelief, his breath catching, a gurgle escaping his lips.

The dagger again.

Buried in the side of his chest. Precise. Clean. Intentional. The wickedly curved blade had found its mark.

His blood soaked into Edward's sleeve as their bodies brushed, a chilling, intimate exchange.

This wasn't a desperate fight.

This was a hunt.

Frustration churned in Leon's gut, boiling into a desperate fury.

He was stronger.

He knew he was stronger.

And yet—

He couldn't read Edward's movements.

Couldn't predict anything.

Edward wasn't stronger.

Wasn't faster.

But he was terrifyingly effective.

Every blow was sharp. Every step measured.

Each movement felt like it had only one purpose: to kill.

Leon finally understood what that feeling was.

That slow, rising discomfort. That suffocating pressure.

He wasn't fighting a swordsman.

He was fighting a killer.

The clash never stopped. Edward didn't let up for even a breath.

Blades collided again and again—each impact ringing through the air like the toll of a war drum. The edges had started to chip, to wear under pressure, but they were far from dulled. Every strike still drew blood, carving deep into flesh.

Leon had learned one thing: don't let Edward close again.

So when Edward surged forward, Leon lashed out with a brutal jab from his free hand. It didn't land clean—but it was enough. Enough to halt Edward's momentum. Enough to buy a precious moment of space.

But even as the two bled from countless wounds, the duel never lost its savagery. The arena floor was slick with it now—stained in the blood of two fighters who refused to yield.

Leon's sword was relentless.

And Edward's blade answered in kind.

He fought not just with strength, but with calculated fury—reading, responding, adapting. His dagger only appeared in flashes—brief, vicious moments where he turned defense into carnage.

This wasn't dual-wielding.

It was execution.

Every opening Edward exploited came with precision. Every dagger strike was deliberate.

Their clash wasn't beautiful anymore. It was brutal. Raw. Bone and blade and blood. A primal struggle for dominance.

"Hey... are they not going to stop this?"

A timid voice, too loud in the sudden, gripping silence, rang out from the stands.

No one replied.

No one even blinked.

Because no one could look away.

Leon stepped back—but Edward was already on him, a relentless shadow.

He didn't give chase recklessly. He moved with the ruthless calculation of someone who had stopped seeing this as a duel, and started treating it as survival.

Leon twisted, desperately slipping into a gap in Edward's rhythm—then drove his knee hard into Edward's gut.

A sharp thump.

Edward staggered, a low groan ripping from his throat. But even doubled over, his focus never wavered.

He reached to his side—fingers closing around the hilt of the dagger still buried in Leon's chest.

And he ripped it out.

"Gwahh—!"

Leon's scream tore through the arena, echoing with pure agony. The squelch of torn flesh, wet and sickening, echoed louder than any cheer.

A single sound that made several students flinch and recoil in their seats.

Edward stumbled back—just for a moment, a brief tremor in his body.

Then he raised the dagger, blood dripping from the blade, glinting in the arena light… and threw it.

The spin was tight. Clean. The aim, precise.

Leon's eyes widened, pure terror seizing him. He barely had time to raise his sword and bat the dagger aside, the impact sending it skidding across the ring with a metallic chime.

But in the next instant—Edward was gone.

Not gone. Moved.

In the blink of an eye, he had closed the distance again. His movement was ghostlike—silent, sudden, deadly.

Leon twisted to counter, but too late.

A strike slammed into his knee—blunt, sharp, fast.

Leon buckled.

His leg collapsed under him, body crashing to the arena floor in a heap, a grunt of pain escaping his lips.

And then Edward was above him, sword raised, blotting out the light.

He brought the blade down in a clean, brutal arc, aiming straight for Leon's head.

Leon rolled, barely escaping the fatal blow, a desperate scramble.

The sword cut a line across his shoulder instead, not deep—but enough to make the blood spray, a vivid crimson against the dust.

He pushed himself back, breathing ragged, sweat clinging to his brow.

"Aaaaagh!"

With a guttural roar, Leon surged up from the ground, his sword cleaving through the air in a wide, desperate arc.

It wasn't clean.

It wasn't refined.

But it was powerful—wild, explosive, the kind of swing meant to end everything.

Edward caught it—barely.

The impact slammed into his guard. The sound rang out like a hammer striking a bell, shaking through his bones. His grip slipped slightly.

There was a shift—a stutter—not quite hesitation, but a brief, instinctive recoil. Something raw.

Leon didn't miss it.

His eyes sharpened. His next strike tore across Edward's chest—deep, ugly, final.

Gasps broke out across the arena, a collective inhale of horror.

Blood sprayed. A brutal, blooming wound opened over Edward's ribs, a gash that should've brought him to his knees. He should've fallen.

But he didn't.

Instead—he moved.

Through the pain, Edward stepped forward and slammed a vicious side kick into Leon's thigh—just above the knee.

Crack.

The sound echoed like snapping bone, sickeningly loud.

Leon's body buckled, staggered. But before he could even cry out—

Edward's sword pierced through his side.

A clean thrust. Precise. Controlled.

Merciless.

And then—another kick.

This one landed square in Leon's chest, launching him backward like a sack of meat.

He hit the ground, rolled, and groaned—blood bubbling from his lips, staining the arena floor.

He looked up.

He saw him.

Edward Brightwill.

Standing above him.

Drenched in blood.

Chest gashed open.

Eyes blank, hollow, like a devil carved from the void.

A monster wearing the skin of a broken boy.

A blood-soaked silhouette limping forward. Every inch of him was painted in red. His chest torn open. His sword dragging against the floor. His movements slow and unstable—yet unstoppable.

"Y-You..." Leon breathed, still clutching his side, his voice a strained whisper. "What... are you?"

But Edward didn't answer.

He just kept walking.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Each one left behind a wet smear of crimson on the dusty ground.

Until the fourth—

His knees buckled.

And he collapsed.

Face-first into the dirt.

Motionless.

A sharp breath caught in Leon's throat, a strangled sound.

He blinked.

"…What?"

The arena was silent.

Not even the announcer spoke. The usual din was replaced by a heavy, profound stillness.

From the edge of the ring, instructors had risen to their feet, their faces etched with shock. A few students stood frozen, mid-cheer, their mouths hanging open, unable to comprehend.

Leon didn't move.

He just stared at Edward's prone form.

There was no triumph in his eyes now. No pride.

Only disbelief.

The silence that followed was complete.

Not even whispers passed through the crowd. Not even breath. Just the haunting image of a motionless boy and the boy who couldn't stand, staring at him.

No one knew what to say. What to think. What to feel.

Finally—

A hesitant voice, thin and reedy, broke through the deathly quiet, echoing through the vast space:

"I-It's confirmed. Edward Brightwill is unable to continue the match."

A pause, thick with anticipation and lingering horror.

"According to tournament rules… the winner of this round is Leon Ashborn."