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The courtyard of the Academy of Eternal Dawn buzzed with tense anticipation. Students packed tightly around the dueling arena—a circular platform etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly beneath the midday sun. The air shimmered with latent magic, the stones beneath their feet seeming to hum in response to the crowd's collective energy.

A sudden trial. A rare opportunity for students to challenge each other and prove their worth.

Evander stood at the edge of the crowd, his eyes locked on the towering ranking board.

50. Evander Caldor.

His name gleamed in crisp lettering. For a fleeting moment, pride bloomed in his chest.

I made it.

But the warmth of that thought evaporated in an instant.

"So, you're the one who jumped to 50."

The voice was smooth, but it carried an edge sharp enough to cut.

Evander turned slowly.

Dorian Vale. Rank 8.

The crowd instinctively parted for him, as if the air itself bent to his presence. Broad-shouldered and composed, Dorian moved with effortless confidence. His dark eyes, cold and discerning, locked onto Evander with unsettling precision.

In his past life, Dorian had become one of the Five Heroes—a symbol of unwavering will and unparalleled mastery over Emotive Sorcery. Now, he was younger but no less imposing.

Dorian's gaze swept over Evander, calculating.

"I don't remember you from last year's evaluations," he said, voice casual but laced with suspicion. "Strange how someone goes unnoticed and then suddenly leaps to the top 50. Makes me wonder…"

He let the words hang in the air.

"Was it skill that got you here? Or luck?"

The crowd murmured, a ripple of unease passing through them.

Evander's fists tightened at his sides.

He's testing me.

Dorian tilted his head slightly, studying Evander as one might a curious specimen.

"Challenge me." His tone was flat, almost bored. Yet the command in it was undeniable.

"Or," Dorian's lips curved into a faint smirk, "are you content hiding behind a number?"

A cold knot twisted in Evander's stomach. He wasn't ready. Not for him. But backing down now would stain him, mark him as weak.

He swallowed hard.

"Fine," Evander said, voice steady despite the storm raging inside. "Let's see if Rank 8 is all it's made out to be."

A flicker of something—approval, maybe—passed through Dorian's eyes.

The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps as both of them stepped onto the arena.

The Duel Begins

The ancient runes flared to life, casting a translucent barrier around the platform. The hum of magic deepened, thickening the air. The suppressive enchantments coiled around Evander like unseen chains, dulling the flow of energy.

Dorian didn't bother with a stance. No words. No warning.

Pressure crashed down like a tidal wave.

Emotive Sorcery.

It slithered into Evander's mind, cold and suffocating.

Stand down.

A voice, not Dorian's, but born of his magic, clawed at his thoughts.

You can't win.

Evander's breath hitched. Shadows of his past life flickered—memories of failure, comrades dying, his own helplessness.

No.

His jaw tightened. He reached inward, grasping for the Arcane Weave. Threads of energy flickered at his fingertips, fragile and fleeting. The arena's suppressive magic fought back, but he pulled the strands tighter, weaving them into thin, taut traps.

Dorian moved.

A blur of motion—faster than Evander could track.

Instinct screamed. He barely twisted aside as a fist whistled past his ear, the force of it slicing the air.

Too fast.

Evander snapped his fingers. The thin weave of energy he had laced across the arena floor sprang to life, snaring upward.

Dorian shifted mid-strike, narrowly avoiding the trap.

"Clever," Dorian murmured, barely winded. "But shallow tricks won't save you."

His fist slammed into Evander's gut.

Air fled his lungs. The world spun as he hit the ground, pain blooming in his ribs.

The crowd winced collectively, whispers rippling.

Evander coughed, struggling to breathe. Get up.

Pain screamed through his limbs, but he forced himself upright.

He wouldn't yield.

Not again.

Dorian watched him impassively.

"You're persistent," he remarked, almost to himself. "But persistence without control leads to failure."

Evander's mind raced. Control.

He began moving—not directly at Dorian, but circling, subtle, laying thin threads of unstable energy low to the ground, weaving a web beneath their feet.

Dorian's expression remained unchanged, though his eyes narrowed slightly.

Then, Dorian charged.

Evander didn't retreat.

At the last second, his hand snapped upward.

A burst of light and force detonated between them.

Dorian recoiled, blinking against the sudden flare.

Evander lunged, fist aimed for his ribs.

Fast.

But not fast enough.

Dorian's hand closed like iron around his wrist.

"Better," Dorian said, twisting sharply, forcing Evander to his knees. "But you're still slow."

With a dismissive motion, he flung Evander across the arena.

Evander hit the barrier hard, the runes flickering from the impact.

"Yield."

Evander's vision swam, his body screaming for rest.

But his hands pressed against the ground.

And he rose.

Slow. Unsteady. But standing.

The courtyard fell silent.

Dorian's eyes narrowed, studying him with new interest.

Then, he stepped back.

"Hmph. You've got some fight. I'll give you that."

Without another word, he turned and left the arena.

The runes dimmed, and the crowd erupted into hushed murmurs.

Evander remained kneeling, chest heaving.

I lost.

But Dorian hadn't crushed him.

He'd been acknowledged.

Next time, Evander thought, dragging in a ragged breath, I'll win.