Morning broke over the Academy beneath a cloudless sky.
The usual calm had vanished.
Training grounds that once echoed with casual sparring now rang with the relentless clash of steel. Every corridor carried hurried footsteps. Students adjusted armor, sharpened blades, whispered predictions and exchanged uneasy glances.
No one wanted to admit it.
Everyone was nervous.
Today wasn't simply another academy event.
It was the first step toward deciding who would stand at the front of a battlefield... and who would be forgotten behind it.
The Grand Arena dominated the center of the academy like an ancient fortress.
Massive white stone walls rose toward the heavens, black phoenix banners fluttering proudly between towering pillars. Marble staircases carried thousands of spectators into the circular coliseum while instructors, military commanders and nobles occupied the elevated balconies overlooking the battlefield below.
Among them sat representatives from the Royal Guard.
The Royal Army.
The Noble Council.
Even foreign observers.
Every eye was searching for talent.
Because the Dominion Selection didn't simply create champions.
It chose the future commanders of the continent.
—
Modred stood alone beneath one of the academy's balconies, staring quietly at the bright morning sky.
"...Thinking?"
Taren's voice came from behind him.
Modred smiled faintly without turning.
"...A little."
Taren stopped beside him, following his gaze toward the clouds drifting overhead.
Neither spoke immediately.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
It never had been.
"...Remember the first day?" Taren asked.
Modred chuckled.
"...You mean when you told me I'd fail?"
"...I said the probability wasn't in your favor."
"...Same thing."
"...Not statistically."
Modred laughed.
"...You haven't changed."
"...Neither have you."
The breeze carried the distant roar of students gathering inside the arena.
Taren folded his arms.
"...Funny."
"...What?"
"...Back then we were looking at the stars wondering if we'd even make it through the rite."
Modred looked upward.
"...Now we're here."
"...Yeah."
"...Time moves fast."
For a moment neither said anything.
Then Taren extended his fist.
"...Don't lose."
Modred looked down before bumping it with his own.
"...You either."
No dramatic speech.
No unnecessary promises.
Just two friends who understood each other.
The academy bell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"...Guess it's time."
"...Guess so."
Together—
they walked toward the arena.
—
The Grand Arena erupted the moment the competitors entered.
Thousands stood from their seats.
Cheers rolled across the stadium like thunder.
Professor Aldren stepped into the center of the battlefield.
"The Dominion Selection..."
His voice echoed through every corner of the coliseum.
"...Begins now."
A crystal rose from beneath the arena floor.
Golden light spread across its surface before names slowly materialized.
The audience leaned forward.
"...Interesting..."
"...They're starting with cross-year matches."
"...Already?"
Arthur frowned.
"...Cross-year?"
Julius looked toward the crystal.
"...Looks like the academy wants to see if we're worth the hype."
The first names appeared.
Dante Liam vs Cedric Volkran — Third Year
A murmur swept through the arena.
"Cedric?"
"Division Three's striker."
"He made the academy top thirty last year."
"Dante's first match is against him?"
Another name appeared.
Modred Vayne vs Kael Draven — Third Year
Even the instructors reacted.
Professor Aldren narrowed his eyes.
"...Kael..."
Arthur looked between the names before turning pale.
"...They're trying to kill him."
Taren adjusted his glasses.
"...No."
"They're trying to measure him."
—
Kael entered first.
Tall.
Lean.
Every movement carried confidence earned through three years inside the academy.
He rested a longsword across one shoulder before smiling.
"So..."
His eyes settled on Modred.
"You're the freshman everyone's talking about."
Modred stepped into the arena.
His black academy coat swayed gently behind him.
"...Apparently."
Kael grinned.
"I'll try not to break you."
"...I'd appreciate that."
The relaxed answer drew a few laughs from the crowd.
Professor Aldren raised one hand.
"...Begin."
The instant his hand fell—
Kael disappeared.
Steel screamed through the air.
CLANG!
Modred's sword met it effortlessly.
The impact echoed throughout the stadium.
Kael's eyes narrowed.
"...Fast."
"...You're not bad."
Kael smiled wider.
"...Good."
Their swords vanished.
Not literally—
Simply too fast for most first-years to follow.
Steel flashed again.
Again.
Again.
Neither gave ground.
Their blades collided dozens of times within seconds, sparks bursting between every exchange.
Kael's strikes were refined.
Years of discipline.
Perfect angles.
Perfect timing.
Modred...
Looked almost lazy.
His expression barely changed.
He leaned around cuts by millimeters.
Turned his shoulders just enough for blades to whisper past his neck.
Stepped through attacks instead of away from them.
His movements were frighteningly economical.
"...He's reading him..."
Magnus whispered from the balcony.
"...No."
Lance folded his arms.
"...He's dismantling him."
Kael accelerated.
His sword became a blur.
Left.
Right.
High.
Low.
Each strike carried enough force to split stone.
Modred continued walking forward.
Almost casually.
Every attack missed.
Not because Kael lacked skill.
Because Modred always seemed to be exactly where the blade wasn't.
"...Impossible."
Kael muttered.
Then—
Modred smiled.
"...My turn."
BOOM!
The arena floor exploded beneath his feet.
He vanished.
Kael instinctively swung.
Nothing.
A fist crashed into his ribs.
His body folded.
Before he hit the ground—
Modred appeared above him.
The flat of his sword struck Kael's shoulder, sending him crashing into the stone below.
The arena shook.
Gasps erupted from every section.
Kael rolled immediately back onto his feet.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
"...Again!"
He charged.
Faster.
Harder.
His sword roared toward Modred's head.
Modred stepped inside the strike.
Their shoulders brushed.
One twist.
One pull.
One pivot.
Kael's own momentum betrayed him.
His sword spun from his hand.
Before he understood what had happened—
Modred's blade rested against his throat.
Silence.
The entire arena had gone quiet.
Professor Aldren looked from one competitor to the other.
"...Winner..."
He paused.
"...Modred Vayne."
The silence lasted another heartbeat.
Then—
The arena exploded.
"He beat a third-year!"
"Without Arcana!"
"How?!"
Magnus slowly smiled.
"Igred..."
"So that's what you've been teaching."
High above—
Magnus' military observer quietly closed his notebook.
"...His Majesty was right."
"The boy is becoming dangerous."
—
"...NEXT MATCH!"
The cheering hadn't even faded before Professor Aldren's voice echoed again.
"Dante Liam."
Lightning cracked faintly.
Dante walked into the arena without saying a word.
Across from him stood Cedric Volkran.
A heavily built third-year carrying a massive greatsword.
He smiled.
"...You use lightning."
"...Yeah."
"I'll enjoy crushing it."
Dante smirked.
"...Try."
"...Begin!"
Cedric roared forward.
His greatsword descended like a falling tower.
BOOM!!
The arena floor shattered.
Dante wasn't there.
A bolt of blue lightning flashed across the battlefield.
Cedric turned—
Too slow.
A lightning-covered fist crashed into his jaw.
The impact launched him twenty meters.
The audience erupted.
Dante didn't stop..
Lightning exploded around his body.
His muscles expanded beneath the crackling Arcana, every movement becoming heavier... stronger... faster.
He looked less like a student.
More like a storm given human form.
Cedric swung again.
Dante caught the blade.
Barehanded.
Lightning surged violently across the steel.
CRACK!!
The greatsword shattered.
Cedric's eyes widened.
"...What—"
Dante drove his fist into Cedric's abdomen.
The lightning erupted.
The explosion echoed throughout the coliseum.
Dust swallowed the arena.
When it settled—
Cedric lay unconscious inside a crater.
Dante stood at its center, lightning dancing across his shoulders before slowly fading away.
"...Too weak."
The audience remained silent for a moment.
Then the stadium exploded into cheers louder than before.
Arthur slowly looked between Modred and Dante.
"...We're actually friends with these idiots..."
Julius exhaled.
"...Remind me never to make either of them angry."
Taren adjusted his glasses, though even he couldn't hide the faint smile on his face.
"...The real tournament..."
He watched Modred and Dante glance at one another from opposite sides of the arena.
"...Hasn't even started yet."
Far above them—
Unknown to every student—
Several commanders quietly stood and left the royal balcony.
One of them unfolded a sealed document.
Across its cover were only three words.
Operation: Rothen Frontier.
He looked down one last time at the arena.
"...They're almost ready."