The Eastern Trial Ground, also known as the colosseum, had not been opened for a second-year Trial in eleven years.
After all, it wasn't the Academy's standard duelling ground. That was the western field, which was adequate for the formal petition process that ran between students on a regular basis.
The colosseum was different. It was built into the Academy's oldest stone, circular and tiered, its walls rising four stories above the fighting floor to house a higher number of an audience. The fighting floor was compressed earth—the same material as the Mechanism Room's terrain, but flat, open, and desolate.
Interestingly, at the edge of the fighting floor, there sat two isolated, transparent glass casing that held what appeared to be a mana-architecture in the shape of a heart.
The colosseum was currently being filled by the influx of students, nobles, and others who heard about the duel.
Caspian Valerius was among the seated in the lower tier, viewing the fighting floor in silence.
From the back, Valerius Patriarch appeared at the tier's entrance—composed. The Patriarch settled beside him with the careful movement of a man who had not slept well and was performing the opposite.
"What of Seraphina?" The Valerius Patriarch asked.
"She will be among other students, father." Replied Caspian, calmly.
Around them, the lower tier was filling with the Pillar Patriarchs and their attendants.
Fulgur Patriarch sat to their left, already occupying his seat with the settled satisfaction of someone who had arrived at a public event with a preferred outcome already secured. The Ignis Patriarch sat beyond him, with the long-game patience of a man who had come to observe rather than celebrate. Terra and Zephyr Patriarchs were at the tier's ends.
Above them, the middle and upper tiers were filling with the steady accumulation of a student body that had been given a rest period and was spending it the way they wanted.
The murmurs ran through the filling tiers, and they weren't of the noise of anticipation, but the noise of a conclusion already reached.
"—an execution is what it is—"
"—F-rank against S-rank, there's no other word for it—"
"—feel bad for him, honestly. Nameless. Can you imagine—"
"—fell from nobility and they gave him that as a surname. That's the custom, apparently—"
"—like a brand—"
"—he should've just declined—"
"—he couldn't. That's the whole point of the petition. He had no choice—"
The word Nameless moved through the tiers and transmitted fast—some knowing the background and some don't.
Nameless didn't represent the absence of a surname the way commoners lacked one. Rather, it was an active marker—the institutional brand of someone stripped from nobility and was given the word itself as their inheritance. It was one of the greatest dishonors the kingdom's naming convention could produce, worn as a last name for the rest of a life.
The commoners in the upper tiers were quieter than the rest. They understood what Nameless meant. They had no last names themselves. They didn't cheer. They didn't speak. They watched the east gate with the specific silence of people who sympathized with Isaac.
In the lower tier, the Fulgur Patriarch leaned toward the Valerius Patriarch with the carrying murmur of someone who had calibrated exactly how far his voice needed to travel.
"Valerius." He said with an amusement. "A difficult season for your house. The Rite results. The disinheritance. And now this. A peculiar kind, really." He gestured at the empty fighting floor with the ease of someone indicating a foregone conclusion. "At least the boy provides entertainment on his way out."
The Valerius Patriarch's jaw tightened.
The Zephyr Patriarch, two positions away, produced a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, but the specific social register of someone confirming amusement without committing to it. "Entertaining indeed. F-rank skill versus S-rank skill. It will be the most humorous encounter the humanity has ever come across."
The Valerius Patriarch opened his mouth. Then closed, finding no word to counter.
"The Valerius house," Caspian then joined, calmly, "has produced four S-rank skill owners in the last twenty generations."
The Fulgur and Zephyr Patriarchs paused. Gazed at Caspian.
"The current season's results are one data point in a longer record." He looked at no one in particular. "Houses with shorter records may find individual data points more significant."
Zephyr Patriarch frowned. His face reddened as he glared at Caspian, "How insolent—" He froze as Caspian's cold eyes were directed on him. Then he realized. His skill was A-rank, and Caspian's was S-rank: [Great Deluge]. Skill rank meant everything.
The tier was quiet for a moment.
The Terra and Ignis Patriarchs looked at the fighting floor. The Valerius Patriarch, beside Caspian, sat with the careful stillness of someone who had been rescued from a position and was processing the rescue without displaying it.
Only the Fulgur Patriarch looked at Caspian, amused. His eyes held on Caspian for a moment longer than the social situation required.
"Well… regardless of the entertainment today, the future of Valerius appears bright, for now."
Caspian didn't acknowledge Fulgur Patriarch's praise. He returned his gaze to the fighting floor.
Then, the announcement came.
It didn't come from the fighting floor. It came from the colosseum's announcement architecture—the mana-transmission array at the upper tier's north face, and it boomed loudly.
"Presenting His Royal Majesty, the seventeenth King of the Aetherion Dynasty, sovereign of the kingdom's eastern, western, and northern territories, keeper of the First King's mandate—King Demetrius Aetherion!"
The colosseum went from loud to something that was not silence but was the closest a crowd of thousands could get to it on short notice. There was the collective pivot of thousands of bodies toward the entrance in the lower tier's center. The rustle and shift of an audience indicated that no one expected the arrival of the king to this duel.
King Demetrius Aetherion walked in.
He was not old in the way that suggested deterioration, but old in the way that suggested accumulation of a profound wisdom.
He moved through the lower tier's entrance leisurely and sat at the tier's center.
Then, the announcement continued before the crowd had finished processing the first.
"Presenting His Royal Highness, Crown Prince of the Aetherion Dynasty and the guiding light for the future of the Aetherion Kingdom—Prince Gladius Aetherion!"
The response was louder than for the King.
Not more respectful, but louder, because the name of the prince was much more familiar to students.
Gladius Aetherion was not just the prince, but also the living legen of the Academy. The third-years and fourth-years in the upper tiers, who had more context on his performances, were the loudest. The second-years, most of whom had only encountered his name through reputation, were close behind.
Gladius walked in with confident steps that held charisma. He sat two positions from his father with the ease of someone for whom public attention was a condition of existence rather than an event. His eyes moved across the fighting floor immediately and found that the main characters of the duel did not make their entry yet.
"Presenting Her Royal Highness, Princess of the Aetherion line—Princess Lyra Aetherion!"
Lyra followed. Her silver gaze made one arc across the tiers when she entered—the confirmation sweep of [Clairvoyance] at its lowest expenditure. She found what she was looking for, and sat without further announcement of her internal state.
"Your Highness," Fulgur Patriarch stood and respectfully greeted the king, who waved his hand as a signal to settle down. The other four Patriarchs and Caspian followed.
The lower tier settled.
In the middle tiers, Cassiopeia sat with her notebook on her knee. She looked at the fighting floor.
She had three C-rank skills. She had led group 13 for three days in the Mechanism Room. She had watched Isaac redirect a [Mana Blast] with a droplet of water. She had fallen asleep in a crawlspace while he kept watch, and woken to a damp floor and torn sleeves and the specific evidence of a fight she hadn't been present for.
Later on, she heard a rumor that Isaac apparently disqualified the entire group 11 by himself.
For some reason... Cassiopeia couldn't help but think. I don't feel the same as the others. It sounds ridiculous, but it's as if... he actually stands a chance...
Her notebook remained closed.
Vane sat four rows above Cassiopeia, slightly to the left. He was looking at the fighting floor with the solemnness that the majority of other nobles didn't share.
He had told Silas. He had said what needed to be said. Whether Silas had processed it correctly was a variable Vane had no further control over.
He looked at the west gate.
Seren Ashveil sat in the middle tiers. Her leg had healed. The performance of Isaac lingered in her mind, but she didn't believe that that would affect the outcome of this duel.
In the lower section of the middle tiers, close enough to the barrier wall, Elara sat with her hands pressed flat against her knees.
She had not told Isaac she would be here. She had simply come because she felt that she needed to.
He knows what he needs to do, she thought. He said so. And he doesn't say things he doesn't mean.
The noise of the colosseum pressed around her. She kept her hands flat on her knees and her eyes on the fighting floor and held what she knew.
The Headmaster then descended to the fighting floor.
Seran Crane stood at the floor's center and looked across the colosseum with a flat expression of a professional at work.
"This Trial petition was filed by Silas Fulgur of House Fulgur, second-year enrolled student," he said. The broadcast carried his voice, not just to the colosseum's upper tiers but outward. The mana-transmission projection carried it to the public squares where the capital's citizens had gathered around the display points.
In other words, as Silas Fulgur wished, this duel was currently on display throughout the entire capital.
"It was reviewed by two Senior Inquisitors and co-signed. It was reviewed a second time by the Registrar's office and accepted. The petition was delivered to the responding party—Isaac Nameless, formerly Isaac Valerius, second-year enrolled student. Both parties are enrolled students of the Aetherion Academy. Both parties are bound by the outcome."
The colosseum received this.
"The gates will open."
They did.
The west gate opened first.
Silas walked out.
The colosseum's response was immediate. The chants began in the upper tiers and cascaded downward, the specific acoustics of a circular space designed to amplify exactly this kind of collective expression.
Fulgur. Fulgur. Fulgur.
Silas smirked.
From the noble tier, Fulgur Patriarch watched with the expression of someone observing an asset performing correctly.
The third and fourth-years in the upper tiers were loudest. The nobles in the lower tiers offered measured approval. The commoners in the upper tiers were quiet.
Silas reached the fighting floor's center and stopped. He looked at the east gate. He said nothing.
The east gate opened.
The colosseum went quiet. The chants died mid-syllable.
Isaac walked out.
He wore the same clothes he always wore. The iron charm was in his pocket. His hands were at his sides. He walked with the calmness and stillness that he had throughout the week.
The silence held.
Valerius Patriarch looked at Isaac with the calculation still running behind his eyes. He looked at the torn jacket. At the hands at the sides. Frowned in disapproval, as if disgusted by the fact that they shared blood.
Gladius Aetherion, on the other hand, watched Isaac in interest. Something had moved in his expression when the east gate opened.
"He doesn't seem to be afraid or nervous."
"Indeed," The King nodded. "What else do you see?"
"...His eyes." Gladius said. "They aren't the eyes of someone who's given up. Rather... he is looking for something. An opportunity."
"He is..." Lyra looked at Isaac and held the question she had been carrying for quite some time, "unique, for sure."
"Is that so?"
The King and Gladius looked at Lyra for a second, before returning their attention back on the field.
Thorne, in the faculty section, opened his private notebook. He wrote one line before anything had happened.
Elara's hands pressed harder against her knees.
He knows what he needs to do.
The Headmaster waited until both fighters had reached the floor. Then he addressed the colosseum once more.
"The devices on your wrists are connected to this colosseum's Manafold Circuitry—constructed and calibrated by Master Thorne and Master Andrias. It is essentially the same as what you experienced in the Mechanism Room."
In the faculty section, Andrias raised a hand in brief acknowledgement. Thorne did not move.
"Every impact that exceeds the threshold of ordinary training contact will be routed through the Circuitry and registered in two mana-glass hearts." Seran indicated the housing on the southern face—the two chambers visible to the entire colosseum, both whole, both clear. "Each glass heart belongs to one fighter. The glass records accumulation. When the heart shatters, the fight is concluded. Beyond that point, the Circuitry's protection ceases." He looked at both fighters in turn. "You will not exceed the glass."
The colosseum received this.
"No other rules apply. The fight concludes when the glass concludes it, or when a fighter concedes. There is no time limit. The result of this Trial won't have any legal repercussions unless the rule is breached."
He looked at Silas. At Isaac.
"When I step back," he said, "you begin."
He stepped back.
The colosseum held its breath.
Silas looked at Isaac across thirty meters of compressed earth. The violet arcs between his fingers moved faster than they had when he entered.
Isaac looked back. [The Prism] was already running. It was always already running.
Thirty meters. Compressed earth. The colosseum's air was dry. Lower than the tunnel. Lower than the Mechanism Room. He had calculated for this.
0.3-second time frame. Cognition acceleration. Supercritical fluid.
He watched Silas's left shoulder.
Silas didn't move immediately.
He looked at Isaac with the flat assessment of someone who had arrived at a destination and was taking a moment to confirm it was what he expected. The violet arcs moved between his fingers at their idle pace.
He snorted. Shrugged. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth moved.
"You know," Silas said, his voice carrying across the thirty meters of compressed earth and upward into the tiers with the effortless projection of someone who had never once considered moderating his volume, "I asked myself, when I first filed the petition—is this worth my time?"
He tilted his head slightly, looking at Isaac the way someone looked at a question they'd already answered. "An F-rank. Nameless. A broken wand and a puddle for a skill." He paused. "I decided it was worth it. Not because you're a threat." He let the word settle. "Because you needed to be reminded of what you are. Publicly. In front of everyone who might otherwise forget."
The tiers were silent. The colosseum's acoustics carried every word into the upper rows, into the broadcast arrays, into the public squares where citizens stood around the projection points.
The commoners, in particular, had their faces darkened. Even to them, Silas Fulgur's message felt personal.
"Your father threw you out." Silas continued. "Your skill is the one they give to people the system has already written off." He looked at Isaac the way someone looked at a conclusion they didn't need to verify. "If only your mother knew she'd give birth to someone like you."
Isaac said nothing. However, a pulse ran through his nervous system, a pulse known as the rage.
Silas Fulgur. This fucker has been pestering him since the first day of his first-year in the Academy.
"Your perseverance is your greatest strength. I believe in you."
[The Prism] was running.
"Silas Fulgur."
This world is unfair. It has always been unfair, and will continue to be unfair.
Isaac won't deny that he was privileged. He was extremely lucky. Outward, people thought he lost the "skill gacha." In truth, it was the other way around. It was the best possible scenario where he won the best draw and no one knew.
He will exploit the world's system, because he was given the power to do so. This was the first step.
He stated, "Mind your own business."
Silas's eyes widened at his bold claim.
[Condensation].
A single drop of water formed at his fingertip. Invisible at thirty meters. It began to simmer—the indication that its temperature was rising. However, the pressure kept it contained. It wasn't allowed to evaporate.
Supercritical fluid—its manifestation was done under everyone's eyes, without the use of [The Prism]'s hyper-accelerated cognition.
From the lowest-tier, Lyra abruptly rose, in a state of a complete shock. Some flinched upon her sudden movement. Some who knows her A-rank: [Clairvoyance] furrowed their brows, intrigued by what she saw.
"…Say that again."
Silas growled.
"Mind your own business?" Silas spat, "I sure would have if someone carrying the name of Valerius weren't this much of a failure."
The ambient crackle began.
The ozone reached the lower tiers.
Isaac's fingertip was still. The droplet of supercritical fluid swirled under his finger, as if patiently waiting for its time to act.
Silias's left shoulder was in Isaac's awareness.
He waited.
Then, the shoulder dropped.
Isaac's cognition opened. The world around him slowed down as Silas's eyes gleamed dangerously.
[The Prism] flared. [Condensation] began its work.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five—
In this slowed-down world, Isaac began to repeatedly produce droplets of supercritical fluid. The iterations continued, adding onto the existing volume.
Isaac narrowed his eyes mid-way. Silas's charge of [Lightning Spear] was resolving faster than the 0.3-second time frame that he had measured. It meant that Silas trained and improved within the week of time.
He decided to modify his plan. Originally, he planned to create a wide barrier of supercritical fluid through thirty repetitions within 0.3-second mark.
Stop at twenty instead. Smaller scale, but I can predict where his [Lightning Spear] will strike.
The shoulder had dropped. The charge was at three-quarters resolution. The interval—
0.2 seconds. Possibly less.
In front of Isaac, the substantial volume of supercritical fluid swirled at the speed as slow as the slowed-down environment.
Then, the time resumed.
Instantly, the volume of supercritical fluid in front of him converged into a partial veil.
[Lightning Spear] left Silas's hand.
The bolt arrived.
The colosseum saw the discharge—the full, unrestrained output of S-rank: [Lightning Spear].
The bolt hit the partial veil of supercritical fluid within this split second. The thunder, the magnificent and overwhelming visuals, the violent crackles—everything came down at once, rendering the audience awe-struck.
However, unseen by them, the supercritical fluid—partial veil—perfectly blocked the S-rank: [Lightning Spear]. The bolt found no ionic pathway. The dielectric property of the supercritical fluid offered no conductive medium for the discharge to propagate through. The energy that had been directed at Isaac's chest spread outward from the veil's face in every direction simultaneously.
[Lightning Spear] dispersed into white light.
Every spectator with their eyes open received it simultaneously.
For 0.4 seconds, the colosseum was blind, except Lyra and Isaac who closed their eyes beforehand.
Within this time frame, Isaac opened his eyes. The residue of supercritical fluid still remained after the successful blockade of [Lightning Spear].
His finger was raised.
[Condensation].
The residues of supercritical fluid were compressed into a size of a droplet. And then, the time returned to its normal pace.
Supercritical Bullet.
He fired it.
It flew thirty meters in a split second. Lyra was the only spectator. Struck Silas before he even realized it.
Simultaneously, Isaac was subjected to the cost of accelerating his cognition.
He felt it behind his eyes first—the sharp, pulsating pain that reddened his sight. At the same time, something warm and metallic in odor reached his lips. He swayed, but managed to restore his balance without falling.
After, the colosseum's vision returned. The first thing that they noticed was Isaac's state, looking notably worse off than just before they lost the sight.
"Looks like there was no miracle," Seren Ashveil shook her head from her seat. Others in the audience thought the same as her.
However, Silas was looking at his hand, in disbelief. Slowly, he reached his chest—where he registered the painful sensation of something before the device absorbed the impact.
"…Silas?" Vane was the first to notice this, whispering with his eyes fixated on the tall noble.
"No… you are all wrong." Lyra whispered from her area, "This is…"
Then, suddenly, Silas's glass heart cracked. Then, shattered—completely.
All that remained was the dust, which slowly began to evaporate into the form of mana.
The murmurs ended. In silence, the colosseum looked at it.
Then at Isaac, standing on the fighting floor with a thin line of blood from his left nostril reaching his lip. Hands at his sides. The same stillness.
Then at Silas.
"…How."
He looked baffled.
"I—you—but..."
The violet arcs between his fingers had stopped.
He looked at Isaac, dumbfounded.
The colosseum did not make a sound.
Thousands of people. The Patriarchs in the lower tier. The king. The prince. The princess. Third and fourth-years who knew the significance of S-rank skills. Second-years who had spent two days telling each other what this fight's result would be. Citizens in the capital's public squares watching the broadcast projection go silent after the flash.
All of them looking at the dust where the glass heart had been.
The colosseum held its silence with the specific quality of something that had no available next word.
The execution was delivered—but it wasn't Isaac's execution that everyone expected. Rather, it was the very execution of Silas Fulgur, the first wielder of S-rank skill in history to be defeated by a man with F-rank skill.