Arthur released his left hand from the sword, allowing the sword to fall down with his hand to his right side.

  He didn't take a stance. He simply walked.

  I am an Intermediate-rank swordsman in the Mirror God Style–the highest rank a mage or non-awakener can achieve. This is because people not in the path of the sword either don't have the mana, or don't have the Mana Circuit specialization to form Sword Aura and Body Aura.

  Despite the fact that the schools of swordsmanship are only taught in the second school year, he has already reached the intermediate-rank in the War God Style.

  Further, he has already unlocked Sword and Body Aura.

  Arthur watched the electricity arc around his opponent's blade.

  I cannot match his speed. If I try to fence him, I lose. I have no Aura to accelerate my muscles. To him, I must look like a statue.

  But a statue is terrifying if you believe it is a god.

  Rank Sixteen watched him approach. His breath hitched.

  He's just walking? Against my Lightning Aura?

  He's mocking me. He knows he can end this at any second.

  The distance closed. Ten meters. Five. Two.

  Rank Sixteen's eyes were locked onto Arthur's sword. The terror in his mind narrowed his vision until the rest of the world dissolved into a blur of sand. He didn't notice Arthur's left hand hanging free. He didn't notice the lack of tension in Arthur's shoulders. He only saw the steel that had surely cut down opponents far greater than himself.

  Here it comes!

  Arthur swung.

  To Arthur, it was a full-strength strike. But to a swordsman pulsing with the accelerated perception of Body Aura, the blade moved through the air with agonizing, almost comical slowness.

  It's so slow! Rank Sixteen thought, panic surging. Why is it so slow? Is it a feint? Is he waiting for me to move?

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  Reflex took over. Rank Sixteen raised his blade and caught Arthur's sword in a perfect, rigid block. Steel clashed against steel, adding to the chaos of the arena.

  They stood there, locked close. Rank Sixteen's eyes bulged, waiting for the follow-up, waiting for the hidden strike.

  Arthur released his grip on the hilt just enough to let the sword rest against the opponent's block. He raised his free left hand—the hand Rank Sixteen had completely ignored—and gently placed it on the boy's trembling shoulder.

  He leaned in, his voice a whisper that carried the weight of an executioner.

  "Boom."

  Rank Sixteen flinched as if he'd been impaled.

  His eyes darted to the hand on his shoulder. In his mind, he saw the flash of a point-blank explosion. He saw the magic Cedric could have cast, blowing his arm off, incinerating his chest. He realized the "slow" sword was just a distraction to let the greatest mage in the class get within touching distance.

  He… he spared me.

  The lightning around Rank Sixteen's blade fizzled and died. He dropped his sword into the sand and fell to his knees, his head bowing low.

  "I forfeit!" Rank Sixteen shouted, his voice cracking with relief. "Thank you… thank you for showing mercy!"

  Arthur looked down at the kneeling boy, keeping his expression impassive.

  It worked, Arthur thought, suppressing the sigh of relief that threatened to escape. He defeated himself.

  "Stand up," Arthur said gently, offering a hand. "It was a good match."

  Rank Sixteen took the hand, shaking. As he looked at the Saint—who smiled at him despite the violence he had threatened—a knot of guilt loosened in his chest.

  I was so focused on hurting people to prove I belonged here, Rank Sixteen thought, looking at his own trembling hands. But he could have destroyed me, and he chose to teach me instead.

  I need to go to the infirmary later. I need to apologize to Kian for what I did yesterday.

  Arthur turned and walked away, the victor of a battle he never actually fought.

  "Hehe."

  Arthur imagined the sound, a playful lilt that seemed to match the permanent expression plastered on Celeste Devreux's face. She stood over the unbalanced swordsman, forcing him into submission with two primed Magic Circles—one a swirling green, the other a volatile red—held mere inches from his temple.

  Vicktor had tried to end it. He had staked everything on a final, sweeping slash, his blade screaming with Fiery Sword Aura. But before the steel could graze her, a blue ellipsoid barrier had materialized. It arrested his blade instantly, reacting with a speed so sharp it seemed less like a reflex and more like an autonomous defense.

  "Shit."

  Arthur imagined the curse on Vicktor's lips. Desperation ignited. A violent shroud of fire erupted around Vicktor's form—a desperate, defensive cloak of his own aura—milliseconds before Celeste discharged her spells.

  When the haze cleared, Vicktor lay unconscious on the ground. Celeste stood over him, her shield gone, entirely unscathed.

  How brutal… Arthur thought.

  He could not look away when she turned her gaze directly to him. She didn't scowl. She didn't glare. She simply mouthed the words, her expression never wavering from the disarmingly goofy smile she had worn the entire time.

  "You're next."