The next class gathered in the academy’s open training yard under a crisp morning sky. The vast space was divided by shimmering, translucent energy barriers that glowed faintly blue when active, containing each group’s attacks and preventing stray blasts from crossing zones. The ground was packed earth dusted with fine sand, scuffed from countless sessions.

  Dan stood at the edge of his assigned area, arms folded, watching the instructor stride in.

  That face…

  Recognition hit like a cold wave. This was the man he’d seen cut down by the Void Assassin—right beside Teacher Serena. The image of their lifeless bodies was burned into his memory, yet here he stood, alive and commanding.

  Professor Jack was tall and broad-shouldered, black hair tied neatly back, eyes sharp as honed steel. His voice rolled out deep and assured.

  “Good morning.”

  The yard fell silent, as though his presence alone demanded it.

  “I’m Professor Jack. I oversee practical combat training. You’re not here for lectures—you’re here to move, to bleed a little, and to learn what actually works when words fail.”

  He scanned their faces, then stepped back.

  “Today we start with individual assessments. I’ll watch how each of you handles pressure. If talking isn’t enough to prove your point… request a real spar.”

  Ziegler’s hand shot up before the professor finished. A smug grin spread across his face.

  “In that case, Professor—I request a duel with Dan Noctain.”

  Whispers erupted again, sharper this time, spreading like sparks across dry grass.

  Professor Jack’s gaze shifted between them, calm and unreadable.

  “Dan Noctain. Do you accept?”

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  Dan hadn’t moved, but he wasn’t surprised. He’d felt the challenge coiling since he stepped into the yard.

  He lifted his head, met Ziegler’s eyes, and said simply:

  “I accept.”

  The other students backed away, forming a loose circle and leaving the center clear. The energy barrier around their zone brightened, humming softly as it sealed.

  Ziegler took position opposite Dan, twirling his wooden sword once with exaggerated flair.

  “I’ve been dying to see if the legend holds up… or if it’s all hype.”

  Dan said nothing. He accepted the practice sword from the rack—deep brown wood, polished smooth, etched with faint runes along the grip. It felt heavy, balanced, almost alive in his hand.

  Professor Jack held up an identical blade for emphasis.

  “Wooden swords only. They match real weight and impact but won’t kill you—usually. Rules: first to disarm or knock the other down wins. No mana. No abilities. Pure technique and will.”

  He looked between them.

  “Ready?”

  Ziegler’s grin widened as he adjusted his grip. He leaned in just enough for Dan to hear:

  “Those arrogant stares of yours? You’ll regret them.”

  Dan exhaled slowly, centering himself. Their eyes met for one heartbeat.

  “Begin.”

  Ziegler exploded forward, sword arcing high in a vicious overhead strike. The blade whistled through the air—he clearly had years of training.

  Dan blocked, wood clacking hard against wood. The force shoved him back half a step; his footing slipped on the sand for a split second.

  Ziegler laughed, low and mocking, then pressed the attack with a flurry of cuts.

  “That’s it? The void survivor can’t even stand straight?”

  Dan stayed quiet, eyes locked on Ziegler’s shoulders, wrists, feet—reading the rhythm. He parried, dodged, retreated a pace, then another. His blocks were solid but rough; his footwork lagged half a beat behind. Every deflection left a tiny opening.

  Ziegler sensed it. He feinted left, then whipped the sword in a low slash.

  The crowd murmured as Dan took the hit square to the ribs. A sharp crack echoed—wood against bone.

  Gasps rippled through the students.

  “Rib broken?”

  Dan folded, dropping to one knee, breath ragged, hand instinctively pressing the injury.

  Ziegler raised his sword for the finishing blow, triumph in his eyes.

  But Dan moved.

  He surged forward through the pain, sliding low across the dirt. His blade whipped out in a tight arc, slamming into the side of Ziegler’s knee. The blond stumbled, balance gone.

  Before he could recover, Dan spun up and drove the tip of his wooden sword down—stopping it a hair’s breadth from Ziegler’s throat.

  The yard went deathly still.

  Professor Jack’s voice cut through:

  “Winner—Dan Noctain.”

  A stunned beat of silence, then scattered murmurs exploded into shock and disbelief.

  Dan held the position a second longer, chest heaving, pain throbbing in his side. Then he lowered the sword slowly, wincing as he pressed harder against his ribs.

  He looked down at Ziegler—still on the ground, wide-eyed—and the corner of Dan’s mouth lifted in the faintest, almost private smile.