Clara's heart pounded as the brutal duel played out before her eyes. Every cry of pain from Ethan struck her like a dagger to the chest. She had set this in motion—the kiss, the manipulation, the push to make Ethan propose. What had once seemed like a clever scheme to secure her future now felt like a noose tightening around her neck.
And now, Ethan was paying the price.
Each blow Leon landed sent a wave of guilt through her. She hadn't foreseen this. The fury. The hatred. The sheer savagery of Leon's assault. And worst of all—she knew Ethan didn't deserve this.
Still, Ethan didn't fall easily.
Despite the blood, despite the cracked bones and the pain etched into every movement, Ethan fought back.
A sudden dash—blindingly fast—carried him under Leon's raised leg. His palm slammed upward into Leon's nape, stunning him momentarily, and then came the second strike—a knuckle-heavy punch to the jaw that snapped Leon's head sideways. The crowd gasped as Leon stumbled.
Then Ethan leapt.
A hammer-kick came down with fierce momentum—but Leon, though dazed, caught him midair. With a roar, he hurled Ethan to the ground—but this time, Ethan twisted, breaking the fall with his arm, blood flying but resolve unshaken.
He rolled back up, blood staining his torn uniform, eyes locked on Leon.
Leon, for the first time, looked rattled. "You just won't die," he spat, his lip bleeding. A purplish bruise already bloomed on his cheek from the earlier punch.
"You'll have to earn it," Ethan replied, voice hoarse but unwavering.
The battle raged on. No longer was it a slaughter—it had become a war of attrition. Ethan, despite his lower rank, fought like a beast. Precision, unrelenting will, clever timing—he chipped away at Leon's defenses, turning raw technique and grit into devastating counters.
When Leon summoned icy spears, Ethan shattered them with improvised earth shields. When Leon froze the floor, Ethan manipulated his own footing with wind bursts to keep balance. When Leon tried to suffocate him with frost, Ethan lit a spark of fire from within—a tiny flare, just enough to resist.
Snap!—Leon caught Ethan's arm again and twisted, nearly breaking it—but Ethan headbutted him in return, dazing him. Blood flew from both their noses.
They both staggered.
Even the audience, who had expected an easy win for Leon, now stood on edge. What was this? Why wasn't Ethan going down?
Clara's breath caught as she saw Leon stumble again, his breathing labored, the first signs of panic appearing in his eyes. He's bleeding... He's tired... Ethan is actually holding his own.
Then came the moment.
Ethan's eyes flashed—serpent-slit and glowing blue. Leon's body locked in place.
"Face of Terror…" someone whispered.
A boundless world of red opened behind Ethan, and Leon was dragged into it. The scaly landscape, the enormous black eyes above, the blue third eye staring into his soul. Leon trembled. He screamed—a guttural, primal sound of fear.
The illusion broke—but the fear lingered.
Leon gasped, cold sweat pouring down his face. Ethan collapsed, unconscious, not from weakness but from total exertion. He had burned through everything to deliver that final strike.
But Leon wasn't standing tall.
He staggered, chest heaving, legs trembling. One eye swollen shut. His arm fractured. Blood ran from his lips, and the bruises along his ribs screamed with every breath.
A draw?
That was what many expected.
But Leon stepped forward, shakily, and placed a hand on Ethan's back. "Match… over," he whispered, barely able to stand.
Algrid raised his hand with a stunned expression. "Victory… Leon Richards."
But it wasn't a celebration. It was a breath of disbelief.
The crowd was silent, then slowly murmurs began to rise.
"He only barely won…""That first-year nearly broke him…""If Ethan were just one rank higher…"
Trevor's jaw clenched. Lamair crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. Clara fell to her knees, overcome with guilt and awe. Even Leon looked unsure.
He stared at Ethan's unconscious form, teeth gritted.
"If he'd had one more second... one more drop of energy... I would've lost."
He turned away, trembling—not with victory, but with fear.
Backstage, medics rushed to Ethan's side, stabilizing his wounds. As they carried him away, the system's voice echoed faintly in his mind.
---
In Helheim, a shadowy figure watched the duel unfold through a magical mirror. She smiled, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Honey is strong… but still weak right now. I'll have to wait a little longer," she whispered.
"But, your Highness," said a servant, Laudi, standing behind her. "You haven't even seen him—her, or… it. You don't even know this being's gender or race—"
"Shut up, Laudi," she snapped. "I know he's male. I can feel it. I don't care what race he is. He's special, and one day, I'll be by his side."
Laudi sighed, knowing better than to argue further. The Queen's obsession with this mysterious being was baffling, but there was no reasoning with her once she had her mind set.
"I just can't wait," the Queen whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "One day, I'll be in his arms. And we'll do everything together…"