Ramone settled into his stance. The practice blade a cold extension of his arm, its weight familiar.
He circled his opponent, his eyes tracing the line of their shoulders, the subtle shift of their weight. They were disciplined, yes, but there was a coiled tension beneath the surface, like a predator ready to spring.
He lunged.
A swift feint to the left followed by a genuine strike aimed at their exposed flank. The blade sliced through the air with a hiss
Clang.
The masked figure became a blur of motion, deflecting the blow with sonic precision. Ramone barely had time to breathe before a sharp sting lanced across his shoulder. His muscles tensed with the pain.
"Point—opponent," a student announced, his voice hushed, the crowd's reaction just as quiet—tight gasps and murmurs.
Akira's brows lifted as she crossed her arms. "That was fast." Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of intrigue in their depths.
The challenger's footwork had no wasted motion. Every step calculated, every strike, an echo of hard training. Akira narrowed her eyes. "Efficient," she murmured. "Too efficient."
Ramone rolled his shoulder, the dull ache a bitter reminder of the last exchange.
Not bad, he thought, as he adjusted his grip.
He launched into a relentless barrage of strikes, one meant to overwhelm their defenses, metal flashing in the late afternoon light, sweat beginning to bead along his brow.
His opponent moved like smoke—elusive, untouchable. An almost ethereal grace, parrying, dodging, and deflecting with precise economy. Each parry sent shockwaves through Ramone's arms, each dodge a whisper of silk across the wind.
Ramone saw a sliver of an opening, a momentary lapse in their guard. He lunged, his blade aimed for their chest.
In a blink, they were gone.
He missed.
Pain bloomed in his ribs as the challenger struck. Ramone staggered back, the breath knocked from his lungs.
"Another point."
"2–0."
Akira growled. "They're making you look like a training dummy, Ramone."
He gritted his teeth. The masked figure was strong. But what gnawed at him was the familiarity.
That technique… something about the stance, the angles—it wasn't just good. It was deliberate. Practiced. Efficient. Recognizable.
Is this… dad?
His mind was hazy.
"You fight like a noble," the challenger's voice cut through his thoughts—calm, yet sharp as a knife. "But can you fight like a warrior?"
The words stung. He realized the truth in them. His opponent's technique was a stark contrast to the robotic, almost theatrical style taught at the academy. It was polished yet flexible, efficient, and undeniably lethal.
No one in Capril Academy fought like this. The challenger's technique was too refined, too precise, like a warrior trained under the most disciplined school of combat.
He adjusted his stance.
No more over-committing. No more flash.
He baited the next exchange with a falter in his step—an opening, too perfect to resist.
The moment they struck, Ramone twisted sharply, the wind hissing past his cheek as their blade missed by inches.
He countered with a clean strike, his blade connecting with their back, a satisfying thud as the impact reverberated up his arm.
"2–1."
Akira let out a low whistle, a hint of admiration in her voice. "Took you long enough!"
Ramone ignored her, his focus laser-sharp. The next round would decide everything.
The challenger shifted their stance, the abrupt change sending a shiver down Ramone's spine.
It wasn't just a minor adjustment—it was an entirely different way of moving.
Akira's eyes widened. "Wait... different stance—so sudden."
The challenger exploded into motion.
A storm of steel and momentum. The clash of blades echoed across the courtyard, each strike landing faster than the last.
Ramone could barely react—his world narrowed to the sound of crashing metal, the flicker of movement, the growing pressure bearing down on him.
Gone was the calculated grace from before. This was raw speed, raw combat efficiency, an onslaught with no wasted movement. They weren't holding back anymore.
Ramone blocked high—too slow. His blade was knocked from its angle. The next blow slammed against his ribs again, pain cracking through his breath.
"3–1."
Silence.
Ramone dropped to one knee, his ragged breaths, his pulse thundering in his ears. His vision wavered slightly as the masked figure stepped back.
A ripple of disbelief swept through the watching crowd.
Akira's mouth was slightly open. "That wasn't just a style change… that was like a different person."
Ramone stared at the masked challenger, his mind reeling.
Who are you?
That style—foreign, efficient, brutal—was nothing like the academy's routines. It was the kind of movement forged in real combat, not just training halls.
As if in answer, the challenger raised a gloved hand and slowly removed their helm.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
Ramone's eyes widened, his heart pounding.
Long, midnight-black hair spilled from the helmet, framing a sharp, elegant face.
Fierce, purple eyes met his, their intensity sending a jolt through him.
Akira muttered, her voice barely a whisper, "What. The… Kiara?"
A flicker of recognition, tinged with surprise, crossed her features as her hand went to her mouth.
A distant, familial link existed between the Amanos and the Amakusayes, a thread of blood that had thinned over generations.
Ramone knew that face. From portraits, from the latest Rising Dawn edition of the Rumor Mill, his favorite newspaper, and descriptions he had heard from others.
Standing before him was Kiara Ikari Amakusaye De Eiria, the princess of Eiria.
The Rumor Mill had recently run a piece detailing her rigorous training, hinting at her prodigious talent and her potential as a formidable warrior.
And she just mopped the floor with him in front of half the academy, proving the article correct. He thought back to it now as he knelt there, unable to speak.
A stir of murmurs rolled through the crowd like wind through leaves. Students whispered, pointed, turned to one another in stunned recognition.
Ramone blinked, still catching his breath. "You... you're Princess Kiara."
"Correct." She twirled her blade once, slow and deliberate, before lowering it. "And you're not bad, Mari-san. Though I suspect that, like me, you would've been much sharper using mana."
A few students, their eyes wide with disbelief, whispered amongst themselves.
"Princess Kiara?" one breathed, his voice barely audible. "What's she doing here?"
"And beating Mari, of all people?" another muttered, a young noble with a puffed chest. "Did she come here to embarrass our kingdom?"
"Yeah, isn't she supposed to be like... diplomatic or something?"
The murmurs continued throughout the academy as the crowd began to disperse, stolen glances, and hushed whispers trailed Ramone like ghosts in the wind.
Losing a duel wasn't the scandal—it was losing to her.
Ramone exhaled slowly, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief.
What the hell is the princess of Eiria doing here?
Akira sighed—loudly, on purpose—as she stepped forward.
"Uhh… cous… I mean, Princess Kiara," she corrected, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes, "I assume you have a reason for being here in Capril, beyond publicly humiliating my friend?"
"Nice to see you, Akira-chan," she replied with a hint of sarcasm. "I came for the reunification meeting," Kiara stated, her voice clear and carrying across the courtyard.
"My father, the Emperor, will be attending as well." Kiara turned to Ramone, her violet eyes piercing. "And to test the character of Atteria's future..."
The words hung in the air, charged with unspoken meaning.
Reunification. The very idea was a seismic shift, a potential reshaping of the global political landscape. The meeting itself would be a powder keg of its own.
Akira stepped forward, her expression a mix of curiosity and caution.
"Reunification?" she echoed, her eyes searching Kiara's. "That's... sudden. And testing Ramone?"
Kiara's gaze shifted to Akira, a subtle flicker of something akin to acknowledgment passing between them. "Yes," she said, her voice firm.
"It is time, and it has been for some time. And regarding Mari-san, his father holds great influence, and he himself is a figure of great interest to the people... To know his skill and his potential is of great importance. I am merely gathering information."
Ramone's mind raced.
The sudden appearance of the Eirian princess, the challenge, the announcement of the reunification meeting—it was all too much, too sudden.
He felt a sense of unease, a premonition that something significant was about to unfold.
Gathering information? About me?
The powder keg was lit, and the fuse was burning, the smoke already stinging his eyes.
Kiara glanced back at Ramone, her eyes neutral.
"We should go," she said, already turning toward the exit of the courtyard. "We have a kingdom to discuss."
As they left the courtyard, the corridors of Capril Academy seemed narrower than usual. Ramone walked between Akira and Kiara, his mind still reeling from the duel.
The murmurs of students trailed behind them, but he paid them little attention. His ribs ached from the final strike, but the real discomfort came from the unanswered questions swirling in his head.
There were always talks of reunification, but an official meeting is happening sooner than expected. This was no small matter.
A meeting where the rulers of Atteria and Eiria would officially sit at the same table for the first time in generations, discussing the possibility of reunification.
This had already been an important affair— with global implications, but now, with the Princess of Eiria revealing herself in such dramatic fashion, the stakes felt even higher.
They passed through the academy's grand entrance, where a carriage bearing the royal crest of Eiria awaited, it's black finish gleaming in the afternoon light.
A small contingent of attendants and royal guards stood in a disciplined formation, their eyes locked on Kiara as she approached.
One guard, older and dressed in a uniform adorned with silver insignia, stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"Princess Akira Amano of Atteria and Lord Ramone Mari, we shall escort you to the meeting." he said, his voice resonant and respectful.
Ramone found it quite odd.
To be challenged and beaten, then escorted to a political meeting in their own kingdom, by foreigners? The games have already begun.
The Eirian guard paused as his gaze swept over them with a professional stillness and connected to Kiara.
"Your Royal Highness, Princess Kiara Ikari Amakusaye De Eiria, we are ready to depart."