Back at the inn, the soft rustling of cloth and a faint sigh stirred the quiet room.
Moonlight filtered through the open window, casting pale lines across the wooden floor.
Nolan blinked groggily, half-asleep, and saw a shadow over him.
Lirazel.
She was sleeping above him, adjusting her gloves as she held tightly at his little brother, who had somehow clambered onto Nolan's mattress during the night.
The succubus girl shifted in his sleep, muttering nonsense, then curled into a tighter ball under the blanket.
Nolan's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion looking at her above her chest, though relief followed almost instantly.
Lirazel still had her clothes on.
Good.
He didn't need to lose ten years of his life because the succubus decided to get creative in the middle of the night.
Nolan assumed from the memory that she—a succubus -- had the power to drain vitality through skin contact, particularly from men, especially if they were vulnerable or, worse, asleep.
Suddenly, Lirazel would purr while half-asleep, "Relax, my master," she said without looking at him and had her eyes closed too, her voice quiet and amused. "Your little brother is safe. I was just making sure he didn't roll off the bed, master…"
Nolan exhaled through his nose and dropped his head back against the pillow. His mind still felt thick and sluggish.
It wasn't even dawn yet. He'd gone to bed early, not because he was lazy but because exhaustion had hollowed him out like a dry husk.
The moment he had laid down, he was gone.
The past few hours had been nothing but mental maps, tactical notes, scribbled diagrams, analyzing guards, predicting routes, calculating escape sequences—only for the whole plan to crumble the second he realized he couldn't leave the damned wall and get out as he pleases.
And with everything else collapsing, one thing still anchored him in his shore of problem.
The assessment.
That was his only window. If Calien came—if any of the students came—the mission would be complete and he could after that and never return ever again. Slip out under the chaos. Make his move.
Still half-dreaming, Nolan muttered, "I wonder if they'll show up tomorrow…"
Then he rolled onto his side and drifted back into sleep.
—
Meanwhile, far from the dim coziness of the inn, the Silverhart estate burned with light
Torches ringed the family's private combat arena, each flame crackling against the dusk sky like tiny suns.
Rows of armored soldiers stood around the wide, circular stone platform, most of them murmuring and laughing, voices laced with excitement.
The mood wasn't solemn—it was electrified.
Two young men stood at opposite ends of the arena floor.
Cain Silverhart, clad in a sharp black tunic that reflected a hint of his personal flair, carried himself like a prince about to claim his throne. His wooden knife spun lazily between his fingers, glinting dully under the torchlight. He wore a mocking smirk.
Across from him stood Calien, silent and still, his expression unreadable. The knife in his hand did not move.
Perched near the edge of the elevated platform were three men—Crosun Silverhart, and standing beside him were two others clad in sleek combat leathers, both well-built, each with a mana signature that seemed to pulse in rhythm with their breathing.
Fergan and Guch.
"Is that him?" Fergan asked as he leaned forward, his tone vaguely amused, one brow arched as he gestured at Calien.
Crosun gave a slow nod. "He's your student starting tomorrow."
"I never agreed to be his teacher; yet, I want to see what he's capable of before doing that… And Oh… I remember thinking he said he wanted to have fun at the Academy first," Guch added, arms crossed.
"He did," Crosun said flatly. "Today was his last day. He's done playing around with his friends."
Fergan snorted. "Well, good. Let's see what this one's made of."
"Even if his talent's only slightly above average," Guch said with a toothy grin, "he better show something. I won't waste my time teaching a soft boy who can't show his fangs."
They both chuckled.
Crosun said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the arena.
Inside the ring, Cain lifted his wooden blade and raised his voice with theatrical confidence. "So? When do we start?"
The gathered soldiers around the arena chuckled, some of them already whispering and wagering among themselves.
"I got ten on Cain—no way the other one's gonna land a hit."
"Pfft, twenty says Cain finishes it in one minute. You seen how that brat trains? He's a machine."
"That's Calien though... I mean, he's a Silverhart too."
"Barely. That kid's like the family ghost. When's the last time you saw him in the training yard? All I see is Cain, all day, every day."
"Well, he must've gotten lessons from someone, right?"
"Yeah, from what? A retired town guard with a busted knee?"
Laughter erupted again.
"I bet Cain's letting him fight just so he can humiliate him in front of Lord Crosun."
"He doesn't even need to try. Cain's been sparring against senior knights for over a year. Calien? He looked like he's still stuck polishing his knife stance."
More bets flew through the air.
"Fifty on Cain!"
"Make it sixty. No way the quiet one lasts a round!"
All of them were soldiers loyal to the Silverhart name—loyal to Cain. They had seen him train, bled with him in mock battles, grown with him. He was one of them.
Calien wasn't.
He was the little brother who stayed quiet during war meetings, the one who didn't wear the Silverhart insignia proudly like the others. He was the one who never spoke up, who walked the long corridors with his head low and his voice lower.
To them, this duel was already over.
Crosun raised his hand. His fingers cut cleanly through the air.
"Ready?" he called.
Cain instantly snapped into a wide-footed stance, knees bent, eyes flashing.
Calien… simply nodded.
"Begin!"
Cain didn't wait.
He shot forward like a black arrow loosed from a high bow.
The moment Crosun's voice echoed across the arena, Cain was already halfway across the distance, blade low, ready to strike upward at Calien's ribs.
His footwork was flawless—polished over a hundred spars. His eyes were locked onto his target.
But Calien didn't move.
He didn't blink.
He didn't breathe.
Guch leaned forward. "Why isn't he—?"
Fergan squinted. "Hmmm impressive, he's not… scared. He's just watching his opponent come at him."
Even Crosun's brow lowered just a little, curious on his youngest son.
And then—
Whoosh!
At the last moment, Calien stepped to the side.
Just one step.
Clean. Sharp. Calm.
Cain's blade cut through the air where Calien's ribs had been just a second before, and his own momentum carried him forward.
Calien twisted slightly, guiding his wooden knife into a clean parry—a precise upward deflection that caught Cain's slash mid-motion.
Clack!
The wooden knives clashed, brief and hard.
Sparks didn't fly—but the sound echoed loudly in the night.
The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. Both boys slid back, now equidistant again, standing where the other had stood just seconds ago.
Cain's smile wavered.
The crowd went quiet.
Fergan blinked.
"Well," he muttered, his grin widening, "now this just got interesting."