The sparring arena was packed.
Cadets filled the stands. First-years sat wide-eyed. Second-years leaned forward. Even third-years lingered near the edges.
Professors lined the upper gallery. Whispers spread like wildfire.
Even the headmaster had shown up.
——
Kaelen stood at the center of the arena.
Shirtless. No armor. No wraps. No protection.
Not because he was arrogant. Because he wanted to feel it. To earn every mark. To sharpen the edge inside.
Scars, old and new, painted his chest and shoulders like battle runes. They weren't for show. They were reminders.
He didn't flex. He didn't pose. He didn't need to.
The silence he carried said more than armor ever could.
Across from him stood his challenger.
Dren Talvek.
Second-year. Mage class. Long-range specialist.
His coat bore dungeon sigils. His obsidian-root staff gleamed with runes. His stance was wide, confident, practiced.
"He's part of the Crimson Reach team," someone whispered. "One of the best. Cleared three full-grade dungeons this term."
Dren smirked and stepped forward.
"I thought you'd flake. At least now I get to show everyone what happens when a first-year mouths off."
He wanted control. He wanted the crowd.
But Kaelen didn't blink. Didn't speak. Just watched.
"BEGIN!"
Dren moved first.
A whip of blue flame burst from his hand—curved, fast, roaring with arcane fire.
Kaelen didn't dodge. The flames hit. His skin blistered. Smoke rose.
He kept walking. One step. Then another.
The crowd tensed.
Dren's eyes widened.
Another cast—arcane bolts, sharp and white-hot. They tore across Kaelen's side and shoulder. Blood flew.
He staggered—just a step. Then straightened. Again.
The pain flared like lightning inside his chest. But he didn't slow.
It hurts. Good. I need it to hurt. That's how I know it's real.
A voice inside screamed with it. And something else answered.
Not with fear. With laughter. Low. Broken. Rising.
Kaelen's mouth curled. The sound slipped out like a growl turned grin.
Dren stepped back.
What is this?! I've fought monsters in dungeons. They screamed when I cut them. They ran when they burned. But this one—he's burning. And he's smiling.
Kaelen charged. No scream. No roar. Just speed.
The greatsword came down like a guillotine.
Dren raised a shield—mana-infused, triple-layered. The blade split it in half.
The sound cracked like thunder.
Dren's knees buckled. He stumbled back, staff up, casting a scatterblast. It hit Kaelen in the chest again.
Smoke. Burnt skin. Blood.
He didn't even blink.
Around the arena, no one spoke. Even the professors leaned forward.
Rheya whispered, "This isn't training."
Alric, arms crossed, stared in disbelief.
A nervous first-year muttered, "This isn't just a spar—this could end with broken bones."
Kaelen reached Dren. Raised the sword. Paused. An inch from his neck.
Dren dropped his staff. His voice cracked. "I yield!"
The arena exploded in sound.
Some cadets cheered. Others just stared.
One professor slowly sat back down, shaking his head. A second adjusted their glasses, murmuring, "We'll need to revise the evaluation metrics."
Even the headmaster, silent the whole time, now leaned forward—just slightly.
Kaelen stood in the center, chest heaving, blood dripping, eyes alive with something raw and real. Something feral.
He didn't smile. Didn't bow. Didn't gloat.
He just turned. And walked away.
I need more. More pain. More pressure. More reason to burn.
Let them talk. Let them watch. Let them fear.
Because this was only the beginning.