Among the 57 nobles that had entered the competition, 12 had now been eliminated.
Aside from three, the rest had already fought and won.
On the other side, things had been far more brutal.
The commoners had suffered greatly—not just from their matchups.
In more than one instance, both participants were eliminated when it was clear neither possessed the qualified strength.
Victory wasn’t enough if the officials deemed you unqualified.
And so, while a few rose—like Uga, the hulking youth who flattened his opponent with a single palm, and Renn Noah, whose swordsmanship left even mages speechless—many fell.
Now, after hours of trials, bruises, and blood, only 18 participants remained.
Among them stood Michael.
And three nobles who had yet to fight.
"Next pairing—Mic Nor versus Leonard Vale."
There was no reaction from the crowd at first.
Well, except for some commoners who immediately started murmuring to themselves.
His name meant nothing to some nobles.
No family crest. No famous clan.
Just a quiet young man with no armor, no visible weapon, and robes more suited for a walk through a garden than a duel.
But he didn’t seem nervous.
He moved with the same calm grace he’d shown since the start—shoulders relaxed, eyes steady, as if what he was about to do was routine.
The silence cracked a light when Leonard Vale stood.
This time, it was the nobles who reacted.
Whispers surged like a tide.
Twenty-five years old. The upper limit for participation.
He descended from the Vale branch of the royal family—distant blood of the current queen herself. A noble with power, resources, and more importantly... a bloodline.
The White Leopard Lineage.
It granted enhanced agility, explosive strength, and mana sensitivity far beyond the norm.
Leonard wasn’t some ordinary noble.
Leonard didn’t walk to the stage.
Each step was measured, elegant. His white hair caught the wind, and even without armor, the silver-trimmed uniform he wore gleamed with quiet dominance.
A few of the commoners didn’t know who he was, but most nobles did.
Michael, meanwhile, made no attempt to mask his indifference. He wasn’t dismissive, simply... unaffected.
That in itself made several nobles scoff.
It was arrogance, some thought.
And yet, those who had heard of his actions yesterday—those who had paid attention—watched with narrowed eyes.
They thought he was at the Advanced Stage. Probably peak.
At his age, he had to be a freak... but such existence was not impossible.
As such, thanks to their ignorance, he general belief remained unchanged:
Someone like that had the right to be arrogant.
Leonard had the right to put such arrogance in its place.
He stepped onto the stage, letting his aura pulse slightly—a restrained pressure, like a spring held just tight enough to remind you it was there.
Michael met him at the center, and the two locked eyes.
Leonard smiled faintly, lips curving in a way that was both friendly and predatory.
Michael simply stood.
As if the battle hadn’t begun yet.
As if it never would.
Then the woman in blue robes lifted her hand.
The moment the word left the official’s lips, Leonard moved.
There was no hesitation. No testing the waters. No drawn-out build-up.
He was arrogant, yes—but his pride wasn’t foolish. This was a chance. A rare chance. Even he knew the Duke’s competition wasn’t tailored for him.
It was meant for other people.
However, he had no intention of falling before them without giving everything he had.
That meant securing victory now, against this "Mic Nor," whose exploits yesterday had drawn quiet conversations and hidden reports.
Before facing whoever the competition was designed for, Leonard planned to eliminate all variables.
Michael was one of those.
Which is why he didn’t hold back.
His body glowed faintly as he activated his bloodline.
White streaks traced his limbs, glowing lines like tribal runes etched into skin, and his pupils narrowed into feline slits.
A thin sheen of silver shimmered across his arms and neck, hair whipping back from the surge of energy.
The White Leopard had awakened.
In a burst of speed that made air crack, Leonard vanished.
A second later, he reappeared in front of Michael, fist drawn back—aimed straight at his chest with terrifying precision.
But just as it was about to land, Leonard’s eyes widened.
He had simply... tilted.
A slight shift, almost lazy, and Leonard’s fist grazed the edge of his robe instead of his ribs.
The momentum carried Leonard past him.
Michael took a step back, calm as a drifting cloud.
Leonard landed lightly and spun, his face now serious.
That shouldn’t have been dodged.
The gap in their distance closed again, this time with a flurry of strikes—fast, clean, and relentless.
Leonard’s movements were sharp and feral, combining martial refinement with beast-like aggression.
But Michael kept evading. Not with desperation. Not with effort.
Each time Leonard struck, Michael would shift, sidestep, or lean, never more than he needed to, always just enough.
From the stands, it looked like a light show—blurs of white and silver, broken only by a flicker of movement as Michael avoided each blow like he already knew where it would land.
And all the while, Michael watched.
Not coldly. Not with disdain.
As if Leonard Vale was a fascinating new toy.
At first, Leonard didn’t think much of it.
Leonard pressed harder.
He poured more of his bloodline into his movements, pushing his legs past their comfort, accelerating his reflexes.
His body blurred as he launched another combination—a rising knee, a twisting elbow, a clawing palm toward Michael’s throat.
Michael didn’t blink.
He simply leaned again, letting the wind of the blow pass through his collar.
Leonard’s fist crashed against air.
The White Leopard Noble began to falter.
Leonard’s chest tightened. His muscles trembled—not from exhaustion, but from something worse.
It crept up slowly, like cold water climbing his spine. A question echoed louder with each missed strike.
Am I really this weak?
"No," Leonard hissed under his breath, forcing the thought down. "I’m not done."
He prepared to lunge again.
The voice wasn’t loud.
Leonard’s body stopped.
His pupils shrank, the blood in his veins recoiling. A strange pressure fell upon him like a mountain, slamming him down to the ground before he even realized he’d moved.
His knees hit the arena floor.
He didn’t even feel the fall.
The last thing Leonard heard was the crack of air shifting,
From the stands, silence fell once more.
The match hadn’t ended with a strike.
It had ended with a single word...
Leonard Vale—heir of the Vale line, bearer of the White Leopard bloodline—had been outclassed.