A tall and slender boy stood opposite Northern and his team, his lean body clad in a skintight suit that emphasized his frame. His silver-grey hair was tied into a bun, but a few strands had escaped, swaying gently over his face.
With silver eyes, sharp angular features, and flawless skin, he possessed an ethereal beauty—his presence carrying the wind of something soft, ineffable, yet untouchable.
Beside him stood a very familiar and wholly unexpected face.
His red hair flickered in the breeze, but this time, he was encased in bright crimson armor. The gaunt, overlapping metallic plates wove meticulously around his body, each segment crafted for lethal efficiency.
His face, however, was the true weapon. A mask of barely suppressed ferocity—violence caged within human skin. And every ounce of that pent-up rage was aimed at Northern.
The third man was more neutral than the other two, his posture loose, almost lazy. Yet, something about him unsettled the air. His eyes remained shut, slant and unreadable. His long yellow hair was braided down to his waist, swaying like golden silk caught in an unseen current.
He wore an effortless ensemble—baggy pants that seemed to ripple with even the slightest breeze, a simple tunic adorned with an autumn-hued pattern, its fabric flowing as if the wind itself wove through him.
Northern barely spared the first two another glance, his gaze locking onto Lenn with mild surprise.
’I didn’t expect him to be on his feet so soon.’
But that wasn’t what worried him most.
The terrified look on his face.
At first, Northern assumed it was because of the silver-haired boy—the former disciplinary committee member Aster had once defeated.
Aster’s fear wasn’t directed at him.
It was aimed at the yellow-haired one.
And Northern couldn’t lie—even though the man was the most dormant among them, his presence was an anomaly. There was something about him. Something that demanded attention without asking for it.
Northern’s frown deepened. His voice cut through the moment with an edge that almost carried weight.
Aster jolted at the sound, snapping out of his frozen state. He turned fully to Northern, his voice quieter than usual.
"That guy… Everyone knows him. He’s on the student council. And only the best of the best are on the student council."
Northern’s eyes narrowed.
’That’s right. The student council is supposed to be made up of the academy’s strongest students.’
Then, a crooked grin climbed his face.
Lenn’s gaze bore into Northern with tenacious ferocity as the deep, resonant toll of a colossal bell thundered across the coliseum. The vibrations rolled through the air, rattling the bones of those who listened.
And then, Lenn moved.
Step by step, he strode forward, his glare locked onto Northern, his body coiled with barely restrained aggression.
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Northern, however, remained unbothered.
His expression held no recognition of the fury radiating from Lenn’s face, no regard for the heat behind his eyes. It was as if he were staring at a stranger, not an adversary.
The two finally stood within the squared pavement of the arena, the last echoes of the bell dissolving into the distant wind.
That bell had signaled the beginning of battle.
The air hung heavy with unspoken tension, the coliseum buzzing with murmurs that rippled across the stands.
Northern was clad in his non-combative uniform. Deliberately.
He didn’t need to be close to the crowd to hear them. Discontent laced their words, disappointment thick in the air. Boos erupted from several sections of the coliseum, growing louder by the second.
Of course, to them, this was a mockery of battle.
A non-combative student stepping into the arena? His chances of winning weren’t just low—they were nonexistent.
And worse than that, he wouldn’t even put on an enjoyable fight.
That’s what the spectators believed.
At the very top of the coliseum, where some of the student council members were seated, a boy with heterochromic eyes and auburn hair leaned forward. His gaze briefly flickered toward the instructors’ platform before settling on Northern.
After a lingering moment, he spoke.
"Anyone have an idea why the instructors seem… extra invested in this fight?"
A few heads turned at his words.
Then, a girl among them answered.
"I mean, he was the first to win the first-stage contest. And I heard he cleared the rift in just a few hours."
Another student chimed in with a half-hearted shrug.
"Couldn’t it have just been luck? And that Aster guy is there too."
Their eyes slowly shifted back to the arena, all of them now focused on one person.
And then, almost in unison, they sighed.
"Yeah… whatever it is, Uron won’t let him live. That guy’s a demon."
The same dejected look spread across their faces as they shook their heads.
"Uron is a wildcard. He can’t be controlled. He can’t be predicted."
The auburn-haired boy exhaled sharply, glancing toward the fight below.
"I don’t even know what Tever was thinking, asking him to be a part of his team."
Finally, someone moved.
But it wasn’t Northern.
A crimson helm encased Lenn’s face, its orange-hued plumes flowing like streaks of flame in the wind. The moment it locked into place, a long, ornate sword materialized in his grip—a weapon as ostentatious as it was menacing.
Northern recognized it instantly.
Its blade pulsed with a deep red glow, as though it had been forged in the pits of hell itself. But Northern knew better. It was simply another item granted by Ul.
His recognition, however, wasn’t rooted in awe or intimidation. It was mechanical.
He had forged swords —again and again—only for Eleina to dispose of them without hesitation. That repetition had etched a deep familiarity into his hands, a knowledge that transcended mere observation.
His eyes traced the weapon’s length, his expression unchanged.
The sword’s glow painted Lenn’s armor in deeper shades of red, drenching him in an illusion of freshly spilled blood.
But Northern’s focus was elsewhere.
’The balance is off,’ he noted, his analysis as cold as steel. ’Too much weight in the pommel. It places more emphasis on aesthetics rather than functionality.’
A flicker of amusement ghosted through his thoughts.
’Is that really the sword he wants to fight me with?’
But it wasn’t the weapon itself that caught his attention.
It was the way Lenn held it.
There was a certainty in his grip. A steadiness that came only from relentless practice. His stance was solid, refined—an entirely different presence from the last time they had faced each other.
Then again, Northern had never fought him at full strength.
Never seen him wield his full arsenal—his repertoire of items, his heritage, the totality of what made him dangerous.
He was glad that would change today.
And then, Lenn moved.
Without warning, he launched forward, the air splitting in his wake. His sword, ablaze with crimson radiance, came down in a lethal arc.
Northern didn’t flinch.
His eyes traced the descending blade, his thoughts almost bored.
’What the hell? Why is he so slow?’