White veins of light surged across the blade like strands of rabid madness. As it reached the tip, the light pulsed with blinding intensity—and with a resounding, tremendous impact, the sword exploded, shattering into fragments of vanishing light.
The man stood frozen, his eyes wide for several heartbeats. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile.
"Oh! Oh! My lightless soul! You really are strong. Indeed, the people of the Northern Continent are closer to the peak of civilization that was once lost."
Nyssira wasn't sure what he was saying and why he was smiling, but something about that grin gnawed at her—bitter, mocking, unwarranted. It crawled beneath her skin. She wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his rotten face with the flat of her hammer.
The burning in her chest responded to that desire. It grew. Intensely. Her breath quickened, rising with her temper.
Northern, meanwhile, seated high among the spectators, was speechless. His eyes remained wide, terribly wide, still arrested by the sheer, terrifying force Nyssira had just displayed.
"How is she that strong... with an SS-class talent?!"
He couldn't understand it.
Nyssira was living proof that talent class wasn't everything—not nearly as much as people made it out to be.
To him, the constant glorification of talent class was a farce, a tool used by the privileged to inflate their sense of worth. A propaganda weapon.
Talent class was just a seed, a glimpse of possibility—not a finished product. The true hierarchy? Soul rank.
Of course, among students, it wasn't so simple. Their world hadn't yet opened wide. They were still shackled by class, not soul. Most would only begin evolving their soul rank after graduation, when they faced real rifts and battles that forced growth.
He folded his arms and leaned back, eyes narrowing with renewed interest as he watched her.
'I'd love to fight her one day. See just how physically strong she is to be able to wield that hammer like it's nothing.'
There was something almost reverent in his stare. A quiet admiration reserved for only the fiercest fighters. Northern was not one to be easily impressed. But Nyssira... she'd just shaken the cage of his expectations.
Ellis sneakily observed the look in Northern's eyes, then shifted his gaze to the arena, curious to see what—or rather, who—his friend's eyes were fixed on.
Then he looked back at him.
Northern's gaze darkened in an instant.
Ellis only grinned, tilting his head like a cat who had just caught something squirming.
"Oh? You're growing, aren't you?"
Northern frowned, the confusion plain across his face.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Ellis reached out and gave his shoulder a pat.
"Don't worry, my friend. We've got a lot to catch up on."
Northern muttered, leaning back again.
"Wipe that nasty expression off your face."
Both of them turned their attention toward the battle, their previous exchange fading into silence.
Down in the arena, the black-haired student stood motionless—smiling.
"Ohhhh... Since you're so amazing yourself, that means I should raise the standards for you, right?"
Nyssira didn't understand what he meant. Didn't care either.
She wasn't one for riddles or games. Nyssira was a one-dimensional person, through and through. It wasn't a flaw, not to her. It was just her way.
If she wanted to kill someone, she simply would.
Not out of pride. Not because she was a princess.
But because that's who she was—unmoved by social noise, detached from status, from consequence, from the swirl of people that tried too hard to mean something.
She saw things for what they were. Or more accurately, for what she decided they were.
Flat. Simple. Uncomplicated.
Of course... there were exceptions.
A flicker of a recent exception fluttered into her mind, uninvited. Her thoughts teetered for a moment. She was tempted to look away.
But she didn't. She couldn't.
Looking away now would mean giving this strange student an opening.
Worse—she didn't want him seeing it. Didn't want him commenting about that particular person. Her new friend.
Suddenly, something clicked.
Her eyes widened—briefly—then dimmed, quiet and cold.
She whispered, mostly to herself.
If she didn't defeat this strange, theatrical bastard now… then he'd be facing Northern. Or as her one-dimensional mind had decided to name him the first time she noticed him—
Her gaze thickened with unshakable resolve. The aura around her brightened, as if feeding off that clarity.
Above, the student extended his hand. His smile twisted. His pupils narrowed into wicked slits.
Then, like a god sketching swords into the canvas of the stars, luminous blades began to carve their form across the heavens.
Each one sculpted from the light of the night, paradoxical and pure, yet reeking of violence.
Smothering radiance in pale, soulless shadow.
The cold air wafted through the coliseum in a dreadful hush. What had been a bright, buzzing day dimmed abruptly—like the heavens had swallowed their own sun and the clouds now loomed, bloated with rain.
Then murmurs. Uneasy, widespread. Heads turned upward.
The sky—once endless and blue—was now host to a swarm of black swords. Not dozens. Not hundreds. An endless congregation. Suspended midair like a graveyard frozen in time.
People muttered beneath their breath. Questions crawled up their throats.
'Was this really necessary?'
'Could anyone—even the president of the student council—endure this many blades?'
'Wouldn't she break?'
'Would she collapse under the pressure of defending against such a cataclysm?'
Even Northern, seated among the higher rows, shared the unease sweeping through the crowd. And he was not the type to be easily shaken.
The sheer number was staggering. Towering. Absurd.
Nyssira might make that massive hammer look light—like it was a simple sword tossed with grace—but he, more than anyone, knew how much force it took to wield something like that.
He'd felt the strain of battle. The scream of ligaments. The quiet agony of bone pushed too far.
There was no way her arms weren't screaming beneath that composed face.
And for the first time since the duel started… Northern felt pity.
'I hope she can actually win this…'
He couldn't remember the last time he'd watched a match with such sincerity—sitting back, jaw tight, hoping his choice of victor would actually pull through.
And it wasn't just him.
The entire coliseum had fallen into a trance of shared tension—everyone collectively holding their breath. The crowd was heavy with anticipation, rooting not with shouts, but with silence. Hope twisted through them like a quiet prayer.
They wanted her to win.
Even though her situation looked hopeless—comically so.
They still clung to a miracle, or at the very least, brute defiance.
The president of the student council had to prevail. The peak of Milhguard Academy could not fall. Not in front of everyone.
Even the instructors, stoic and seasoned, stood tensely at the edges. Their gazes sharp. Their throats locked. The rising storm before them was beginning to swallow the very laws of decorum.
In the eye of this monstrous swarm of swords—hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions—without a flicker of fear on her face.
Too one-dimensional, perhaps, to notice that the entire coliseum had turned into her cheering court.
Too uninterested in public sentiment to care.
She shifted her hammer slightly, and the light in her eyes gleamed, cold and unfazed. Lightning crackled. It danced from the glowing glyphs along her sledgehammer, slithering like falling chains and hissing as it sparked.
The weapon pulsed. Alive. Ready.
Across from her, the black-haired student grinned. It was a wicked expression, lips parted with theatrical glee.
A sword manifested beneath his feet—and then lifted him.
He rose into the sky like a devil-winged seraph, carried by his arsenal. The lightless swords answered him, shifting subtly in formation, as if welcoming their master among their ranks.
And still, the sky darkened.
And still, Nyssira didn't flinch.
His grin stretched impossibly wide as he covered a half of his face with one hand and raised the other.
His eerie, pleasured voice crept out.
"Now… let the carnage… begin."