The first thing that greeted Elric when he sat down was Neve's voice.

"What did you talk about with Thomas?"

He offered her a faint smile. "I was just curious about his chances against Jasmine."

"How confident is he?" Neve asked quickly, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

Elric exhaled softly and shook his head. "He didn't say."

"Why not?"

"No idea," he replied with a shrug. "We'll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out."

A brief silence followed. Elric glanced at Neve and noticed the thoughtful expression on her face.

"Don't waste time overthinking it," he said calmly. Then, pointing toward the arena, he added, "Look—the eighteenth match is going on."

"Fine. I'll wait," Neve murmured, shifting her gaze to the stage, where two men dressed in black academy uniforms were facing off.

In the spectator stands, surrounded by men dressed in black, a quiet conversation was taking place.

"Did you handle the situation?" asked a man, his voice low and directed at no one in particular.

A swift reply came from among the group. "I did."

"Then why hasn't Lazrin forfeited?" The man's tone sharpened, a trace of anger lacing his words.

The one who had spoken earlier hesitated, taking a deep breath. His hands trembled slightly as he answered, "I... I don't know. He said he would forfeit and let Dareth win."

The man gave a dry, humorless chuckle that died just as quickly as it began. "Are you telling me one of our own student is defying a direct order?" His voice turned cold. "If Lazrin wins, strip him of every Gold coin he earns at the end of the tournament—if he gets any at all. If he loses... break his legs and expel him from the academy. We don't need disobedient students."

"Yes, Head Instructor!"

Judge Berto had long since announced the start of the match, yet both young men remained rooted in place, unmoving. Confusion rippled through the crowd, stirring both spectators and participants alike.

Dareth cast a casual glance at Lazrin across the arena and asked, "What are you waiting for?"

There was no response. Lazrin stood perfectly still, his expression calm, though his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened ever so slightly at the question.

He had made his choice.

By now, more than thirty seconds had passed, and he still hadn't admitted defeat. That silence alone was a quiet rebellion—his way of defying the academy's command. He had chosen to gamble his future prospects on his own win.

Dareth, backed by the academy and seemingly indifferent to the kind of situation that was taking place, showed no concern. His casual demeanor only deepened Lazrin's frustration, though he buried it beneath a mask of composure.

"Alright," Dareth said with a smirk, stepping forward. "Let's end this round—it's dragged on long enough."

As he moved, the tension that had held the crowd captive finally began to loosen, their furrowed brows relaxing as the long-awaited match finally began.

Lazrin stood still, watching as Dareth steadily closed the distance between them.

Only when his opponent was within three meters did he finally spring into action—rushing forward with his sword raised high, ready to strike the moment Dareth got within sword range.

A moment later steel clashed as Dareth met the downward strike with his own blade, parrying it cleanly. Their eyes locked for a fleeting moment—Dareth's lips curling into a faint, almost mocking smile—as he drove more strength into his arm, forcing Lazrin backward.

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Without hesitation, Dareth pressed the advantage. His blade swept sideways in a swift, horizontal arc, aiming to sever Lazrin's right hand in one brutal stroke.

He wanted this over quickly. To him, it was nothing more than a pointless contest—an unnecessary clash between two students from the same academy.

But Lazrin slipped out of the way, his reflexes sharpened by adrenaline. He pivoted and drove a sharp kick into Dareth's sword arm, knocking it slightly off course and creating a fleeting window of opportunity that he didn't miss for anything in this world.

Blade flashing, Lazrin launched a series of rapid slashes—but to his surprise, Dareth evaded each one with ease. Step by step, strike after strike, the two became locked in a fierce exchange. Their swords clashed with such intensity that it lit a spark in the crowd's eyes—at least, in most of them.

Among the spectators from Tritus Academy, especially those aware of the situation behind the scenes, the mood was far less excited. Watching the fight felt like being punched in the gut, again and again.

Having two students from the same academy face off was a double-edged sword—both a stroke of bad luck and a small advantage. On one hand, it guaranteed the loss of a contender the moment the draw was announced. On the other, it meant one student could advance with minimal effort, preserving their stamina and avoiding injury—an undeniable edge heading into the third segment of the tournament.

All the ones in the know from the Tritus Academy could do was grit their teeth, knuckles white with anger, as they watched the two students locked in a struggle that, from their perspective, was utterly pointless. To them, only the academy's gain mattered—individual desires and personal convictions were meaningless in comparison.

As the clash dragged on, Lazrin managed to land a shallow cut on Dareth's right hand. It wasn't deep, but it was enough to make him grimace each time he tried to put his full strength into his sword swings.

A faint smile crept across Lazrin's face as he pressed his advantage—but he quickly caught himself and forced the expression away, letting focus reclaim its place. There was no room for satisfaction.

Not yet.

It was no secret within Tritus Academy how students were treated. Everyone who wore the academy's black uniform knew the truth. But beyond its walls, the image remained untarnished—no one dared to speak out. After all, who would challenge one of the four great academies of the Federation?

He knew the moment he lost, the consequences of defying orders would come crashing down on him. That knowledge lingered at the edge of his mind, but as Dareth's movements grew more erratic, Lazrin began to cast caution aside. His sword strikes turned savage, fueled by desperation—but with each reckless attack, fresh injuries accumulated, sapping his strength little by little.

"Why are they going at each other so hard? Aren't they from the same academy?"

"Maybe there's a grudge between them."

"No... it's not that."

The quiet statement came from a young man in black, seated among the spectators. His voice was low, but firm. He clutched the hem of his uniform tightly, knuckles pale against the fabric.

Several heads turned in his direction, curious, waiting for him to explain. But he shook his head, eyes fixed on the stage, refusing to say another word.

Meanwhile, in the arena, both Dareth and Lazrin's swords lay discarded, forgotten on the ground, far from reach as the two had disarmed each other during a collision. The fight thus devolving into a brutal, bare-knuckle brawl—a dogfight where fists and kicks replaced technique, each blow breaking bones and rattling organs.

The match had already become the longest of the tournament, approaching ten grueling minutes of relentless struggle—and it still showed no signs of stopping.

"GO DOWN!" Lazrin roared as his fist smashed squarely into Dareth's face.

Staggering, Dareth shook off the dizziness with a growl and lunged forward, tackling Lazrin to the ground. He straddled him, fists hammering down in a savage flurry as Lazrin raised his arms in a desperate attempt to shield himself.

"DIE! DIE! DIE!" Dareth screamed, his voice raw and ragged—reason eclipsed by pure, unfiltered instinct.

One of Dareth's punches slipped through Lazrin's weakening defense, connecting hard with his chin. His head snapped back, consciousness slipping away. His arms dropped limply to his sides—but Dareth, lost in the haze of violence, didn't notice. He kept hammering blows down on Lazrin's head, completely consumed by the frenzy.

The two judges, seeing Lazrin go limp, hesitated for a few seconds—waiting to confirm the situation before making a call while Dareth mindlessly screamed and punched, his breath growing ragged.

The crowd, once roaring with excitement, fell into a stunned silence. Gasps and hushed murmurs rippled through the stadium, thick with unease. This no longer felt like a tournament between students—it looked like a fight for survival.

Sensing that the situation had spiraled out of control, Judges Berto and Judge Ivan rushed toward the stage. Quickly intervining, pulling Dareth away and snapping him out of his trance-like fury. While Dareth stumbled back, confused and panting, Judge Berto knelt beside Lazrin, urgently checking his condition.

His fingers pressed gently against Lazrin's neck, searching desperately for a pulse. Despite the seconds ticking by, there was nothing—no sign of life.

Sweat beaded and trickled down his forehead as he remained perfectly still, his fingers glued to Lazrin's neck. The stadium fell into a heavy silence, everyone holding their breath, eyes fixed on the judge's every move. Some spectators even rose from their seats, straining for a better view, but the distance made it nigh impossible for the average person to see the details.

Judge Berto's hands trembled as the seconds stretched into a full minute.

Finally, in a low, grave whisper, he muttered, "He's… dead."

Drawing in a slow, shuddering breath, he then slowly rose to his feet.

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