Laughing, Preston made his way out of the arena as two staff members rushed toward Hugo, who lay motionless on the floor. Without delay, they hoisted him onto a stretcher and carried him off to the medic team stationed at a small clinic inside the stadium.

Judge Ivan raised his voice, declaring, "Time taken: one minute and four seconds."

The crowd erupted. Cheers thundered across the stadium, echoing off the walls. Even those who had mocked Preston as nothing more than a filler contestant from the Quarath Academy now shouted his name in excitement.

Elric, seated in the participants' stand, observed the scene with narrowed eyes. The Quarath Academy… once a laughingstock, now has both the first and second-ranked students proving they're no joke.

And...

He turned his gaze to Neve, continuing the thought silently.

There's us, too. But I don't think that's enough to secure first place.

He stole a quick glance at Thomas, who lounged casually in his seat, then turned his attention back to the stage, where a staff member had just stepped into the center.

"Numbers 2, please make your way to the stage!" the announcer called, his voice echoing through the arena before he turned and exited.

Under the the eyes of the crowd, a young man dressed in black and a young woman in blue stepped onto the stage. The energy in the stadium was electric, but it was clear these two weren't as famous as some of the top contenders. Only a scattering of cheers came from their friends and families—the rest of the crowd just wanted an entertaining fight.

"Marcus has to win this one!"

"Heh, your Tritus Academy is slipping,"

"That poor guy—he got matched against Dahlia of all people."

Dahlia? Who's that? Elric furrowed his brow, listening to the murmurs ripple through the stands. The name didn't ring any bells. Even as the battle began, and the two figures clashed on stage, his mind remained blank.

Chuckling bitterly, he muttered under his breath—so softly only he could hear it—"So this is what it means to never pay attention to others…"

On the stage, Dahlia moved like a shadow, a dagger glinting in her hand as she circled Marcus like a predator, searching for the perfect moment to strike.

Marcus kept swiveling his head, shifting stances, adjusting his sword to match her movements—but he was always half a step behind.

The battle turned into a deadly game of cat and mouse. Dahlia, faster and more agile, darted in and out of range, her blade drawing fresh lines of blood across Marcus's skin with each pass. His injuries mounted, slowing him down bit by bit, until he was chasing ghosts—barely glimpsing her before she disappeared again.

If not for the official tournament setting, the fight could easily have been mistaken for a personal vendetta.

Compared to the previous match, this one dragged on endlessly. Marcus fought with everything he had, refusing to surrender, until finally—his grip failed. The sword slipped from his bloodied hands, clattering to the stage floor. There wasn't a patch of skin on him that remained untouched by her blade.

As the last of his willpower drained away, Marcus finally collapsed, crashing face-first onto the stage. Beside him, Dahlia stood hunched over, panting heavily, her dagger trembling in her grip. She had been running the entire match, dancing on the razor's edge between life and death—each slash a gamble that could've cost her a limb… or her life.

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Judge Berto rushed forward the moment Marcus hit the ground. After a brief check, he raised his hand and declared, "The winner of this round is Dahlia from Univara Academy!"

Judge Ivan stepped up behind him and added, "Time taken: four minutes and thirty-eight seconds."

A murmur rippled through the stands.

"What was that?"

"Felt more like an execution than a duel."

"Still, it wasn't her fault. He should've just forfeited."

As debates broke out among the spectators, the Univara instructors and students erupted into cheers. One of their own had already secured a place in the final segment, and the pride on their faces was unmistakable.

Shortly after Marcus was carried off for treatment, the announcement for the third round echoed through the stadium.

"Numbers 3, please make your way to the stage!"

And so the rounds continued. Blood and sweat gradually stained the arena floor as one clash followed another. With each victor announced, the names echoed proudly through the stadium, drawing smiles from deans and instructors alike as their academies secured spots in the final segment.

It wasn't until the ninth round that Preston's record was finally broken, pushing him down to second place.

"Numbers 9, please make your way to the stage!"

Elric rose silently from his seat, walking toward the stage beneath a wave of thunderous cheers. Surprisingly, even some of the members of his opponent's academy joined in chanting his name but were quickly silenced by their colleagues and friends.

Once on stage, he met his opponent's gaze directly. Before the judge could give the signal to begin, Elric spoke, voice calm but firm.

"What's your name?"

The young man standing across from Elric, gripped his saber tightly. He swallowed hard, the sound audible even to Elric.

"N-Nelson," he said.

Elric gave a curt nod and waited in silence.

"You may begin," Judge Berto announced.

In a flash, Elric surged forward. The crowd barely had time to blink before he vanished from his starting position and reappeared on Nelson's left side. Pivoting on his right foot, he struck with surgical precision—the side of his hand slamming into the base of Nelson's neck.

The speed was blinding. Most of the spectators only saw a blur; only a sharp-eyed few had witnessed the full sequence.

Nelson's eyes went glassy, but he remained upright, swaying slightly—just enough to make the judges hesitate. Then, without warning, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the arena floor.

Rushing onto the stage, the medical staff quickly confirmed that Nelson was unconscious but still breathing. Judge Berto raised his hand and declared, "The winner of this round is Elric from the Quarath Academy!"

A beat later, Judge Ivan stepped forward. "Time taken…"

The brief pause sent a ripple of anticipation through the stadium. Murmurs buzzed through the crowd as thousands leaned forward, holding their breath.

"Eight seconds!"

The announcement detonated across the arena. The roar of hundreds of thousands erupted at once, shaking the very foundations of the stadium.

It wasn't until Elric had quietly returned to his seat in the stands that the excitement began to subside.

In the grandstand, Jonathan leaned forward, muttering under his breath, "Should I be worried?"

Victor, hearing him, spared only a sideways glance before returning his attention to the stage, his expression unreadable.

While Elric was lost in thought, Neve spoke softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "What do you think the current strength level is… on Earth? Do you think there are people stronger than Teacher Jack?"

The unexpected question caught Elric off guard. He turned toward her, surprised to find her gaze lowered, eyes fixed on the ground.

He thought for a moment before replying. "Maybe. It's still too early to say for sure—we don't have a full picture yet."

"Why do you ask?" he added, curious.

Neve gave a small shake of her head, murmuring, "It's nothing."

Elric glanced at her again, but she didn't look up. With a quiet breath, he turned his attention back to the arena, where the two Number Tens clashed fiercely on stage. But even as he watched the fight unfold, his thoughts lingered on Neve's question.

She's been acting strangely since this morning, Elric thought, watching her out of the corner of his eye. A dozen possibilities crossed his mind, but none of them made sense.

If she'd gotten into a fight with someone stronger, there'd be bruises or at least signs of strain—but she looked perfectly fine. And as far as the tournament went, there was no one here who should worry her... except Thomas, and they were, at least, acquaintances.

So... why?

"Numbers 15, please make your way to the stage!"

The announcement boomed through the arena. Elric turned his head just in time to see Neve rising from her seat.

"Good luck," he said softly, sensing her tension.

She gave Elric a brief glance and a subtle nod before making her way toward the stage. Her opponent was already waiting—tall, broad-shouldered, and holding a massive greatsword with his right hand.

As Neve approached the arena, a vicious grin stretched across the man's face. His eyes locked onto her with a glint of cruel amusement.

"Who would've thought I'd be facing you here," he muttered under his breath, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat.

His grip on the greatsword tightened, knuckles turning white as anticipation built up within him.

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