Maelor Thorn stared at Neve, now only meters away. Her grip on the rapier tight, her eyes tired.

"Do you remember me?" he asked in a low voice.

Neve's gaze flicked to his face, her eyes seemingly indifferent. "No," she replied flatly.

Maelor's smirk wavered, then vanished. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his blade as a colder expression settled over him.

"You will," he said.

From the edge of the arena, Judge Berto cleared his throat. "Begin."

Maelor advanced with unhurried steps, unconcerned with time. Across from him, Neve mirrored his movement, their slow pace slowly drawing them together.

The crowd watched with bated breath, murmurs rising like wind through leaves, puzzled by the deliberate pacing of the two combatants.

At last, when only an arm's length separated them, the silence shattered.

Maelor spurred into motion, raising his greatsword in a sweeping diagonal arc. In the same heartbeat, Neve drew her rapier with practiced grace, thrusting for Maelor's exposed right hand which was holding the weapon.

Tracking the rapier's movement, he let gravity carry him forward, shifting his stance just enough for the rapier to glance past his hand. At the same time, the heavy handle of his greatsword swung toward Neve's left arm like a hammer.

Neve snorted—barely a breath of amusement—and sidestepped fluidly, avoiding the blow. Her foot snapped out, catching Maelor's right knee from the side.

The impact landed clean causing Maelor to grunt and stagger as the weight of his own weapon nearly dragged him down. His knee buckled, but he caught himself just in time not to fall.

When he looked up, Neve was already at his flank, looking at him coolly.

His gaze locked onto hers as his expression slowly turned malevolent.

"Heh." Maelor snorted, then exploded forward, legs coiled like springs as he lunged at Neve, greatsword raised for a crushing downward strike.

Neve's eyes locked onto the incoming blade—too direct, too obvious. Her rapier shot out like a silver needle, angling once more for Maelor's right leg as she slipped sideways, evading the greatsword's arc.

But Maelor wasn't committing to the swing.

At the last moment, he halted his right leg and abandoned the strike. In one fluid motion, he pivoted and drove his left foot into Neve's abdomen.

Thud

Neve was hurled backward, her feet sliding slightly across the arena floor while a cough escaped her lips.

When she stopped her tired eyes locked onto Maelor with renewed intensity, the fatigue in them couldn't stop the intensity of her gaze from increasing. Her grip on the rapier tightened.

"Changing academies made you weak," Maelor said, savoring the flicker in Neve's expression as he advanced slowly toward her.

Up in the participants' stand, Elric watched with furrowed brows, arms crossed. That kind of slow kick should've never landed. Neve, what are you doing?

Even though Maelor was ranked number 2 at the Univara Academy Elric still didn't see him as a threat much less someone who could defeat Neve in a fair fight.

Neve's back straightened. Her lips moved, but the crowd's deafening cheers drowned out whatever she said—if she even intended for anyone to hear it.

Then she moved.

With a sharp step, the tile beneath her cracked. In a flash, she closed the distance—faster than before, a blur compared to her previous speed.

Maelor, calm just a heartbeat earlier, barely reacted in time. The glinting tip of her rapier approaching right from the front.

Needing to protect his vitals, he hastily positioned the flat of the greatsword in front of him, just in time to block the rapier.

Steel met steel with a force that rattled through him—like being punched square in the gut. His grip held, but his insides churned from the shock of the impact.

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Neve didn't let up. She pivoted, circling behind Maelor, then lashed out with a swift kick aimed squarely at his back.

Maelor caught the movement in his peripheral vision. He knew the weight of his greatsword made rapid redirection near impossible. Instead of countering, he stomped the ground and surged forward, narrowly evading the strike.

Neve's foot sliced through empty air, catching only his shadow as Maelor retreated several meters away.

The crowd roared. Onlookers leaned forward in their seats, enraptured. Even the other participants buzzed with excitement—some murmuring this might be the most intense match of the tournament so far.

With a scoff, Neve darted forward again, this time abandoning finesse for raw aggression. Her rapier became an afterthought as she closed the distance, striking with her fists, elbows, and feet. Maelor, caught off-guard by the shift in style, relied solely on his greatsword to deflect the blows.

They clashed in a brutal rhythm—steel meeting flesh, footwork weaving in and out of chaos. On the surface, it looked evenly matched.

But Maelor was gritting his teeth now, cursing under his breath with each exchange. Bruises bloomed across his arms and ribs; bones ached, joints throbbed. Neve's strikes were relentless, surgical—measured even in their ferocity.

In contrast, she had only been grazed a handful of times, slipping out of danger before damage could truly land causing no blood to pour out from her.

Soon the sharp, metallic scent of blood filled Neve's nostrils—Maelor was coughing it up now, red streaking down his chin.

She stared at him, but there was no triumph in her eyes. No satisfaction. Just exhaustion.

Maelor was hunched over, one hand pressed to his face, blood slipping between his fingers. The other braced against his knee, struggling to keep him upright. His greatsword lay discarded a few meters away.

Neve stepped forward and raised her rapier, bringing the tip to his head. The blade barely brushing skin—just enough to draw a few drops of blood.

"Surrender," she said, her voice hoarse, heavy with fatigue. It wasn't due to the fight but her body screaming at her to lay her head down and close her eyes.

Maelor trembled, the hand on his knee curling into a tight fist. His mouth opened, then closed. Silence. A beat passed.

Then, a barely audible sound rang out "No…"

Suddenly, his head snapped upward, and Neve instinctively pulled the rapier back just in time to avoid skewering him. With a guttural cry, Maelor lunged at her with a wild punch.

"NO!"

Irritation flickered in Neve's eyes as Maelor's fist surged toward her face. With effortless precision, she sidestepped. Her gaze flashed coldly, and in one smooth motion, she drove her rapier into his chest—a precise thrust that punctured his lung with the clean efficiency of a needle.

She withdrew just as swiftly, the blade vanishing into her Inventory with a soft shimmer.

Maelor staggered, breath catching. A ragged gasp tore from his throat, followed by a fit of coughing as he clutched his chest. Blood bubbled at his lips. His knees hit the floor with a dull thud, body curling instinctively inward—as though trying to seal the invisible hole now draining the life from him.

Neve stood over him for a moment, silent. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away.

At the edge of the arena, Judge Berto and Judge Ivan sprang into motion, their expressions shifting from scrutiny to alarm as they rushed toward Maelor, who was now gasping like a drowning man.

"MEDICS!" they shouted in unison.

This time, it wasn't staff who responded—but the designated emergency medics stationed at the perimeter. They sprinted onto the arena floor, kits in hand, weaving through the echoing cheers that had quickly turned to shocked murmurs.

The stadium dissolved into chaos.

Spectators rose from their seats, craning their necks, confused murmurs rippling through the crowd. Most hadn't seen what had happened—only Maelor collapsing, bleeding, gasping for air. The rapier had been too fast, too clean.

On the participants' platform, eyes weren't on Maelor—they were on Neve who had come back to the stand.

She sat quietly, as if nothing had happened.

Elric stepped closer. His voice was low—not angry, just curious with the need for an answer.

"Why did you do this?"

Neve turned to him, lips parting as if to respond—but no words came. Her mind scrambled for an explanation, but all she found were justifications. Excuses. None of them worthy.

The question lingered long after the medics rushed Maelor off the stage. Elric and Neve continued to stare at each other.

Finally, Judge Berto cleared his throat and stepped forward.

"The winner of the fifteenth round will be announced once participant Maelor's condition is confirmed. For now, we shall proceed with the tournament."

His voice echoed through the stadium, but the tension didn't break. Not entirely.

Too many eyes were still on Neve.

"What's going on? It's obvious who won!"

"Are they trying to rig the tournament?"

"No. Look at how quickly the medics took him away—he's in critical condition, no doubt."

The spectators whispered among themselves, the uncertainty growing as Judge Berto continued, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Numbers 16, please make your way to the stage."

Two new contestants stepped onto the arena, preparing for their match, while above them in the grandstand, a heated exchange was going on between Deans Fenric and Ysara.

Fenric's voice was low, laced with fury. "It wasn't enough for you to steal two students from my academy. Now you've gone so far as to let them kill mine?"

His eyes bore into Ysara, sharp and accusing. The tension between them was palpable, thick as smoke.

Ysara, the dean of Quarath Academy, shot Fenric a side glance, her tone flat and unbothered. "Do you want to argue again? If your student had admitted defeat, none of this would have happened."

"YOU—" Fenric began, his voice rising in fury.

"None of you are entirely right here," Caelan interjected calmly, his words cutting through the tension causing the heads of both deans to turn toward him.

Caelan cleared his throat, then continued, his voice even. "The student from Univara should've surrendered when the rapier was pointed at his head. Instead, he chose to strike again. On the other hand, the Quarath student had the option to aim for a limb but went straight for a vital area—the lung. Both are at fault here."

Ysara's eyes narrowed, her patience thinning. "So, what? What happens if he dies? Are you suggesting we throw my student in jail for this?"

Her voice was sharp, biting, but Caelan simply waved her off with a gesture, his expression unchanging.

"I didn't mean that, I'm just stating what happened" he said, his tone dismissive of her anger.

Fenric turned toward Jonathan, his gaze piercing. "President, what do you plan on doing?"

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