Friday finally came after a long week of studying. With it came the day of the practical combat class. Bloom students' classes were structured so that every Friday, the first half of the day was taken up by practical combat. This class was specifically designed to nurture young knights, teaching them both the basics of hand-to-hand combat and the intricacies of using standard knight weapons.

The class was taught by a former senior investigator, Romund Niles—a seasoned veteran of the streets of Lower Babel who had assisted in capturing dozens of illegal contractors and had taken part in the suppression of the rebellion that occurred a decade prior. Romund was a tall, burly man in his early forties, with short dark hair and an even shorter full beard covering his face. His skin was worn and weary, bearing several small scars from his days in the field. Though no longer an active knight, he opted to teach potential recruits at the academy, selling information about capable students to scouters. Despite his departure from the field, his physique remained impressive as he continued training diligently, never missing a single day.

The group of students gathered in the combat center, a coliseum-like structure with a bulletproof glass dome encasing the top, formed by triangular glass panels intricately connected at their edges by reinforced metal braces, creating a geometric mosaic that added both strength and an elegant design to the dome. The middle section of the center consisted of four entrances leading into the viewing decks, with over 30,000 seats available for spectators. The lowest section of the center consisted of flooring that could be easily swapped out with the assistance of special machinery, allowing the field to transform into whatever environment was needed for the event or lesson. Several hundred people were seated in the stands, taking notes and carefully assessing the students' performance. Some belonged to the knights, others to independent military groups, and still others to corporations.

"Great. What is she doing here?" Zeke growled, shaking his head.

Within the sparse crowd, he noticed a familiar face—the woman who had evaluated his magic.

"See someone you know?" Fredric wondered, looking into the crowd, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

"Yeah," Zeke sighed. "We're lying low, right?" he asked.

"Well, that's the plan," Fredric replied.

Immediately, the combat instructor walked into the field, wearing a dark blue cap and a uniform that matched the students'—dark blue camo cargo pants, black combat boots, and a black T-shirt with the insignia of the academy engraved on the right shoulder.

"Alright, ladies!" the instructor shouted with a firm voice. "It has come to my attention that two new students will be joining my class from this day forward. I ask those students to please identify and introduce themselves."

"Zeke Vetrew, sir!" Zeke walked forward and shouted with a firm voice.

"Fredric Lacro," Fredric yawned, clearly not taking the instructor seriously.

"Lacro, do you find my class boring?" the instructor asked.

"To be honest, sir, yes." Fredric smirked. "The two of us have already requested that our combat ability be verified and graded since we already possess skills good enough to qualify us as knights. As such, I have no reason to invest my time and energy into your teachings, regardless of their quality," he explained.

"Lacro, Vetrew, where did you two obtain these…" the instructor paused, "combat skills?" he asked.

"We have been taken in as honorary members of Unit 22 and trained by Special Investigator Boltson," Zeke explained.

"Special Investigator Boltson," the instructor grunted. "Regardless, I am the person tasked with evaluating whether or not you have the skills necessary to pass the class ahead of time," he explained.

"Is there no other way?" Fredric asked, scratching his head.

"I'm afraid there isn't," the instructor crossed his arms. "Now, who should I pair you two up against?" he pondered, tapping his chin with his index finger.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"If I may suggest something?" Fredric said with a slight smirk.

"Suggest away," the instructor replied.

"Since we already received special training from the knights directly, it would be unfair to put us up against other students. So, if I may, I'd like to suggest allowing us to spar against each other. That should be enough for us to demonstrate our skills," Fredric explained.

"That does make sense," the instructor pondered. "Alright! The stage is yours," he said, walking to the back wall of the arena, stepping aside to allow the two to take center stage, shifting the focus entirely onto them.

Zeke sighed.

"So much for laying low," he muttered.

Fredric shrugged, walking towards the center of the arena.

Zeke followed, and soon the two stood still, facing each other across five meters of sand. The air between them seemed to thicken, a palpable tension building as their eyes locked, unblinking. It was as if time slowed, the entire arena holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break—a moment suspended like a drawn gun in an old Western standoff.

"Now that I think about it, I don't think the two of us have ever gone at it," Fredric remarked.

"You don't remember?" Zeke asked.

"Ah, the trade center, right! I totally pummeled you into the ground back then," Fredric laughed.

"That's not gonna happen again," Zeke said, clenching his fists, his knuckles whitening as his muscles tensed, then dragging his back foot along the sand, grinding it down into position, forming a firm combat stance. The grit beneath his sole resisted, a whisper of defiance, as he anchored himself.

"Alright! Enough chit-chat!" the instructor shouted. "Let the match begin!"

In a flash, the two took a deep breath, then exploded toward each other, their feet pounding the sand as they charged down the middle. Fredric's leg swung high, a vicious arc aimed at Zeke's head, but Zeke ducked, his body fluid like water, weaving beneath the kick. He moved in and out, each sway like a pendulum—calculated, deliberate. Zeke retaliated, his fists a blur—three sharp jabs to Fredric's forearms, each blow landing with precision. But Zeke had more in mind; as Fredric prepared to counter, Zeke swiftly kicked up a plume of sand, the grains catching Fredric's eyes, blinding him momentarily.

Fredric grunted, backing off as he leaped backward, soaring twenty meters to the back wall of the arena, the sand whipping past his face. He wiped at his eyes, barely able to see as Zeke rushed forward, relentless. Fredric launched himself upward, and they met mid-air—a collision of bodies, strength against strength.

The fight unfolded like an intricate dance—finesse and acrobatics meshing with raw power and strategy. The rhythm changed constantly, the beat unpredictable. Fredric was all fluidity, his body twisting like a snake, feet light as if hovering above the earth. Zeke was a contrast—sharp, fierce, each movement a dagger, attacking from impossible angles.

Their silhouettes blurred, speeding up as they exchanged blows, their figures almost vanishing against the bright backdrop of the arena. It was a beautiful yet brutal ballet—a waltz that pulled the entire arena into their tempo, a display of raw skill and artistry. The audience couldn't look away, entranced by the spectacle, each frame meticulously composed, every move exaggerated, deliberate.

Even the instructor felt it—the electricity of their fight. He knew, without a doubt, that these two were beyond him. And yet, there was no bitterness. Only admiration for what the future held, knowing that these two would spearhead the next generation of knights.

"You're using magic to speed yourself up," Zeke grunted while deflecting attacks.

"What do you expect me to do?" Fredric smirked.

Immediately, Zeke's expression changed. Bloodlust emanated from him—every step, every strike, brimming with the cold, ruthless intent to silence the mockery and end his opponent's defiance. His movements were no longer just strikes; they were promises of lethal consequence, each one dripping with the weight of his fury.

"Enough!" the instructor shouted, stopping the fight, noticing the sudden change in Zeke's demeanor. "The two of you can sit down, but wait until the class is over. I have something to discuss with both of you."

And so the class went on as usual. The instructor showcased combat techniques to the rest of the students, allowing them to spar while grading each one individually and advising on areas of improvement.

But the students struggled to focus. They kept glancing back at the two monsters now relaxing on the back benches.

The class concluded, and as everyone left, the instructor approached Zeke and Fredric.

"I have decided to approve your combat certifications," he said. "That being said, I have something else to ask of you two."

"What would that be?" Fredric asked.

"I would like to invite you both to join the combat club," the instructor explained.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Zeke replied.

"Why?" the instructor asked, visibly curious.

"Because we're already part of the gardening club," Fredric laughed.

"Huh?" The instructor looked at them, bewildered, clearly not expecting that answer.

After the combat class concluded, Zeke and Fredric once again had a free period. Just like last time, after sharing a brief meal, they split up. Fredric went to take his auxiliary classes, while Zeke headed to the library to read.

As Zeke walked through the halls connecting the cafeteria to the library, he saw Nia talking to a student. She nodded graciously, as if agreeing to something, while the student handed her a moderate sum of money. As the two parted ways, the student stepped aside, a smirk twisting across his face, his expression dark and foreboding. It was enough to leave Zeke feeling strangely uncomfortable, an unease settling in his gut as he watched the exchange come to an end.

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