Dawson's first instinct was to leap back, to create space where he might catch his breath, but he stopped himself before his body could follow that impulse, for he understood, even in his frustration, that to retreat was to give Jacob the field, and to give Jacob distance was to hand him the battle outright.

Jacob was a mage, and if the fight shifted into one fought at range then Dawson would be little more than a target, so the only option left to him was to remain close, to deny him that advantage and to prove himself superior in the one discipline he still believed was his own, swordsmanship.

After all, how far could Jacob have come in so short a time? Two months was nothing compared to the years Dawson had devoted to honing his craft, and if he was now on the back foot it was surely because of Jacob's sorcery, not because of his blade.

He steadied himself by drawing aura into his damaged shoulder, forcing it to hold together against the pain, and when the joint felt strong enough to move he tightened his grip on his sword and swung upward in a clean motion, the edge slicing through the air toward Jacob's chest.

Jacob reacted quickly, leaning back just enough that the strike passed harmlessly in front of him, but Dawson had already flooded his aura into the blade, and as its length expanded unnaturally it scraped across Jacob's torso, leaving behind only the thinnest of cuts, a shallow line that scarcely bled yet still forced him to retreat.

Dawson had expected a counterattack immediately, but none came. Jacob fell back, his expression twisting not with anger but with something that looked uncomfortably like discomfort, even pain, as though that minor cut had unsettled him more than it should have.

Dawson's mind turned sharply, 'it couldn't be, could it?' He had heard once, spoken half in rumor, that Jacob's reason for abandoning the sword was not only his defeat but his distaste, even fear, of pain. Dawson had dismissed it as exaggeration, believing that anyone who fought must eventually learn to bear it, but now, seeing the grimace drawn across Jacob's face at nothing more than a scratch, he began to wonder if the rumors had carried some truth.

He pressed forward, refusing to allow Jacob the space to recover, forcing himself to ignore the ache in his shoulder and relying on every lesson he had stolen and scraped together.

Unlike most of their peers he had not been content to learn only what their tutors provided; he had sought out other methods, training with the knights and even bribing lesser nobles to share techniques whispered from house to house.

From them he had learned what their own instructors never taught, that when faced with the oppressive weight of an aura designed to dominate your own, the only counter was either to exceed it in refinement or to overwhelm it with sheer volume. He knew that Jacob's aura was not inferior to his own in quality, and so there was no choice left but to drown it with quantity.

Dawson poured everything he could muster into his weapon, enough that its edges seemed to waver as the aura swelled, and then he attacked with speed and aggression, unwilling to yield.

The duel shifted then into a contest of pure swordsmanship, each movement answered in kind, Jacob deflecting when Dawson cut, Dawson parrying when Jacob countered, neither able to land a decisive strike.

When Jacob tried to draw back and reclaim distance Dawson lunged forward to deny him, and on the rare moments Jacob succeeded in slipping away Dawson's blade extended once more under the weight of his aura, reaching across the gap to remind him that retreat would not grant him safety.

It was no longer a mage against a swordsman, nor a clash of aura against aura. It had become something simpler, a relentless exchange of steel where every strike and every block carried with it not only strength but pride, and neither seemed willing to give an inch.

Just as he had suspected, Jacob was fighting with a style that betrayed an underlying fear of pain, his movements always carrying that slight hesitation, that unconscious restraint which left openings for anyone observant enough to notice, and Dawson, whose eyes had sharpened with desperation, was beginning to take advantage of those predictable rhythms.

What had begun as a contest dictated by Jacob's foresight, where he read Dawson's intentions and moved in advance to counter them, had now shifted into something closer to equality, for Dawson too had begun to anticipate Jacob's reactions, and in this mirrored exchange of prediction against prediction the fight balanced precariously, neither side able to fully impose their will.

When their blades collided once more, Dawson felt a jolt of pain shoot up his arm as his wrists nearly gave way under the sheer force of Jacob's strike, the weight behind it bordering on inhuman.

He was thrown back, driven off balance, but as his body was still in motion he flooded aura into his weapon, forcing it to stretch unnaturally as it cut through the air, and before Jacob could fully recover the extended blade tore across his left arm, drawing blood even as Dawson steadied himself upon landing.

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He wasted no time, his body already moving before his feet had fully settled, pouring aura into his legs until his speed surged beyond anything he had displayed so far, the ground itself seeming to blur beneath him as he closed the distance in a breath.

His sword, leveled at Jacob's chest, thrust forward with precision, and as the point neared its mark a smile curved across his lips, the triumphant thought echoing in his mind, 'in the end, talent alone cannot bridge the gulf between us.'

But in his rush, perhaps blinded by youthful arrogance or the stubborn rage that had been building since the duel began, he had forgotten a truth that should have remained at the forefront of his thoughts: no matter how well Jacob wielded that sabre, no matter how much he had trained, at his core he was still a mage.

The instant his blade touched fabric, a violent heat crashed into him from the side, an eruption of flame so sudden and fierce that his grip on his sword vanished along with the confident smile on his face. His skin seared as if it had been peeled away in an instant, his body hurled across the field by the sheer force of the blast, rolling through the air before he struck the ground with a bone-jarring impact.

When at last he managed to look down at himself, he could scarcely believe what he saw, the entire left side of his body was charred and raw, the flesh stripped back in places to expose white bone, his elbow joint grotesquely visible where skin and muscle had been burned away.

'I… I made a mistake.' The thought was faint, drowned beneath the pain, yet it lingered as he lifted his gaze to glare at Jacob, who was walking toward him with measured steps.

'Did I… lose?' No, it couldn't be, he refused to accept it. He was Dawson, the strongest among the tenth-rank trainees of the eighth unit, and while their unit might have been weaker than others in the Skydrid house, to stand at its peak was still something worth claiming.

He had carried that pride, that certainty of strength, and now he was meant to believe that it had been shattered in a single battle? That two months ago Jacob, who could not even meet him blade for blade, had somehow risen to this point?

It was impossible. It had to be impossible. Jacob must have cheated, perhaps some hidden artifact lent him strength, or some unseen ally interfered with the fight, for there was no way Dawson could have lost so utterly, not when he had scarcely landed a single strike worth naming.

And yet the truth lay before him, undeniable, in the searing agony that consumed half his body.

"Ha… hahaha, so this is how you do things, Jacob Skydrid," Dawson muttered as he forced himself upright, only then realizing that he could no longer feel the weight of his left leg, and in order to keep standing he had to shift his sword beneath him, using it as a crude makeshift crutch, a humiliating gesture that made clear he wouldn't be able to fight properly.

"So tell me, how did you do it?" he asked, his voice unsteady as he swayed on his feet, the sharpness of the burns finally sinking into his body now that the adrenaline had begun to fade, the pain growing sharper with every second and making him understand just how badly he was broken. "Is Sir Alex subtly interfering, or do you have some amazing artifact hidden away, or perhaps there is a mage nearby providing you with buffs even now?"

Jacob did not answer him. He only walked forward, step by step, the sabre held loosely in his right hand and that damned rune glowing faintly in his left.

"You won't kill me, will you? Not after I spared you before, that wouldn't be honourable," Dawson pressed, his body staggering backward, nearly tripping over itself as he leaned his sword at the wrong angle, his supposed crutch almost betraying him in the moment he needed it most.

"Let's continue this at another time, yes? I gave you the chance to train, so it's only fair that you give me the same," he said, his voice lowering as he felt his pride crack, for there was no longer room for dignity when weighed against death.

He could not die here. Not when he still had dreams unfulfilled, not when his aspirations remained nothing but promises to himself, not when he thought of what his family would feel if he failed so utterly, not when he himself could not bear the thought of his end coming now.

Desperation pulled his eyes toward the crowd, searching for someone, anyone, who would interfere, but when he looked into their faces he faltered. Why did they all look at him like that?

He stumbled backward again as he scanned them, faces he knew as well as his own, comrades and brothers who had stood beside him in trials and training, and yet what he saw was not concern or sympathy but disgrace and embarrassment, pity and disgust written plainly in their eyes.

His closest and oldest friends, his most trusted companions, the ones who had once sworn to stand beside him through life and death, why were they looking at him like this, as if the very sight of him shamed them? Was it so wrong to try and survive?

The thought twisted inside him like a blade, and in that moment he could not help but realize how he must have looked, how ugly and pitiful it was to beg for his life, how disgraceful it must have been to witness.

And yet, even with the shame boiling in his gut, even with the knowledge of how low he had sunk, the truth remained, he did not want to die, he could not die here, and if survival meant casting aside his pride and crawling in disgrace, then he would do so, because even an ugly survival was better than an early grave.

He knew it as plainly as the aches in his limbs, that he was finished, so why, then, was he forcing himself to raise the sword once more, why was he channeling the last of his aura into the burned, ragged part of his body as if sheer stubbornness could prop him up and make him whole; why was he driving himself forward with a scream ripping from his throat, why was he charging at Jacob with blade held high when every rational part of him already accepted the end, when he understood perfectly well that he was walking into a fight he could not win, that he was nothing more than a small, bloody obstacle on the path of someone truly talented, that he would die without ever passing rank ten or even reaching full maturity.

As he closed the distance he could feel the inevitability of it in his bones; the world seemed to slow, his own movements lagged as if the air had thickened, and he watched with a helpless clarity as Jacob's sabre descended in a single, clean arc, the sight of his opponent's blade moving with the certainty of a thing that belonged where it was, while his own sword faltered, his wrist failing him as his aura collapsed and the left side of his body went numb under the pressure.

A dry, small thought slipped through the fog of pain:

'Ah, I'm dead,'

and then the blade met flesh, cutting through throat and muscle with a final, merciless neatness; a spurt of blood arced into the air and, in that instant, everything ended.

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