Rhys groaned and held up his hand, wrapped in bandages.

"It's NOT broken! It's just injured from blocking a sword that was basically a sun!"

Puddle gasped.

"See? Too famous. Even the sun attacked you!"

"That is NOT how it works—"

Before Rhys could finish, a group of excited first-year students walked past the bench and whispered loudly:

"That's him! That's the guy who fought Zenith!"

"He didn't die!"

"He broke the floor!"

"He made the healers quit!"

Rhys covered his face.

"Why… why do they talk like I'm a disaster event…"

Fate shouted from above,

"AND NOW ENTERING THE ARENA—THE ONLY PEOPLE STILL WILLING TO FIGHT AFTER WATCHING RHYS NEARLY GO EXTINCT!"

Rhys snapped his head up.

"STOP USING MY NAME AS A WARNING LABEL!"

Dreamer, still calm as ever, responded:

"Your combat record is unique. People find it educational."

Rhys stared.

"Educational?! Did I accidentally teach them how to explode?!"

Puddle patted his back.

"Yes. Master is great teacher. Very inspiring destruction."

"I—THAT'S NOT WHAT I—"

Down below, two fighters clashed in a burst of wind and fire. It looked clean, controlled, and stylish.

Rhys exhaled.

"See? They look like actual fighters. I look like a malfunctioning blender."

Puddle shook her head firmly.

"No. Master looks like brave blender. Blender with purpose."

"That doesn't help."

Rhys watched the duel continue, noticing every technique, every movement, every gap.

He wasn't bitter.

He wasn't jealous.

He was learning.

Inside the booth, Fate continued his nonstop shouting:

"AND LOOK AT RULIAN'S FOOTWORK! VERY PROFESSIONAL!! UNLIKE RHYS, WHO FIGHTS LIKE HE'S TRYING NOT TO DIE WHILE ALSO DYING!!"

Rhys yelled up,

"I CAN STILL HEAR YOU, YOU KNOW!"

Dreamer added,

"It's good feedback. You should take notes."

"I AM NOT TAKING NOTES ON THAT!!"

The crowd laughed, but it wasn't mocking.

They were excited.

Interested.

Even impressed.

Rhys didn't quite understand why… but he felt it.

His eyes slowly narrowed with determination.

"…They're strong. But I can catch up."

Puddle nodded proudly.

"Yes. Master will grow. Master will rise. Master will eventually stop being stepped-on bread."

"THANK YOU—WAIT, NO, THAT'S STILL INSULTING."

Another explosion echoed from the arena as Leon unleashed a massive wind burst.

Rhys watched silently.

"…Next year. I'm not joking this time. I'll be ready."

Puddle hugged his arm.

"Master will win. And I will shout very loudly when you do."

Rhys smiled a little—tired, but real.

"Yeah. And maybe next time, I won't break every bone in my body while trying."

Puddle tilted her head.

"…Maybe."

"THAT WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE A 'MAYBE'!!"

The crowd roared.

The announcers screamed.

The battles continued.

And Rhys, battered and taped up, watched with new resolve.

Rhys leaned back against the bench, letting the noise settle for a moment.

Down in the arena, the next match ended with a clean knockout. The crowd cheered like they were watching legends.

Fate immediately shouted,

"AND THAT WAS A BEAUTIFUL FINISH! NOTICE HOW NEITHER FIGHTER NEEDED TO BE DRAGGED OUT ON A STRETCHER! A RARE SIGHT AFTER RHYS'S MATCH!"

Rhys pointed up at the booth.

"STOP MAKING MY SURVIVAL SOUND LIKE A SPECIAL EVENT!"

Dreamer replied calmly,

"It was a special event. Statistically improbable."

"That doesn't make me feel better!"

Puddle nodded seriously.

"Yes. Master surviving is miracle that happens often. Very suspicious miracle."

"That's worse—how is that worse—?!"

Before Rhys could argue, another group of students walked by. They stared like they were seeing a mythical creature.

One whispered,

"He's still alive??"

Another added,

"He waved at Zenith and didn't combust. That alone is insane."

Rhys groaned,

"WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK I'M MADE OF PAPER AND BAD DECISIONS?!"

Puddle raised her hand.

"Because Master is made of bad decisions."

"STOP CONTRIBUTING TO THIS NARRATIVE!"

Up above, Fate kept going:

"NEXT UP, OUR FIRE DUELISTS! PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THEIR CONTROL—UNLIKE RHYS, WHO TREATS MAGIC LIKE A 'PRESS EVERYTHING AT ONCE' BUTTON!"

Rhys yelled,

"IT WAS ONE TIME!"

Dreamer answered,

"It was twelve times."

"STOP KEEPING COUNT!"

In the arena, flames spiraled in perfect control. No chaos. No explosions in the wrong direction. No unexpected craters.

Just skill.

Rhys watched quietly.

His hands tightened slightly on the bandages.

Puddle peeked up at him.

"Master… are you sad?"

"No. Just thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

Rhys took a slow breath.

"…They're ahead of me. All of them. Strong, calm, sharp… but that's fine."

Puddle blinked.

"Fine?"

"Yeah." Rhys nodded once. "Because I can reach that level. I just need time. Training. And maybe a mentor who won't kill me by accident."

Puddle raised a tiny paw.

"I volunteer. I only sometimes kill."

"That's—never mind."

The arena lights flashed as the fighters clashed again, this time with a thunderous shockwave.

Rhys watched every movement, absorbing everything he could.

He blinked slowly, something settling inside him.

"…I'm done being the guy who barely survives."

Puddle's eyes sparkled.

"Yes. Master will become strong blender. With titanium blades."

Rhys sighed.

"Can we stop with the blender metaphors?"

"No."

The match ended. The crowd cheered again.

Fate's voice boomed:

"WHAT A DISPLAY! AND REMEMBER—ANYONE CAN IMPROVE, EVEN PEOPLE LIKE RHYS, WHO STARTED THE YEAR AT THE BOTTOM AND SOMEHOW DUG EVEN LOWER!"

Rhys stood up and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"I SWEAR I'M GOING TO THROW A SHOE AT YOU ONE DAY!"

Dreamer added,

"Only if you can hit him. Low probability."

"STOP SIDING WITH HIM!"

But Rhys wasn't angry.

Not really.

He felt fired up.

Energized.

His eyes locked on the arena floor—on the paths people walked to get stronger.

"…Next year, I won't be the joke. I'll be someone they have to watch out for."

Puddle clung to his arm again.

"I will cheer very loud. Ear-splitting loud."

Rhys smiled—small, tired, but determined.

"Good. Someone should."

Above them, the announcers shouted for the next match.

The energy of the arena swelled again.

And Rhys tightened his fist, bandages creaking.

"…I'll get stronger. No matter what."

Puddle nodded.

"Even if your bones complain."

"My bones always complain."

"Exactly. Good training."

"THAT'S NOT HOW TRAINING WORKS—"

But he was already laughing.

Already feeling the fight returning to him.

Already imagining the next step forward.

The arena roared.

And Rhys decided he'd roar back next time.

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