The following morning after their frantic, midnight dormitory delinquency. The day began with a masterclass cleanup and by six o'clock sharp, every scattered invoice, report, and tournament ledger had been meticulously returned to its proper place atop the royal suite's obsidian desk. It was as though the previous night's chaos had never occurred.
Sora had also seamlessly returned to his flawless, divine female glamour.
He walked exactly half a step behind Cassian as they exited the high stone archway of his private, royal suite, his posture graceful, demure, and radiating the pristine modesty of a refined provincial noblewoman as if he had never trespassed the premises. To any passing scholar or junior students, he looked like a quiet, harmless assistant accompanying her lord.
His dark, deep raven irises carried a deeply satisfied glow that he made absolutely no effort to conceal. Almost smugly possessive and it was the look of a creature that had thoroughly secured its territory and bound its mate to the exact specifications of his own will.
And before they realised it, the silver-clad, Lucien Arden stood motionless in the corridor patiently waiting for them to grace him with their presence. His silver armor gleamed perfectly, his posture was perfect, his expression was perfect, everything about him was just perfect.
But except for his eyes.
The bloodshot veins around his ice-blue gaze suggested a man who had not slept even a wink the previous night.
Sora stopped, looking directly at him, and smiled with a sickening, sweet innocence but Lucien stared, his eyes shooting daggers. Whereas Sora's smile only widened and Lucien's eye twitched.
Neither said a word.
And Lucien merely bowed with stiff military precision greeting Cassian.
"Your Highness."
Cassian nodded back, wisely pretending not to notice their silent battle from behind him. Even for him, it was pretty obvious that a Holy Knight and a half Moonborn elf would never get along, not in a million years.
Cassian led the way outside of his residence building and merged in with the crowds causing commotion at the Campus fields. It was a noisy morning and everyone seemed to be excited for the first day of the tournament. Cassian led his way to the tournament Colosseum, with Elias and heavily armored royal guards guarding his perimeter besides Lucien Arden. It was only natural for everyone to get out of his way and clear his path whenever he approached.
But Cassian could've ridden a horse to the colossal arena instead, yet he preferred walking there while sight seeing the campus grounds. But the rest of the students felt truly uneased to even walk past him, and as they bowed their heads to pay their respects they felt truly glad to be able to avoid his manic eyes. After all, they didn't want to be executed on a whim just by looking at his face.
More especially when the hero of the empire was also always on his side, supporting him.
Just when the royal delegation finally arrived at the elevated pavilion of the grand arena, the atmosphere within the colossal stone stadium was already heavily charged with intense anticipation.
News traveled fast within the high-walled sectors of the Edrath Academy. Malicious rumors traveled significantly faster.
And Naturally, the gossip about Cassian and his lowline noble friend had become even more completely unbearable.
"Just look at her."
A marquess's daughter from the northern provinces sneered from the lower stands. She gestured aggressively with a silk handkerchief.
"She doesn't even have a noble crest on her robes, yet she sits in the royal box as if she owns the treasury. She's completely, utterly unsuited to be on His Highness's side."
Several nearby noblewomen nodded in agreement, their lace fans snapping shut like small crossbows as they watched with poorly concealed envy.
Sora slowly, lazily turned his head toward the lower benches. His expression remained sweet, gentle, and radiantly beautiful.
Then, beneath the cover of his long raven lashes, his eyes narrowed into an icy slit towards the noble ladies and the elven glare that followed was so overwhelmingly predatory, so heavily saturated with a raw, terrifyingly territorial instinct that the gossiping noblewoman instantly lost the cognitive ability to continue speaking.
"—"
The girl choked, her breath caught in her throat as if a physical hand had clamped around her neck. Her expensive silk handkerchief slipped from her limp fingers, clattering against the stone. Every ounce of color drained from her face until she looked like a corpse. Without uttering another syllable, she scrambled backward, rapidly retreating into the thickest part of the crowd. But a very fast, highly strategic withdrawal.
Cassian didn't even look away from the tactical notebook resting on his lap, his quill moving smoothly.
"The local noble cliques seem to have worsened today," he drawled flatly.
"They are wasting their energy on domestic gossip instead of analyzing the competition ahead of them."
"Let them talk, Your Highness." Sora leaned closer.
Much closer. Until the soft fabric of his sleeve rubbed directly against Cassian's heavy cloak, his natural mana humming contently all around him. His voice dropped into a sultry, low whisper that only Cassian's sharp ears could hear. Well Lucien's too, but Sora couldn't be bothered.
"Let them talk, my lord" Sora repeated softly. "It is not like they know that you've already thoroughly audited my assets to your utmost liking from dusk till dawn the previous night, my exalted Prince."
Cassian immediately stopped writing. He cleared his throat once, his stoic expression remaining an unreadable fortress. Yet his ears, however, completely betrayed him—a faint, distinct crimson redness appearing at the tips and Sora looked completely pleased with himself. But behind them, Lucien looked moments away from committing several crimes. with his own bare hands.
And fortunately for the prince's blood pressure, immediate salvation arrived in the form of absolute academic insanity.
"Lord Cassian! Lord Cassian!"
A blonde haired missile erupted from the upper walkways, descending from the sky via a compressed wind-burst.
*SLAM!*
Celia crashed heavily onto the marble edge of the royal box, Her notebook struck the railing hard enough to make several nobles jump.
The girl was vibrating with enough energy to power an entire city.
"The tactical data streams from the morning brackets are completely glitched!" Celia shrieked, her pigtails flying wildly. "The combat team from the Southern Sea Kingdoms just deployed a localized, high-circle spatial-distortion matrix! It's completely unoptimized for standard student combat! If we don't counter-audit their primary mana lines in the next five minutes, our first-year vanguard is going to face a total defeat!"
Cassian didn't even look up from his pages. He calmly turned a leaf of parchment, reached smoothly into his tailored vest, and pulled out a scribbled parchment, rolled up neatly.
"The Southern Sea matrix was already accounted for in my tactics, Celia." He handed her the document without a glance. "Silas has already been deployed to the lower eastern tunnel with three units of the Crimson Vanguard. He is currently executing a kinetic-drain array that will dissolve their mana reserves by the second round. Just go and assist him with the acoustics so long."
Celia froze mid-shriek. Her blue eyes widened. Then they widened some more. Then they somehow stretched beyond what was physically possible for a human face.
"A midnight tactical planning by your highness?!" she whispered, staring at the document in her hands with an expression of absolute, terrifying religious devotion. "You–... you already calculated their entire high-tier strategy while the rest of us were sleeping?!"
Sora coughed softly into his hand and faintly giggled looking sideways. Lucien nearly snapped his iron clipboard in half. But Cassian remained silent staring blankly at her.
Only they knew what was actually unfolding during the night. And it was a different kind of tactical planning.
"Wow–..." Celia whispered, her awe reaching dangerous levels. Then she pointed dramatically at the prince. "You are not only a Crown Prince, you are a literal god of administration, Your Highness!"
Before anyone could react to her exaggerated expression, she vanished in a violent gust of wind, leaving a pile of loose leaves behind.
"*Sigh* She just never learns."
*****
After a few moments later.
The first official trial of the tournament finally began.
Individual elimination battles.
Pure combat, no politics, no economics, no strategy meetings. Just strength and mana output. And the categories were strictly divided into four martial disciplines: Swordsmanship, magic combat, archery and mixed combat.
The purpose of the trial was very simple.
It was to establish continental rankings, determine potential threats, and violently separate the true contenders from the pathetic pretenders.
And just then the opening rounds began.
After a few rounds the first unit of the Crimson Vanguard finally stepped forward onto the blood-sanded arena floor. And the entire arena atmosphere suddenly changed. The kids had some sort of aura within their collective presence.
At first, the foreign spectators and elder lords expected decent performances from the host empire—perhaps impressive showings, maybe even excellent execution for their age. But absolutely no one had expected complete, unmitigated domination.
The first Vanguard swordsman entered the ring. His opponent was considered one of the strongest, most seasoned legacy students from the Western Marches. The match lasted exactly eleven seconds, ending with a wooden practice blade pinned against the western lord's throat.
The second Vanguard contender entered. Victory.
The third. Victory.
The fourth. Victory.
The fifth. Victory.
One after another. Again. And again. And again.
The vast stands slowly stopped talking, the roar of the crowd dying down into a heavy, uneasy murmur. Because what they were witnessing with their own eyes made absolutely no logical sense. The underclassmen of the Vanguard moved significantly faster, hit with heavier kinetic force, and cast their elemental spells with a cold, terrifying efficiency. Their teamwork was perfectly clean; their reactions were razor-sharp; and their raw mana outputs were entirely absurd for first-year students.
Even more frightening to the foreign mages was their complete lack of incantations. Spell after spell erupted from their palms instantly, without a single spoken syllable. No chanting. No casting preparation. No hesitation. The audience watched firestorms, ice lances, solid defensive barriers, kinetic blasts, and high-tier enhancement magic deployed across the field with the cold, calculated precision of an imperial army division.
Several elder professors rose from their high seats, their faces pale. A few foreign academy representatives began frantically scribbling notes in their notebooks, their hands shaking. The local human nobles stopped laughing. And the foreign delegations from the Sultanates stopped smiling. Even veteran military commanders exchanged deeply uneasy, sweating looks across the pavilions.
One by one, every single member of the Crimson Vanguard advanced through the brackets untouched.
Until only one Edrath student remained. Julian Ashcroft.
The famous Battle Mage. The self-proclaimed legacy leader of Edrath's elite seniors. The veteran dungeon raider who had openly challenged Cassian's authority since the first day of his return.
Julian entered the arena carrying absolute, desperate confidence. Today would be his grand redemption. Today he would prove to the world that Cassian's metrics were flawed. Today he would show the continent that raw, real-world experience mattered far more than rigid military discipline from an arrogant Prince.
The battle began with a roar of rigorous flames.
And yet five minutes later, Julian staggered out of the arena tunnels covered in deep bruises, his uniform torn, and his mana core smoking. He was victorious—but barely. He had crawled to the finish line in the end all bruised up. He may have won, but his body was in no condition to proceed to the next round.
The difference in their performance metrics was impossible to ignore. While the first-year Crimson Vanguard had crushed the continental elites effortlessly without a single drop of sweat, Julian looked as though he had barely survived a war.
The arena noticed. The spectators noticed. The high judges noticed. And most importantly, the rival foreign nobles noticed.
For the very first time, the true, terrifying reality of the situation settled into their minds. The Crimson Vanguard wasn't simply just student force in Edrath. It was a private military division disguised as underclassmen, trained directly by the hands of a monster.
The realization spread through the colossal stone arena like wildfire.
"That is impossible..."
"They are mere first-years..."
"Those mana outputs are completely abnormal..."
"How did the second prince train them to bypass incantation times?"
"Not a single one of them lost a single battle."
The frantic whispers multiplied by the thousands, soon converging into a single, terrifying conclusion across the stands
"The Prince of Edrath. He is a true monster wrapped in royal silk." No one in attendance dared to disagree.
*****