"No."
"Pardon?"
"I refuse to spar with you."
His resolve was as immovable as the earth he stood on; yet with the right person, his stance would sway as his red hair would when a gust of wind blew.
Why is he making it so difficult? The restless frenetic thought. His partner yesterday was completely sent out of commission after their fight, so he has no other choice of partner than me.
Tap-tap.
The students moved like clockwork.
How can it be that after being exposed just once to this sound, that they managed to fully grasp the pattern, and make it their own?
"I have been informed that multiple students sustained injuries during the previous session," Clive said. "Maintain that standard."
The frenetic in the middle row developed a positive delight in his eyes.
"However, due to these absences, the pairing matrix requires adjustment."
"Rank Nine with Rank Two."
"Rank Seven with Rank Five."
"Rank Four with Rank Six."
"And lastly, Rank Sixteen with Rank One."
The one who sought to injure his partners with intent had the smile ripped off of him with the last utterance.
And among the twenty-three pairs of eyes that stared at him, reminding him of the pact they made, the frenetic was forced to look into the eyes of the subject of that pact.
Rank Sixteen? I have no idea who they are; I intended to lose to someone in the Top 10.
From his appearance, he doesn't seem like much; yet despite that, he injured his partner to such an extent that they aren't even present here?
The majority of the ones who injured their partners were monsters in the Top 10, and all of their partners are still healthy enough to show up.
It is probable that he intentionally broke his partner. No, I shouldn't judge too quickly.
But if it so happens that he does intend to do the same with me, I need to be careful and cushion damage as much as possible.
"Everyone, to the desert terrain."
Arthur swept his right foot across the fine golden sand, changed each year with a fresh batch when the Academy passed through the Dustlands.
What is that—a sword? The frenetic who held Rank Sixteen thought from the other side of the arena.
It's nice to know he's going easy on me; I would have been instantly annihilated if he used magic.
An image of himself, burnt black from fire, appeared in his mind, and he shivered at the thought.
He might be more skilled than me, but as a mage, he can't use Sword Aura.
If I can manage to distract him or blind him–
He lowered his center of mass.
Or buy myself one second of time in any way, I might be able to trade hits with him, and achieve a tie!
His mind raced at all the possibilities that could come from accomplishing such a great achievement, and his body filled with hope, as all previous challengers of Rank One had.
But when his eyes met the demonic monster across him, he was sent plummeting back to Geenna.
The Honor Class operates on three distinct structural anomalies, Arthur analyzed. First, magic instruction is exclusively delivered by the Head Instructor—the apex of the Academy's staff.
Second, resource allocation for facilities and equipment is dramatically disproportionate.
Third, and most glaringly contradictory to standard Academy doctrine, the cohort is integrated: nobles and commoners, mages and swordsmen coalesce.
Consequently, because mages channel mana for spells, swordsmen are permitted to channel mana into their weaponry.
He looked below the shaky eyes of his opponent, and saw the pale-yellow lightning current create vectors that would snap and crackle continuously until they disappeared.
Meanwhile, my capacity for either is absolute zero.
I must optimize my available variables; conceding defeat to him invites unacceptable scrutiny.
Feigning extreme weakness could salvage the social narrative, but the grading rubric demands a 95 percentile or higher.
A loss guarantees a severe penalty from Clive, whereas victory guarantees a flawless mark.
Winning is not optional; it is mandatory.
Arthur released his left hand from the sword, allowing the sword to fall down with his hand to his right side.
He didn't take a stance. He simply walked.
My proficiency is locked at the Intermediate-rank of the Mirror God Style—the absolute ceiling for a non-awakened physiology.
He, however, has already attained the Intermediate-rank in the War God Style, despite the curriculum restricting such disciplines to the second year.
Furthermore, his aura manifestations are already active.
Arthur watched the electricity arc around his opponent's blade.
My velocity is vastly inferior. A direct engagement guarantees my defeat. Without Aura to force muscular acceleration, I am functionally static in his perception.
Yet, a static object is terrifying if the observer is convinced it possesses divine power.
Rank Sixteen watched him approach. His breath hitched.
He's just walking? Against my Lightning Aura?
He's mocking me. He knows he can end this at any second.
The distance closed. Ten meters. Five. Two.
Rank Sixteen's eyes were locked onto Arthur's sword. The terror in his mind narrowed his vision until the rest of the world dissolved into a blur of sand. He didn't notice Arthur's left hand hanging free. He didn't notice the lack of tension in Arthur's shoulders. He only saw the steel that had surely cut down opponents far greater than himself.
Here it comes!
Arthur swung.
To Arthur, it was a full-strength strike. But to a swordsman pulsing with the accelerated perception of Body Aura, the blade moved through the air with agonizing, almost comical slowness.
It's so slow! Rank Sixteen thought, panic surging. Why is it so slow? Is it a feint? Is he waiting for me to move?
Reflex took over. Rank Sixteen raised his blade and caught Arthur's sword in a perfect, rigid block. Steel clashed against steel, adding to the chaos of the arena.
They stood there, locked close. Rank Sixteen's eyes bulged, waiting for the follow-up, waiting for the hidden strike.
Arthur released his grip on the hilt just enough to let the sword rest against the opponent's block. He raised his free left hand—the hand Rank Sixteen had completely ignored—and gently placed it on the boy's trembling shoulder.
He leaned in, his voice a whisper that carried the weight of an executioner.
"Boom."
Rank Sixteen flinched as if he'd been impaled.
His eyes darted to the hand on his shoulder. In his mind, he saw the flash of a point-blank explosion. He saw the magic Cedric could have cast, blowing his arm off, incinerating his chest. He realized the "slow" sword was just a distraction to let the greatest mage in the class get within touching distance.
He… he spared me.
The lightning around Rank Sixteen's blade fizzled and died. He dropped his sword into the sand and fell to his knees, his head bowing low.
"I forfeit!" Rank Sixteen shouted, his voice cracking with relief. "Thank you… thank you for showing mercy!"
Arthur looked down at the kneeling boy, keeping his expression impassive.
Hypothesis validated, Arthur thought, suppressing the sigh of relief that threatened to escape. He neutralized himself.
"Stand up," Arthur said gently, offering a hand. "It was a good match."
Rank Sixteen took the hand, shaking. As he looked at the Saint—who smiled at him despite the violence he had threatened—a knot of guilt loosened in his chest.
I was so focused on hurting people to prove I belonged here, Rank Sixteen thought, looking at his own trembling hands. But he could have destroyed me, and he chose to teach me instead.
I need to go to the infirmary later. I need to apologize to Kian for what I did yesterday.
Arthur turned and walked away, the victor of a battle he never actually fought.