Renn stepped onto the arena platform, his boots quiet against the stone floor.
The sun glared slightly over the rooftop frames, but he barely noticed. His eyes were on his opponent.
The youth waiting across from him was dressed in fine navy robes laced with golden thread.
His posture was perfect, his chin slightly raised. Every part of him screamed refinement, heritage, and rank.
Renn didn’t know him but thanks to the middle aged man in blue robes, he knew his name.
Darvin Elorance.
Among the noble circles, it was a name whispered among noble circles.
Twenty-four years old—one of the oldest nobles present—and an Advanced Rank Mage.
Renn, by contrast, looked quite ordinary.
The wooden sword at his waist lacked any ornamentation. And though he, too, was a noble by birth, there wasn’t a single soul in the audience who would’ve guessed.
To the commoners, he looked like one of them.
Renn hated how much that got to him.
It wasn’t that he disdained commoners, but as a Noah, it was his life goal to make his blood feel noble.
Not out of fear too, but of awe.
“You should forfeit,” Darvin said, his voice smooth, confident, and loud enough to carry
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. Even the blue-robed officials exchanged glances.
Renn blinked, then frowned. He hadn’t even drawn his sword yet.
“What?” he asked, flatly.
Darvin didn’t smirk, but his tone was lined with pity. “I’m not trying to humiliate you, but this won’t be a contest.”
There were a few gasps.
Renn’s jaw tensed slightly, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his wooden blade.
He forced a breath. “So… you’re underestimating me?”
Darvin shook his head calmly. “No.” His gaze dropped briefly to the wooden sword. “But even if I wanted to take you seriously… that thing on your waist makes it difficult.”
This time, the nobles laughed.
But the commoners did not.
They had seen what that wooden sword was capable of.
Still, Renn’s face remained caught somewhere between a scowl and a smile. He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. He just couldn’t decide how to feel about Darvin.
There was no arrogance in his voice. No venom. No disdain.
It made it difficult to hate him.
He was proud, sure—but not unbearable.
“I think,” Renn muttered, tilting his head slightly, “we should fight first… before deciding who’s got no chance.”
Darvin sighed. “I said it out of kindness, not insult. I’m an Advanced Rank Mage.”
He paused, his expression calm and composed.
“You should give up.”
Silence stretched for a moment. Renn didn’t speak right away.
He took one step forward and gripped his wooden sword—not drawing it yet, just holding it.
“You might be strong. You might even be right. But I’ve come this far with nothing but this blade.”
He looked up, his brown eyes meeting Darvin’s.
“I’m not giving up.”
If it was before the competition, Renn wouldn’t have believed himself doing this.
For one, the noble in front of him was the real deal.
Two.
He didn’t find himself as a genuinely strong person.
However, after leaving his house, his vision started to change.
Surely, this youth can’t be another Mic, right?
If he didn’t think he’d lose to Mic so he should not lose to the person.
From the official’s platform, the woman raised her hand. “Begin.”
Darvin’s eyes flickered, and a pulse of mana radiated from his frame. The stone under his feet cracked slightly from the surge of energy. Wind gathered at his back. Magic swirled around him like an unseen cloak.
The nobles roared in approval. This was what they expected—a true display of status and power.
But Renn didn’t flinch.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, exhaling.
Then drew the wooden sword in a single fluid motion.
It made no sound.
No shimmer of mana. No aura. Just the soft whisper of wood scraping against cloth.
And yet, the atmosphere shifted.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
But enough.
A few commoners leaned forward.
The officials narrowed their eyes.
This was Renn’s first time fighting a mage.
Darvin raised a hand, a magic circle quickly formed, and blue-white light gathered instantly.
The magic formed in the shape of a spiraling hive, each strand of fire weaving together with terrifying precision.
Renn had no idea what it was—only that it burned to look at.
He was taken aback by the sudden appearance of the spell that seemed to have been drawn in three air strokes.
The spell shot forward.
Fast.
For a moment, Renn’s instincts screamed at him to dodge. His feet twitched, his grip tightened—and then he stopped.
Something… told him not to move.
It wasn’t logic. Or training. It wasn’t even courage.
Just a whisper in his mind.
Cut it.
His brows furrowed. Cut magic?
But still, the thought remained. And before he could think again, he moved.
Renn swung his wooden sword in a sharp, clean arc—nothing fancy, nothing elaborate.
Just a cut.
The spiral of fire slammed into it—
—and split apart.
A ripple echoed through the air as the magic dispersed, cleaved as if it were mere fabric.
Gasps erupted from the crowd.
Even Darvin’s eyes widened.
Renn stared at his blade in disbelief. His arm trembled slightly. It had felt like… something had opened. A door? No. A threshold.
For a brief second, when the sword met the magic, he had felt in tune—not just with himself, but with something larger.
Darvin didn’t wait. Another spell flared to life. This time a volley of sharpened shards of fire, five in number, arced forward.
Renn didn’t move.
He didn’t need to.
One step back. One sweep left. A twist of his wrist. His sword moved with him like an extension of thought.
Each spell was cut mid-flight, shattered into harmless glimmers.
The nobles stopped cheering.
The commoners started rising from their seats.
*******
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