The moment Soren reached the lower level, the arena stopped feeling like a place to sit and watch.
Down here, the air carried weight, not crushing pressure, not the kind that made knees shake, but something subtler that made it harder to breathe normally.
It was the atmosphere you got when the people fighting weren't nervous anymore, when they didn't treat violence like a spectacle, but like a craft.
The central ring had been cleared, and the space around it filled without turning noisy.
Second-years lined the edge in loose clusters, not shouting or laughing, just watching with that careful, studious focus Soren had noticed earlier, like they were all measuring the same invisible details.
And in the middle of it all stood her.
Yvette Astrin Yggdrasil.
She was tall enough to look out of place among humans, long-limbed and straight-backed in a way that didn't read as pride so much as training that never fully turned off.
Platinum-blonde hair had been tied into a long braid that fell neatly down her back, and her rose-pink eyes were half-lidded, tired… yet still sharp, the way a blade stayed sharp even when time tried to dull it.
A bow rested in her hands.
Not decorative, not light, not something meant for show.
It was a proper weapon, curved and pale, the string drawn taut enough that it looked more punishing than forgiving, and a quiver sat at her hip as if it belonged there.
Near her feet, small motes of light drifted lazily, like fireflies caught in a slow spiral, except they weren't fire.
They felt airy.
Alive.
Lowest-rank spirits.
Soren's breath caught again, annoyingly, as if his body was determined to betray him.
'It's really her.'
He had known already.
He had told himself he was being normal about it.
He wasn't.
Yvette stood like she hadn't slept in days, posture held upright mostly out of habit.
Even from a distance, he could see it, the faint heaviness in her shoulders, the way her gaze drifted for half a second too long before returning to the ring, as if her mind kept slipping and she had to tug it back into place.
She wasn't posing.
She wasn't soaking in the attention.
She looked like she had been summoned here, not called.
Then a voice broke the quiet.
"Finally."
The single word was enough to make Soren's eyes narrow.
A man stepped into the ring from the opposite side, human, with broad shoulders, clean hair, and a stride that carried far too much certainty.
Most second-years moved with calm, and even the cocky ones kept it contained, but this guy walked like the arena belonged to him.
He rolled his neck once, glanced at the stands, and smiled like he expected applause.
Smug, narcissistic, and loud in a room full of people who didn't need to be.
Soren disliked him immediately.
The overseer's voice cut through the low murmur, clear and clipped.
"Rank 1 of Martial Studies, report."
The man lifted a hand without looking at the overseer, like acknowledging the rules was optional.
"Here."
His attention shifted to Yvette, and the smile widened into something performative.
"Hello again, famous elf."
Yvette didn't respond.
Her eyes didn't sharpen, and if anything, they dulled further, as if the sound itself had drained what little energy she had left.
The man took a step closer, then another, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to see her flinch.
"You don't talk much, do you?" he continued, voice sweet in a way that didn't match his eyes. "I heard you're… difficult."
A faint twitch crossed Yvette's expression.
Not anger or fear, but disgust, clean and immediate.
Soren felt it even from here, like a cold draft slipping under a door.
Yvette shifted her weight, just slightly, creating distance without retreating in a way that looked like retreat.
The man chuckled.
"Oh? You moved. So you're alive after all."
Yvette finally spoke, voice quiet and almost empty.
"Stop talking."
The words weren't sharp; they were tired.
She didn't sound like she was warning him; she sounded like she was asking him not to waste what little patience she had left.
That only made the man grin harder.
"Cute."
Something in Yvette's eyes flickered, and her fingers tightened on the bow.
Soren's stomach tightened too.
He didn't like that word coming out of that man's mouth, directed at her.
The overseer stepped between them with a raised hand, clearly used to posturing even if they weren't impressed by it.
"This is a mock duel. Rules apply. No killing strikes. No relics. Stop immediately if ordered."
The man sighed dramatically.
"Yes, yes."
Yvette didn't nod, didn't acknowledge the speech; she simply waited, bow held steady as if she had already decided she wasn't going to waste energy on anything except what mattered.
The overseer lifted their hand.
"Begin!"
Yvette moved first.
There was no dash, no flashy leap, no dramatic flourish meant to announce her skill.
She just raised her bow and released.
An arrow snapped across the ring so fast it looked like a pale line.
The man tilted his head and knocked it aside with his sword, drawn quickly enough that Soren barely saw it leave the sheath, and the arrow spun away with a clean metallic clink as it glanced off steel.
The man's smile widened.
"Fast. That's—"
Another arrow was already in the air.
This one wasn't aimed at his chest.
It was aimed at his left foot.
He reacted a fraction late, the arrow cutting past close enough to graze fabric, and he had to shift his stance to avoid losing a toe.
A tiny adjustment.
A micro-step.
Soren's eyes narrowed.
'She's doing it on purpose.'
Yvette wasn't trying to land a clean "hit," she was taking control of where he stood, stealing space one step at a time until his options narrowed without him realising.
The man scoffed and stepped forward.
"Alright then."
Mana enhancement flared around him, not subtle, not clean, but strong.
Hot and loud, the kind of power that made the air around it feel irritated.
He surged in fast, blade angled to punish a ranged fighter before she could build rhythm.
Yvette didn't backpedal.
She stepped sideways once, small and efficient, then flicked her fingers.
The lights near her feet brightened, and a thin, pale spirit circle flashed beneath her boots.
"Come forth,「Rammy」."
A shape formed, not fully solid, but unmistakable: an electric ram, compact and muscular, horns crackling with faint lightning as it launched forward without hesitation.
The man's eyes widened slightly as it charged.
He swung his blade down.
The ram didn't dodge.
It slammed into the strike and burst, not into gore, but into electricity.
Lightning snapped across the man's arm, and his fingers clenched involuntarily, his sword jerking off-line for a heartbeat.
And in that heartbeat, Yvette punished him.
An arrow struck his shoulder guard with a loud thud and bounced off, non-lethal but hard enough to make him stagger half a step.
The man hissed.
"Annoying."
Yvette didn't respond; her face was blank, but her movements were precise, measured, like she was conserving energy with every breath she took.
He recovered and rushed again, faster this time, trying to overwhelm her tempo.
Yvette fired twice in quick succession, one aimed at his knee, another aimed at his sword wrist.
He deflected the wrist shot, but the knee shot forced his leg to shift again, and the pattern sharpened.
He was being guided.
Pressed.
Herded.
He clicked his tongue and changed tactics, no longer charging straight, angling instead to cut off her lateral movement, trying to force her toward the ring's wall and corner her where her bow would become a liability.
Yvette's eyes tracked him, calm and unhurried.
A tiny inhale, then her lips parted again.
"Come forth, 「Glaskin」."
A bird of pale frost formed above her shoulder and shot forward, wings beating silently.
It detonated near the man's face into shards of cold, not enough to freeze him solid, thanks to the rules of the mock duel, but enough to steal his vision and force him to throw an arm up on reflex.
Yvette used the opening immediately.
Another arrow hit his thigh guard.
He grunted, then laughed, too loud and too confident for how controlled the arena had been.
"You're really going to play like this the whole time?"
Yvette didn't answer.
She simply kept shooting, not wildly, not desperately, each arrow placed with purpose, each spirit summoned with timing rather than force.
The man moved well; he was Rank 1 for a reason.
He wasn't clumsy or slow, and he adapted quickly, beginning to parry arrows without looking at them directly, reading her bow arm and release timing instead.
He cut down the ice bird the moment it re-formed, dispersing it with a clean slash, then stepped around the next thunder ram charge so it burst behind him instead of into him.
For a few seconds, it looked like he might actually reach her.
And then he did.
He surged through a gap, one Yvette allowed to exist only because she shifted focus to summon again, and he was suddenly close enough that his breath would have reached her.
Soren saw it instantly.
Yvette's whole body changed, not in posture, but in expression.
Her eyes narrowed hard, her lips parting slightly, and her face twisted with something sharp and involuntary.
Disgust.
Real disgust, the kind that didn't care about manners.
The man leaned in, smiling, voice low as if he was enjoying the proximity.
"There you go. That's the face I wanted."
Yvette flinched.
Not from the sword.
From him.
Soren's throat went dry.
'That's… not normal.'
It wasn't tactical.
It was instinctive, visceral, as if her skin were rejecting the space between them.
The man lifted a hand, not aiming for her weapon, but for her wrist.
Yvette's breath hitched, and for a split second her eyes went unfocused, like the arena wasn't there anymore, like she had been pulled somewhere else by the movement alone.
Then she jerked back so sharply that you could easily think she had been burned.
And the man laughed.
"Oh?"
His voice turned delighted in the worst way.
"You don't like being touched?"
His mana flared again, and heat rolled off it.
Not the loud, blunt kind from earlier.
It was sharper, denser.
An advanced form of mana enhancement that some knights would chase their entire lives without ever reaching, yet this man used it effortlessly, as if it were second nature.
The smell of scorched air reached even the lower level, and Soren saw heads tilt in the stands, not excited, but attentive.
Yvette went still.
Not frozen.
Still in the way prey went still when it realised it couldn't run.
Her pupils tightened, her grip on the bow whitening, and for the first time since the duel began, she looked awake.
Not in a good way.
Fear snapped through her dull exhaustion like a needle.
The man noticed.
Of course he noticed, and the smile on his face sharpened into something vicious.
"Ah," he murmured, stepping closer with embers licking along his blade. "So that's what it is."
Yvette's jaw clenched.
Her breathing turned shallow, and her shoulders trembled once, small enough that most people would miss it, but Soren didn't.
He had spent too long learning what tiny breaks looked like in a person's body, especially when they were trying to pretend they weren't breaking at all.
The arena around her felt sharper somehow, as if every sound had turned louder and every movement had edged closer.
Then she moved.
Not backwards, but sideways, creating space the way she always had, without giving him the satisfaction of chasing her like she was retreating.
But her movement wasn't as smooth anymore.
It was tighter.
Rougher.
Like she was forcing her body to obey.
The man lunged, blade cutting forward with ember-coated intent, aiming to end it with a clean strike that would make the whole duel look inevitable in hindsight.
Yvette didn't block.
She spoke, voice low and clipped with effort.
"Come forth, 「Iren」."
A small spirit formed at her side, wolf-shaped and made of thin wind, and it snapped at the man's ankle.
The bite wasn't physical in the normal sense; it was a tug, a sudden pull that stole balance and rhythm, and the man's strike drifted just off-line.
The embers scraped air.
And Yvette punished him immediately.
An arrow took his sword arm.
Not deep, not lethal, but perfect, the kind of shot that didn't need power because the placement did the work.
His wrist jolted, the blade's ember coat flickering.
He hissed through his teeth.
"You little—"
Her eyes narrowed further.
Anger wasn't written on her face, not in a clean, satisfying way.
What showed instead was control held under strain, as if she was keeping herself together with threads and refusing to let him see which one was about to snap.
He swung again.
She summoned again.
Thunder ram.
Ice bird.
Wind hound.
Low-ranked spirits, quick and efficient, not strong enough to overwhelm, but relentless enough to grind.
One would burst into lightning against his flank, another would detonate into frost near his face, wind would tug at his foot just as he tried to shift weight, and then an arrow would follow, always timed to land in the half-second where his guard wasn't where he wanted it.
He could cut one down, but two more replaced it.
He could parry an arrow, but a ram would clip his side and force him to turn.
He could rush, but wind would steal his base and ice would steal his vision for a heartbeat.
A heartbeat was enough.
Because Yvette's arrows weren't random; they were punishment.
The man's smugness began to crack.
It didn't shatter, but his brow tightened, and his breathing grew harsher, more audible, the smooth confidence turning edgy.
"You're exhausted," he called, and there was satisfaction in it, like he thought saying it out loud made it true enough to win.
Yvette didn't answer.
He smiled again, trying to drag control of the mood back into his hands.
"Everyone says you're the strongest, but you look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."
Her eyes flicked toward him.
Her expression didn't change, but the next arrow made the air snap.
It struck his shoulder guard with enough force that the metal dented, and the impact jolted him back half a step, surprise breaking through his face before he could mask it.
That wasn't standard.
That was power forced through technique.
For a moment, his smile vanished.
Then he barked a laugh, annoyed and defensive.
"Okay. Fine."
His blade flared hotter.
The embers thickened, heat rolling out stronger, and a quiet murmur moved through the crowd, not cheering, not clapping, just attention sharpening like a knife being drawn.
Soren saw several second-years shift in their seats, postures changing from casual to alert.
Yvette went pale.
It was subtle, but it was there, the colour draining like her body had decided it needed all its resources somewhere else.
Her lips parted, and her breath hitched, and for a moment she looked like she might retch.
Then she swallowed hard, eyes unfocusing for half a heartbeat before she forced them back into place.
Something unpleasant twisted in Soren's stomach.
'She's going to break.'
Not lose.
Break, the wrong way.
The man stepped forward, embers dancing along the blade's edge.
"You don't have fire spirits, do you? That's cute."
That word again.
Soren's fingers curled without him noticing, nails pressing into his palm.
Yvette's eyes sharpened to a point.
Disgust spiked so hard it almost looked like hatred, and her exhaustion didn't vanish, but her restraint thinned, like the barrier between what she felt and what she showed had been worn down.
She raised her bow slowly, deliberately, and the spirits around her changed.
The motes of light stopped drifting lazily.
They tightened into position, orbiting with purpose, waiting like trained animals that had been given a command but told to hold.
Then Yvette spoke, voice low enough that it didn't need to be loud to carry.
"Don't come closer."
The man smiled like she was flirting.
"Or what?"
He lunged.
Yvette didn't retreat.
Her fingers snapped.
The wind hound surged, not at his ankle this time, but at his face, forcing an instinctive tilt.
The ice bird detonated at his side, stealing his vision.
The thunder ram burst behind him, lightning snapping across his back.
And Yvette fired.
An arrow hit his thigh, not deep, but dead-centre, and his leg buckled for half a second.
In that half-second, another arrow was already in the air.
Shoulder.
Forearm.
Not wounds meant to kill, hits meant to stack discomfort, force failure, and collapse coordination.
His mana flickered as he fought to keep it stable, heat stuttering around his blade when his breathing lost rhythm.
"Stop moving like a cockroach!" he snapped, voice breaking into something ugly.
Yvette's lips tightened.
Her eyes looked tired again, as if even this escalation was too much effort, as if she hated being dragged here and still refused to stop.
But she kept firing.
The man gritted his teeth, then did something different.
Instead of chasing her, he slammed his blade down and dragged it along the stone.
Scrreeeeee—
Sparks spat and heat surged, and a thin scorched line carved itself across the arena floor, not a wall and not a roaring blaze, just enough burning friction to make the air smell wrong.
Just enough to be noticed.
Soren saw Yvette's pupils tighten.
It was small, but it was instant.
Her breath hitched like she had inhaled something sharp, and her bow dipped a fraction of an inch before she forced it back up with sheer will.
The crowd didn't cheer.
Nobody clapped.
But the atmosphere shifted anyway, because everyone could feel it, the moment the duel stopped being skill and started becoming personal.
The man grinned like he had found a secret.
"Oh?" he said, voice pleased and low. "That's what it is?"
————「❤︎」————