Achilles' spear met Ares' axe with a sharp clash, the sound ringing across the arena like struck iron.
For a moment, they held there—locked in place.
Achilles studied him closely.
He's definitely skilled, he thought, narrowing his eyes slightly. But… there's nothing special about him. The rumors were exaggerated after all.
He pulled back first.
Then he attacked.
His spear shot forward in a blur—precise, controlled, lethal. A thrust aimed for the chest. A quick jab toward the shoulder. Another toward the neck. Each strike carried the weight of experience, the kind that had ended countless fights before they began.
Ares blocked them all.
At first, it was simple defense. Barely enough.
Then something shifted.
His movements sharpened.
His reactions tightened.
What had been survival became resistance. What had been resistance became pressure.
Soon, he was no longer just blocking—he was striking back.
Steel met steel again and again as the two exchanged blows, but the rhythm changed. Ares' attacks came heavier now, faster, more deliberate. Each swing of his ebony war axe forced Achilles a step back.
The crowd began to stir.
"That's Achilles…"
"He's being pushed back—?"
"No way…"
Achilles' jaw tightened as he slid across the stone, boots grinding for balance.
This isn't right.
He created distance with a sudden leap, landing several paces away. His free hand lifted, gathering mana.
Spears formed around him—one, then five, then dozens—each one hovering in the air, trembling with contained force.
With a sharp motion, he sent them forward.
They tore through the air toward Ares in a deadly storm.
But Ares did not retreat.
He moved forward instead.
He slipped past one spear, twisted away from another, and when the rest closed in—weapons formed around him. Blades, axes, fragments of iron shaped from nothing. They shot outward, colliding with the incoming spears, shattering them mid-flight in bursts of fading mana.
Ares broke through.
In an instant, he was in front of Achilles again.
His axe swung wide.
Achilles raised his spear to block, but the impact rattled through his arms, forcing him back.
Too heavy.
Too fast.
Ares did not stop.
Another swing. Then another.
Each one stronger than the last.
Achilles struggled now—not to win, but to keep up. His openings vanished. Counterattacks became impossible. All he could do was defend, retreat, survive.
He jumped back again, forcing space—
—but Ares took a single step—
and was already there.
Achilles' eyes widened.
The axe came down again, and he barely twisted aside in time.
He's faster…
No—
He's getting faster.
A cold realization settled in.
This wasn't a fixed strength.
This was growth.
Continuous. Unstable. Dangerous.
His mind flashed back to the truth behind this duel.
The Withering Veil. The goblin infestation. A force large enough to threaten a nation.
And the claim—
that one man had destroyed it alone.
Achilles hadn't believed it.
Now—
he didn't know what to believe.
Even the top students in A Class… he thought, breath tightening, they would struggle against this.
Across from him, Ares was changing again.
His grip tightened around the axe.
His breathing deepened.
His eyes—
lost something.
Focus.
Restraint.
Humanity.
The strikes came harder now. Wilder—but far more lethal. Each swing carried killing intent.
Achilles felt it clearly.
This was no longer a test.
He was fighting for his life.
The crowd felt it too. The excitement faded, replaced by unease. Something had shifted, something dangerous had been unleashed in the arena.
Then it happened.
Achilles' guard broke.
The opening appeared.
Ares stepped in.
To kill.
Achilles saw it—the arc of the axe, the inevitability of it. He had no space to retreat, no time to react.
This is it.
Then—
lightning.
A figure appeared between them.
A wall of crackling energy erupted into existence, stopping Ares' strike just short of its mark. The force of the collision rippled outward, sending a shock through the arena.
Achilles stumbled back, breath ragged, eyes wide.
The man standing before him was old—gray hair, lined face—but the power surrounding him was undeniable.
The Headmaster.
Zeus.
"That is enough, Ares," he said, his voice calm, but absolute.
Ares did not listen.
He moved again.
Faster than before.
He shifted around the lightning barrier, his intent unchanged—his target no longer Achilles, but Zeus himself.
To take his head.
The air grew heavy.
The sky above darkened in response.
Then it came.
A bolt of lightning tore down from above.
Blinding.
Violent.
The explosion that followed shook the arena to its core. Stone cracked beneath the force. The sound alone drove silence into the crowd.
When the light faded—
Ares lay on the ground.
Unmoving.
Smoke curled from his body.
The axe was gone.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Achilles stared at him from where he stood, chest rising and falling.
Not with relief—
but with something else.
Understanding.
The rumors had not been exaggerated.
If anything—
they had fallen short.