All eyes turned to Jonathan, who sat silently, his gaze fixed on the arena. Even Mazin—who didn't want anything to do with struggles over things as trivial as academy rivalries—found himself looking at him.

As the silence stretched, everyone seemed to wait for Jonathan to speak. But inside, his mind was racing, running through every possible outcome like blades spinning in a storm.

If Maelor recovered, everything would resolve cleanly. Neve would move on to the third and final segment of the tournament, and Maelor would be eliminated. Things would then proceed as they should without the need to investigate anything nor anyone.

But.

If Maelor died…

Then came the second scenario. One he didn't want to deal with. One where he'd have to deal with two deans, outraged civilians, a Nova, and—perhaps—his friends too.

Massaging his temples, Jonathan finally spoke. "Yes, the girl may have gone too far—but the boy played his part. He refused to surrender and followed up with a sneak attack. She aimed for the chest, so it's possible the lung was pierced by accident."

He turned his head slightly, eyes sweeping over the deans—each wearing a different expression—before adding with a weary sigh, "If the student from Univara dies, she'll be disqualified from the tournament. As per the rules, an investigation will follow. Until then, she advances to the next segment. Is that understood?"

Fenric's fists clenched subtly as he answered, "Yes, President."

Caelan and Ysara echoed him in turn, their voices quiet but resolute. Mazin merely turned his gaze back to the arena, where two new fighters were already clashing.

Jonathan leaned toward Victor and whispered, making sure no one else could hear, "I need your opinion on this."

"I'm not your counselor," Victor said, throwing him a sidelong glance.

Jonathan's lips twitched. "If you were in my place, what would you do?"

"Fortunately, I'm not."

A sharp crack echoed from Jonathan's seat, drawing the attention of the entire grandstand. Guards on standby rushed forward, hands on their weapons, eyes scanning for any sign of a threat to the President.

Raising a hand, Jonathan spoke calmly, "I'm fine. The chair cracked a little—nothing to worry about."

Soft breaths of relief rippled through the stands around Jonathan. Whether they were genuine or forced, only the individuals themselves knew.

Within seconds, the atmosphere settled, and attention returned to the arena. Everything seemed to fall back into place—except for Jonathan. His eyes twitched subtly as he muttered something under his breath, just beyond earshot.

The sixteenth round soon came to a close, with a student from Univara emerging victorious. His win drew a wave of cheers from the crowd, a collective surge of hope after the earlier loss of their second-ranked fighter.

Judge Berto's voice rang out across the arena. "Numbers 17, please make your way to the stage!"

The moment one of the two participants bearing the number seventeen rose to his feet, the stadium erupted. The roar was thunderous—on par with the frenzy that had greeted Elric's entrance.

Up in the grandstand, Ysara smiled. "Another win for my academy," she said with pride.

A snort sounded from somewhere nearby, but no one followed it up with a comment. One glance at the two participants made the outcome all but certain. The only real question was: how long would it take?

Down in the arena, a red-haired young woman dressed in crimson stood with a sword in hand. Opposite her was a young man clad in white, gripping a machete in his right hand.

He offered a confident smile as he spoke. "You must be the Quarath Dean's daughter. Jasmine. A pleasure to meet you."

But his voice and eyes told different stories. His tone seemed calm—but his gaze gave him away. Those eyes carried flickers of regret, resignation... and the faintest trace of fear.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Jasmine didn't respond. Her eyes barely acknowledged his presence, let alone his words. The silence stretched, awkward and heavy.

"You may begin," Judge Berto announced.

As if released by a signal, Jasmine launched forward. Her movements were swift and effortless, leaving barely a mark on the tiles beneath her feet.

Her opponent braced himself, machete raised and eyes locked on her approach—ready to strike. But what he didn't expect was for Jasmine to hurl her own sword mid-sprint.

The blade shot through the air with a speed that rivaled a gunshot, aimed directly at his arm.

Instinct took over. He twisted out of the way just in time, but not without cost—the sword grazed his arm, drawing a sharp line of blood.

Cold sweat broke across his back and beaded on his forehead. His thoughts scrambled to process what had just happened.

While he was still lost in thought—convinced he had a moment to catch his breath as Jasmine needed retrieved her sword—pain suddenly exploded through his body.

His mind went blank.

He doubled over, collapsing onto something—no, someone.

Jasmine stood in front of him, her right fist buried deep in his stomach. The blow had bent him nearly in half. Had her arm, buried in his stomach, not held him up, he would've crumpled to the floor already.

It was unthinkable. He never imagined someone would toss away their own weapon just to use it as a distraction—to earn themselves an instant of time.

It didn't make sense.

If he had swung his machete while she was unarmed, she would've had no way to block it. Forced into a defensive rhythm of dodging, reacting to play the long game with a high chance of losing.

But she hadn't. She gambled everything on a moment—and in the end, it paid off.

Beneath the stunned silence of the crowd, Judge Berto hurried toward the fallen contestant. After quickly checking for a pulse, he stood and announced, "The winner of the seventeenth round is Jasmine of the Quarath Academy!"

A beat later, Judge Ivan chimed in, still slightly dazed as he stumbled over his words. "T-Time taken… seven seconds!"

WOOOOOH

The deafening roar of the crowd erupted across the stadium, shattering the brief silence that had followed the shocking fight.

"She broke Elric's record!"

"Does that mean… she's the strongest now?"

"Fool!"

"People really take everything at face value."

Cheers quickly gave way to chatter, and those who declared Jasmine the strongest based on her record time became the subject of snarky remarks from nearby spectators. The arena buzzed—not just with excitement, but with opinion, skepticism, and debates.

Setting a new record time certainly made Jasmine one of the tournament's top contenders—but anyone who judged her solely on that would be a fool. That was exactly why the third round existed: a chance to challenge anyone and claim their spot—if you could win.

"Do you think you can beat her?" Elric asked, his eyes never leaving Jasmine as she made her way back to the stands.

Neve considered the question carefully before answering, "Based on what she's shown so far, I'd say I'm about eighty percent confident I could win."

Elric turned to her, surprised. "Only eighty percent?"

She gave a small, knowing nod. "Mhm."

Elric's gaze flicked toward Thomas, who was seated a few rows away. I want to know what he thinks.

"I'll be right back," Elric said, standing up and heading toward Thomas, all under Neve's curious watchful eyes.

Ysara's laugh echoed through the grandstand, drawing sharp glances her way. Two, in particular, cut like daggers—one far colder than the other.

One was from Fenric. Though they hadn't liked each other much even before the tournament began, things had only worsened since. The competition had sparked the tension between them, adding more and more fuel to it.

Despite agreeing not to take the students' tournament personally, which dean wasn't fiercely competitive? Even Caelan—the calmest of the four—engaged in subtle rivalries with the others beneath his composed exterior.

The other glare came from Mazin, the Dean of Altura Academy. His student had just been used as little more than a pawn for Ysara's daughter to show off. Mazin didn't care much about that—what irked him was the tone behind Ysara's laughter, the unspoken claim of superiority it carried. It was a slight that stung, but he chose to say nothing, diverting his gaze instead.

Nearby, Jonathan shifted in his seat and turned toward Victor, as if to ask something once more. But before the words left his lips, he stopped himself—already knowing what Victor's answer would be.

Just watch.

Elric took a seat beside Thomas and exchanged brief greetings before Thomas broke the silence. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Elric smiled lightly. "Just curious about one thing."

"Oh?"

Leaning in slightly, Elric nodded toward Jasmine, who sat a little distance away. "How confident are you about winning against her?"

Thomas offered a mysterious smile. "Trying to figure out how strong I am, are you?"

Elric gave a quiet nod.

Thomas chuckled. "Where's the fun in that if I just tell you? You'll find out tomorrow."

With a sigh, Elric nodded again, exchanging a few final words before turning to make his way back to his seat.

As he walked away, Thomas watched him go. Then, so softly even he could barely hear himself, he murmured, "If you knew… would you even step on the stage?"

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