The one-minute duel was a mesmerizing display of concentrated violence and skill.

The air crackled with the discharge of aura—Levin's shots slicing through the air with the sharp whistle of condensed wind, and Zenon's projectiles delivering blunt, devastating force.

Levin, utilizing the accuracy and power of his specialized aura rifle, focused on the high-value, moving targets, maximizing his two-point per-hit advantage.

He was precise, but his reload time—even for the advanced rifle—was significantly longer than Zenon's.

Zenon, however, was a force of terrifying speed. His twin handguns were emptied and reloaded in continuous, rapid cycles, his hands a blur.

He didn't always go for the hardest targets; he prioritized volume and guaranteed hits, maximizing his one-point per-hit accumulation.

The crowd was roaring, utterly captivated by the exchange. Blaze and Lenore were yelling encouragement, their voices hoarse.

Grey watched with an analytical intensity, noting the flawless efficiency of Zenon's movements.

The professor's hand rose, preparing to drop the flag.

Zenon fired a final, tight burst of three rounds, hitting two stationary discs and one chime bell. Levin managed one final, powerful shot, destroying a suspended silver ring.

The flag dropped. "STOP!" the professor shouted.

Silence descended once more, the only sound the collective heavy breathing of the two competitors and the excited murmurs of the crowd.

The professor rushed to tally the scores, checking the remaining targets. After a tense count of nearly a minute, he looked up, his face pale with astonishment.

"The final score is... a draw!" the professor announced, his voice ringing with shock. "Zenon of C Class: 58 points! Levin of S Class: 58 points!"

The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and surprised murmurs. C Class had actually managed a stalemate against an Ashborn!

Levin, who had looked certain of victory moments before, went rigid. His sneer momentarily disappeared, replaced by genuine, shocked fury.

He slowly lowered his specialized rifle, the complex weapon looking tame in his grasp.

He stalked forward, stopping just short of Zenon's stoic figure. He scanned the arena, then let a mocking smirk slide back onto his face—a look of condescending pity.

"Impressive, for a trash class," Levin drawled, his voice loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear, successfully stealing back the focus.

"You have quick fingers, stall owner. You were saved today, though, purely by circumstance."

Levin gestured dismissively to his rifle. "I am known for my twin silver pistols—my true weapons. But alas, I was in a rush and forgot to bring them from my private manor today. Had I used my own guns, your little toy gallery would have been reduced to dust in thirty seconds."

He offered a condescending nod. "Enjoy this draw in the meantime, C Class. Next time, I won't be so forgetful."

With that haughty pronouncement, Levin turned, gave a dismissive wave to the disappointed crowd, and swaggered off, his aura rifle slung casually over his shoulder, leaving behind the powerful implication that Zenon's near-victory was merely a fluke born of the S Class genius's carelessness.

Those from the C class in the crowd looked furious at Levin's mockery.

Zenon simply holstered his guns, his expression unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed his quiet frustration at the insult.

The stunned silence that followed the announcement of the draw shattered almost instantly when Levin delivered his arrogant parting shot.

As he swaggered away, leaving his insulting excuse hanging in the air, the collective frustration of the C Class students boiled over.

"Sore loser! Absolute, spoiled trash!" Blaze roared, his face flushed crimson. He stepped forward, wanting to chase after Levin, his hand already twitching toward the spot where his sword would be.

"He got saved by the rules, not his skill! Zenon was faster!"

"And he's blaming his guns?" Lenore spat, her eyes blazing with fury. She gripped Grey's arm so tightly her nails dug in.

"He just made an excuse to justify why a C Class student matched him! Coward!"

The nearby C Class students in the crowd, having witnessed Zenon's machine-like precision, echoed their rage. They weren't cheering for the draw; they were protesting the insult.

"Fifty-eight points, and he still trash-talks!" shouted one student. "Ashborn means big ego, nothing else!"

"He's terrified he got matched!" yelled another. "Zenon humiliated him, and he knows it!"

They collectively ignored the actual point system—that Levin's two-point advantage per target was a formal handicap—and focused solely on the narrative Levin had tried to establish: C Class only survived because I was careless.

"He runs back to mommy's manor to get his precious silver pistols!" Blaze yelled toward the back of the retreating crowd, his body language communicating pure aggression.

"We don't need fancy pistols, we just need skill!"

Zenon, meanwhile, ignored the entire uproar. He calmly wiped down his handguns and re-holstered them, his stoic face betraying only the slightest tension around his jawline.

He had achieved a draw against S Class prestige, but the lingering insult of the 'forgetful genius' clearly stung.

Grey, observing the explosion of emotion, felt a surge of respect for his quiet friend.

Zenon's performance was outstanding. He turned to Blaze and Lenore, pulling them back slightly from the ropes before they could start an actual brawl.

"Relax," Grey murmured, his voice low and firm. "We won the moral victory. And we need to focus on the next event. The festival isn't over."

The anger was quickly redirected toward solidarity.

The C Class students immediately gathered around Zenon, congratulating him fiercely, their shared rage against S Class arrogance forging a stronger bond than any festival game ever could.

The site of the shooting competition quickly emptied as the bulk of the crowd, satisfied with the unexpected drama, dispersed back into the main festival grounds.

Only the four friends remained, standing near Zenon's stall, the discarded targets littering the area.

After the initial anger at Levin had subsided, Grey turned to Zenon, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.

"Why did you hold back, Zenon?" Grey asked, his voice low and direct.

The three of them—Blaze, Lenore, and Zenon himself—were instantly shocked by the question.

Zenon, in particular, looked at Grey with undisguised disbelief.

"H-How did you know?" Zenon asked, his usually unshakeable stoicism finally cracking with surprise.

"Nothing hides from these," Grey said, his smirk widening as he pointed to his own eyes.

Blaze and Lenore were equally stunned that Zenon had truly held back against an S Class opponent.

Zenon took a moment to compose himself, accepting Grey's unnerving insight. "Because he was not giving his all too," Zenon finally replied, his voice regaining its usual flatness.

He then explained his reasoning, his gaze fixed on the distance where Levin had disappeared.

"The Ashborn family will be calling us all soon. The competition for the Awakening Spot is to be held soon. He held back since he didn't want to reveal his true prowess. I did the same."

Blaze and Lenore immediately nodded in understanding.

Family competitions for resources, especially something as critical as an Awakening Spot, demanded extreme secrecy regarding one's true combat capabilities.

"Hahaha!" Blaze slapped Zenon heartily on the back, his earlier anger replaced by pride. "Show that bastard who's the boss during that competition of yours!"

"Let's go," Lenore said, her smile returning, this time gentle and warm. "I saved some food for all of us to eat. Let's think of it as a celebration for your win, Zenon."

With their secrets safe and a feeling of hard-won success buoying their spirits, all four of them started moving, excited smiles plastered on their faces, ready to enjoy the well-deserved spoils of their successful first day.

While the four friends retreated, caught up in their celebratory mood, two figures observed them cautiously from a distance, hidden partially by the shadow of a large decorative archway.

They were Harlon and Erowen. Erowen was completely covered by a deep hood and a high collar, her features mostly obscured.

This discretion was mandatory, for she was the Princess of the Elves and a potential World Tree Saintess candidate; if her legendary beauty were revealed, the boys would have flocked to her like bees to flowers, instantly making her the center of unwanted attention.

"What is it, Princess?" Harlon asked, his tone curious, seeing Erowen's gaze intensely focused on Grey and his team as they walked away.

"That girl..." Erowen murmured, her voice laced with an unsure, skeptical tone. Her eyes remained fixed on Lenore's retreating figure. "I feel an ominous aura coming from her."

Harlon was surprised. Erowen's intuitions were renowned within the Elven courts; he knew her instincts, especially concerning auras and spiritual energy, were almost never wrong.

If she sensed something ominous, it demanded attention.

His gaze immediately sharpened. Harlon focused his own aura, looking intently at Lenore.

He didn't see anything obvious, but the very suggestion of danger prompted a small, involuntary trace of bloodlust—a remnant of his training—to leak out of him.

Just then, Grey stopped dead in his tracks. His celebratory posture vanished. He abruptly turned, his eyes piercing the distance, looking directly into Harlon's hiding spot.

The instant their eyes met, an invisible, freezing wave of pressure washed over Harlon.

Unknown to him, Grey's senses, currently heightened by the intense focus of the day's activities and the near-constant internal System monitoring, had registered the minute fluctuation of Harlon's leaked bloodlust.

A chill went down Harlon's spine, sharp and visceral, as if death itself was staring right into him.

Beads of cold sweat instantly rolled down his forehead, and he stumbled back a full step, his heart slamming against his ribs.

"What's the matter, Harlon?" Erowen held his arm instantly, tension and worry visible on her face as she steadied him.

Harlon closed his eyes and shook his head intensely, desperately trying to shake off the terrifying sensation.

When he lifted his head and looked back in Grey's direction, the boy was nowhere to be seen. There was no one there now.

"N-Nothing, Princess. My head just spun suddenly," Harlon lied smoothly, forcing a warm smile onto his face, asking her not to worry.

"You need rest," Erowen insisted, her worry deepening. "You've still not recovered completely. Let's head back. We'll find that girl tomorrow." She gently pulled Harlon away from the bustling festival grounds.

Both of them started moving away. Erowen moved with genuine worry for Harlon's health, while Harlon was trapped in his own thoughts, repeatedly replaying the moment his eyes had met with that boy's.

He still couldn't gather whether that profound, chilling sense of dread was reality or just a momentary, stress-induced delusion.

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