Renn Noah had never been the shining star of the Noah family.
Born as the third son to a minor baron in the remote outskirts of the Lionheart Kingdom, Renn's life had always been quiet, uneventful… ordinary.
The Noahs were nobles—granted their title generations ago when an ancestor did sothing brave in a long-forgotten war.
Since then, they'd lived on the borderlands, managing wheat fields and obscurity.
To the world, the Noahs were nobles.
To real nobles, they were commoners dressed up in secondhand pride.
That quiet humiliation sat heavy on every Noah—none of them said it aloud, but all of them felt it.
They weren't climbing the ladder. They were clinging to the bottom rung.
And Renn?
He understood that more than anyone.
His eldest brother had a brilliant mind for numbers and trade, already running most of the estate.
His second brother was a knight-in-training with natural talent, even invited to train at a count lord's hall.
His younger sister—youngee than him—was already outpacing him in schooling.
And him?
He had a wooden sword. A crude thing, carved by his father when he was five.
He didn't think he was useless. He wasn't weak, either.
Definitely not strong though—at least, to him.
But sowhere in between was a worse place: forgettable.
Just average.
For a long ti, Renn thought that would be the story of his life. He tried not to resent it. Most days, he succeeded.
Then the Duke's competition was announced.
A chance to marry into the duke's family. A title. A leap from Baron to Viscount.
To his brothers, it was a joke. To his father, it was impossible. To Renn, it was sothing else entirely.
It wasn't about marrying the princess. He couldn't care about her. It wasn't even about the title.
It was about proof.
If he could win—even once, just once—maybe that would be enough.
Enough for his family to finally be seen. Enough for him to believe he wasn't just a shadow trailing behind brighter lights.
So he packed a small bag, left a short letter, and walked away from ho before he could change his mind.
No grand speeches. No send-off. Just quiet footsteps and a pulse loud in his ears.
He arrived at the capital with nothing but nerves, an and that sa wooden sword at his hip.
He expected to be overwheld. He was. But not in the way he thought.
Because when the wolves ca, and the other contestants hesitated—
He moved.
His body didn't freeze. His hands didn't tremble.
He just moved.
And when the fight was over—when the silence fell like a curtain—he stood, blinking at the fallen beasts.
No cheers. No praise. Just stunned silence.
He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Again…Beginner's luck?"
It was a joke. Kind of. Not really.
He didn't expect the wolves to be so...weak?
Hmmm.
The middle aged man in blue robes said these were interdiate rank creatures.
Off the stage they looked ferocious, but in person?
Renn tightened his grip on his wooden sword.
Perhaps his father was right.
Perhaps he was indeed very strong.
He still didn't trust it fully though.
Perhaps he might truly not be strong as his second brother.
But maybe, just maybe.
He wasn't weak either.
And for now—that was enough to keep going.
Not for glory. Not for the princess. Not even for pride
But for the Noah na.
For himself.
Renn turned back to the crowd, scanning the sea of faces—and then he found him.
Michael.
A broad grin spread across Renn's face, and without hesitation, he waved enthusiastically like a child spotting an old friend.
A few people glanced at him in confusion.
Others followed his gaze to Michael, who remained seated, still as ever.
Renn didn't approach with a calculated move.
The first reason was because the mont he first spotted Michael, his sword had vibrated faintly at his side.
That wasn't normal.
Renn didn't think he was anyone special. But he also wasn't blind to the strange things that sotis happened when he held a sword.
He wasn't trained in magic, nor did he understand aura the way real knights did.
So when he noticed Michael—just a rich-looking youth dressed simply, without guards or attendants like the other nobles—his curiosity had sparked.
Even when the Kingdom guards passed by earlier, the sword had been silent. But with Michael?
Sothing about the boy didn't fit.
Renn wasn't foolish enough to ignore that. And so, he decided to get close—not out of strategy, but out of instinct.
Or maybe curiosity.
Michael t Renn's wave with a simple nod.
Sword Cultivator.
That was what he'd seen floating above Renn's head.
Michael's gaze lingered on the wooden sword at Renn's hip. It looked harmless, almost laughable, but Michael wasn't laughing now.
He had watched every step the boy made on that stage.
The way he shifted his weight, the fluid transition between strikes, the precision of his footwork—it all scread of soone far beyond beginner training.
At the very least, Interdiate Mastery of the sword. In this world's terms, that likely translated to the Great Achievent stage.
But there was sothing that bothered Michael.
Was that the limit?
He frowned slightly, eyes narrowing.
No—there was more.
The way the sword responded to Renn's intent, the way the air itself seed to still just before each movent…
Michael wouldn't have noticed this before eting the grand knight Verren whose skills was at advanced mastery.
But who knew how old that monster was.
Renn was different.
If he truly followed the competition requirents, he was definitely below age 25.
It wasn't like the other party was also an Awakener.
But…..could he have reached advanced mastery in swordsmanship?
Michael had a hard ti believing it.
That would be absurd.
Michael leaned back in his seat, eyes briefly closing. He wasn't worried about threats. But he also couldn't ignore everything.
This kind of person, Renn...Renn was worth watching.
He cracked one eye open and gazed down at the arena again. Renn was still smiling, his grin too wide, too sincere for soone who just won a deadly duel. It was almost charming.
Almost.
Michael's lips twitched faintly.
Interesting.
Perhaps this competition might not be as boring as he thought.
And as for the possibility of Renn having ulterior motives?
Michael believed as long as he did not interact too deeply with the youth he should be fine.
Renn returned to the audience stands, his heart still pounding—not from the fight, but from everything after.
He could feel the gazes of his fellow contestants following him as he climbed the steps.
Whispers traveled like wind, and though none were loud, he could feel their weight. He wasn't used to attention. The Noahs never got attention.
But… maybe that was starting to change.
As he reached Michael's row, he hesitated for a second, just before sitting down.
Then, without realizing it, he turned to glance at the youth beside him.
Quiet. Still. Eyes half-lidded, almost as if dozing off in the middle of this chaotic event.
Renn couldn't help but wonder: Just how strong is this guy?
He took a seat beside him and nudged lightly with his elbow. "So… how was my performance?"
Michael cracked an eye open and stared at him for a mont. "Food."
"...Huh?"
"That was my thought during your fight. I was hungry."
Renn blinked. "Right. That… makes sense." He let out a helpless laugh, then sighed. Talking to Michael was like tossing pebbles into a well and expecting music back. And yet, he couldn't help but smile.
There was no shift in Michael's tone.
Renn had been half-expecting to be treated the way his father once looked at him after he accidentally destroyed the crop field at age seven.
But here? There was nothing. Just that sa calm indifference.
It was oddly reassuring.
Together, they sat in silence as the announcer's voice bood again, calling the next hundred contestants to the stage. The crowd shifted with excitent. Renn leaned forward slightly, curious. Then he heard it—
"031."
Renn's brows rose in surprise.
Wasn't this Mic number?
And sure enough.
Michael stood up.
He gave a small nod before making his way to the stairs.
Renn watched Michael descend the stairs, step by step, his figure composed and asured. He didn't carry a sword, nor armor, nor anything that suggested strength. And yet, there was sothing about his presence—a quiet pressure that bent the air just slightly.
Renn reached for the hilt of his wooden sword, not out of fear, but instinct.
That boy… he's not simple.
The stage below was once again filled with numbers.
Renn leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the youth who sat beside him without pretense, who said "food" after his best performance, step into the ring.
Michael observed the arena stage.
There weren't any limbs scattered around, but blood stained the floor.
As soon as everyone had arrived, groups of ten ford almost instantly, with people gravitating toward those they believed were strong.
Surprisingly, no one approached Michael.
He stood out like a sore thumb
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