He vanished.
A blur shot across the stage, too fast for the untrained eye to follow.
When he reappeared, he was at the very edge of the platform. A wolf's severed head dangled from one hand.
His clothes remained spotless.
The rest of the stage, however, was a canvas of carnage. Ten wolves. Ten clean kills. Not a single growl, not a single yelp. Their bodies lay where they had fallen, heads severed so cleanly it looked surgical.
Silence reigned.
The silence didn't last.
A heartbeat later, the entire arena exploded into chaos.
The audience roared to life, a tidal wave of noise crashing through the stadium.
Voices rose and overlapped, so screaming in excitent, others shouting in disbelief.
Even the blue-robed officials exchanged glances.
Shock. Amazent. Confusion.
One youth. No weapons. No armor. A single movent—and ten wolves were dead before most even realized he'd acted.
"Impossible…"
"Was that movent-type magic?"
"No, it was too fast—there was no mana surge!"
"Who the hell is he!?"
The murmurs grew louder, the speculation wilder.
Amidst it all, in one of the upper rows, a young man sat frozen in place—eyes wide, heart hamring.
Renn Noah.
His breath caught in his throat as the scene replayed in his mind.
Again and again, he saw the mont Michael moved.
The blur. The precision. The silence. The absence of effort. It was too clean. Too inhuman.
So this is what caused that reaction in … and my sword.
He had known from the mont he saw Michael that sothing was different about him.
He couldn't explain it, but his instincts had scread at him and even his wooden training sword, had responded.
But this?
This was beyond what he'd imagined.
Renn's hands trembled slightly. Not in fear. Not entirely, at least.
Because even as awe wrapped around his spine….
"I won't lose."
He whispered the words under his breath, barely audible even to himself, as his fingers brushed against the hilt of the wooden sword strapped to his waist.
The polished grain felt familiar beneath his fingertips.
Comforting. Solid.
The sight of Michael on the stage had shaken sothing loose inside him.
Fear.
But not the kind that overwheld—it was the kind that awakened.
A challenge.
A reason.
What puzzled Renn the most was sothing else though.
He knew Michael speed was insane.
But did it seem like…..
Maybe…..
He didn't even know why he was having such a thought but...
Why did it seem it shouldn't be hard for him to receive such an attack?
The angle of the first step.
The twist of the wrist.
The rotation of his fra to maximize torque without sacrificing balance.
The way he moved his foot—not in brute force, but in perfect flow.
Renn saw it all.
I could see every move.
His eyes dropped slightly, resting on the wooden blade resting at his hip.
A simple training sword, one he'd had since childhood. But even now, it humd faintly, resonating with sothing in the air. It wasn't audible—not to others—but Renn could feel it.
Like the blade had seen sothing it had long waited for.
Sothing familiar.
Soone worthy.
His hand tightened on the hilt.
"I don't care how strong you are," he muttered. "I don't care if everyone else gives up before they even fight."
"You'll probably beat ." A soft laugh escaped his lips—dry and self-aware. "But I'll make sure you earn it."
For a mont, Renn's presence sharpened. People beside him paused and turned to glance at the seemingly ordinary youth who had suddenly beco more there than he'd ever been.
His aura—previously quiet—now pulsed with sothing subtle but undeniable.
Resolve.
And deep beneath that—
Hunger.
I'm not scared.
He repeated it like a vow.
And strangely, he wasn't lying.
Not anymore.
Michael, anwhile, stood motionless on the stage, gaze sweeping over the wolves one last ti. There was no satisfaction in his expression. No arrogance. Just clarity.
He had made his decision.
No holding back.
Let everyone know what it ant to stand before him.
In the high pavilion reserved for officials and nobles, two middle-aged figures in blue robes stood in stunned silence.
The man's hand, resting on the edge of the rail, tightened slightly. "Did you…?" he began.
"I didn't see it," the woman replied before he could finish. Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed her shock.
The man turned his head slowly toward her. "Neither did I."
They both looked down at the stage.
The youth—Michael—stood calmly at the edge, a picture of composure amidst the bloodied floor. Ten wolves lay dead in an instant. Not wounded. Not injured. Dead. Their heads cleanly severed.
And the youth hadn't even drawn a weapon.
The man exhaled slowly.
"Not even a ripple," the woman muttered, her brow creased.
"How strong is he?"
That thought hung in the air like a thundercloud.
The man leaned back slightly. His gaze never left the youth on the stage. "He's different."
"More than different," the woman replied, eyes narrowed. "He didn't just move faster than we could see. He eliminated all ten wolves in the ti it takes most people to blink. And he didn't exert himself. His breathing hasn't changed."
The man's lips pressed into a thin line. "I've fought beasts stronger than those wolves. I know how they move. Even a Peak Advanced knighywouldn't be able to do what he just did unless they were on the cusp of advancing."
"No," the woman said flatly, her voice suddenly low. "He's beyond us."
The man looked at her sharply.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she asked, still watching Michael with a guarded expression.
A beat of silence passed between them.
Then the man asked the question they were both thinking.
"Who is he?"
The woman shook her head, a trace of frustration flashing in her eyes. "He's dressed ordinaryly."
The man frowned. "A commoner, then?"
"If he is," she replied slowly, "then we've all been living blind."
*****
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