The nine cadets were paired such that at the end the duels would come down to the two strongest.
Arata went to check out the roster.
Arata — Voss
Wanuy — Harell
He read it twice.
Voss meant little to him beyond impressions. Quiet. Fast. Blades over brute force. A cadet who didn’t speak much, but watched everything. The kind who learned by letting others underestimate him.
If Arata won, he would fight Wanuy.
That thought sat heavier than it should have.
Wanuy’s name was already drawing attention. Harell stood a short distance away from the board, arms crossed, unmoving. He was massive even by Academy standards—dense muscle, thick bones, the posture of someone who trusted gravity to obey him.
Strength-type resonance.
Once, during structural training, Harell had placed his palm against a reinforced cement block and compressed it into powder. No flash. No dramatics. Just pressure applied until matter surrendered.
Wanuy leaned beside Arata now, reading the same names.
“Well,” Wanuy said lightly, “guess we finally get to find out which one of us is uglier when they lose.”
Arata snorted despite himself. “Bold of you to assume either of us gets past the first round.”
Wanuy glanced toward Harell. His expression tightened—not fear, but calculation. “He doesn’t waste movement. That’s what worries me.”
Arata nodded. “Voss doesn’t either.”
They stood in silence for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, not quite looking at each other.
If they both won, they’d have to fight.
Neither said it out loud.
Group B
The display shifted.
New names slid into place.
Flint — Cadet Rell
Sierra — Cadet Mave
(Winner advances to face Fortuna)
A murmur rippled through the gathered cadets.
Flint cracked his neck somewhere behind them, already grinning like the result was a formality. Rell looked pale by comparison, jaw tight, knuckles white.
Sierra stood alone, eyes on the board, posture perfect. Focused. Controlled. She didn’t acknowledge the whispers about what came after her match.
Fortuna.
No one talked loudly about Fortuna. They didn’t need to.
She stood at the far edge of the arena floor, barefoot as always, hands relaxed at her sides. No weapon. No armor. No visible resonance output.
Just stillness.
Arata felt something in his chest shift when he looked at her. Not fear. Recognition of something he didn’t understand yet.
Wanuy followed his gaze. “She doesn’t fight like a cadet,” he murmured.
“No,” Arata said quietly. “She fights like someone who already knows the ending.”
The horn sounded once—low and resonant.
Cadets began moving toward their assigned staging areas.
The Mid-Sems weren’t exams in the traditional sense.
They were truth tests.
And whatever truths were about to surface in the arena, Arata already knew one thing with unsettling clarity:
Winning today wouldn’t mean understanding his power.
Losing might.
While he was checking out the roster, his eyes caught glimpse of her, Lyra.
She was back. It had been two day since he had unknowingly spied on her. She was visibly distressed, pacing around the Duel Arena.
He though about saying Hi to her, but put it off until the duels were over.
...
The arena gates sealed.
Nebula stepped into the circle, her voice carrying cleanly across the stone.
“First-round Mid-Sem evaluation duel. Non-lethal force only. Yield, incapacitation, or ring-out constitutes defeat.”
Her eyes flicked to the fighters.
“Cadet Wanuy. Cadet Harell.”
Wanuy rolled his shoulders once and reached back. The scythe unfolded with a soft metallic click, the curved blade catching the arena lights. He rested it lightly against the ground, casual—almost careless.
Harell didn’t move.
The pressure around him was already visible, the air faintly warping near his arms and chest. His resonance field sat tight to his body, dense, compressed, alive. He looked at Wanuy the way you looked at something you planned to walk through.
Nebula raised her hand.
“Begin.”
Harell advanced.
Not fast. Not slow. Inevitable.
Each step drove a dull tremor through the arena floor. Wanuy slid sideways, scythe sweeping low. The blade struck Harell’s thigh—
—and skidded.
The sound wasn’t metal on flesh. It was metal on pressure. The resonance field around Harell's body compressed instantly, dispersing the force. Feedback ripped up the scythe’s haft, vibrating through Wanuy’s wrists like an electric shock.
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Pain flared.
Wanuy didn’t grimace.
Harell swung.
The punch didn’t touch him. It didn't need to.
The air between the two opponents collapsed.
The impact slammed into Wanuy’s jaw, vibration traveling through teeth, skull, inner ear. His vision tilted violently. The world went off-center.
He staggered, boots scraping, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
Harell followed, relentless. Another pressure strike, closer this time. Wanuy ducked, barely, the displaced air tearing past his cheek hard enough to split skin. A thin stream of blood flowed.
The crowd roared.
Wanuy retreated three steps.
Then stopped.
Something changed.
He straightened—not defensively, but quietly. His breathing slowed. The scythe lowered until its blade hovered just above the slate floor.
Harell frowned.
It was subtle. A flicker of confusion.
He stepped forward again—
—and hesitated.
The pressure around his body wavered.
Not collapsed. Not weakened. Just… wrong. The tight cohesion of his resonance field stuttered, like a heartbeat skipping a beat.
Harell shook his arm once, irritation flashing across his face.
“What did you—”
Wanuy moved. He slid inside Harell’s reach, scythe haft snapping up into the ribs. This time, the impact landed too cleanly.
Harell grunted.
Sound escaped him. Not pain, but with surprise.
He struck back, hard. Wanuy took the hit on his shoulder. The pressure slammed through muscle and bone, numbing his arm instantly. His grip faltered.
Harell pressed the advantage—
Then froze.
His breath hitched.
The resonance field around him didn’t flare.
It thinned.
Not visually dramatic. Just… less. Like fog losing density.
Harell’s eyes widened. He flexed his hand again, harder this time.
Nothing.
“What—” His voice cracked. “Why isn’t it—”
Wanuy’s scythe hooked behind Harell’s ankle.
He yanked.
Harell stumbled. Not because of force—but because the ground felt wrong. His balance, normally reinforced by resonance,had suddenly failed him.
He fell hard.
The impact cracked the slate.
Harell tried to rise.
His resonance sputtered, flared once—and died.
Not vanished.
It just Ended. A well left with nothing to draw from.
Like a flame snuffed without smoke.
Panic flashed across his face.
Wanuy was already there.
The scythe’s blunt inner curve slammed into Harell’s jaw.
The vibration traveled cleanly this time—through bone, into the skull, scrambling equilibrium. Harell’s head snapped sideways. His eyes rolled, unfocused.
Wanuy pressed the blade to his throat, pinning him just enough to stop movement.
Harell lay still, chest heaving.
His voice came out hoarse, shaken.
“…I couldn’t feel it.”
Wanuy didn’t answer.
Nebula stepped forward, eyes sharp.
“Yield?”
Harell swallowed. His throat worked against the scythe’s curve.
“…Yield.”
The barrier dropped.
“Winner,” Nebula announced, her gaze lingering on Wanuy for half a second longer than necessary, “Cadet Wanuy.”
The arena erupted.
Wanuy stepped back, leaning on the scythe, chest burning, ribs screaming. He looked down at Harell once.
Harell stared up at the ceiling, hands shaking, like someone who’d just watched a heartbeat stop.
Wanuy turned away.
In the stands, Arata felt cold creep up his spine.
He didn’t know how Wanuy had done it.
But he knew what he’d seen.
Two Wyrmbounds fighting, trying to use resonance to gain advantage over each other.
...
Nebula’s voice carried without effort.
“Cadet Arata. Cadet Voss.”
The barrier rose.
Arata stepped in, Resonance drawn this time, refusing to repeat the earlier mistake. The blade hummed faintly—not eager, not silent. Waiting.
Voss stood opposite him, twin short blades reversed in his hands, posture low and loose. His eyes never left Arata’s shoulders, his hips, the micro-tells of intent.
“Begin.”
Voss moved first.
He was Fast on his feet.
Not reckless either, he was surgical in where he went.
He slid inside Arata’s guard in two steps, blades crossing toward the ribs. Arata parried just in time. Steel screamed, the vibration shuddering up his arms and into his jaw.
Voss didn’t disengage.
A knee drove into Arata’s thigh.
The impact landed wrong—not bone-breaking, but nerve-deadening. The shock rippled upward, turning the leg briefly numb. Arata staggered half a step.
Voss punished it immediately.
A blade slipped past Arata’s guard and carved across his forearm.
Not deep—but it was enough.
The cut burned hot, skin parting cleanly, blood slicking his grip. Pain flared, sharp and distracting, exactly what Voss wanted.
“You hesitate,” Voss said quietly, already moving again.
He pivoted and drove the pommel of one blade into Arata’s jaw.
The strike connected fully.
The impact snapped Arata’s head sideways, vibration exploding through his teeth and skull, rattling his vision. The force travelled through his jawbone straight into his brain-stem his balance shattered. The world around him tilted.
Arata stumbled.
Voss went in for the finish.
A low sweep aimed at the injured leg.
Arata reacted too slow—
—but something twisted inside him.
Not Resonance.
Not command.
Instinct. the instinct of a soldier, who had been in this exact situation countless times.
Arata let himself fall.
The sweep missed as he dropped, his shoulder slamming into the stone. Pain flared, but he rolled with it, blade scraping sparks as he twisted up into a crouch.
Voss blinked—just once.
Arata lunged taking advantage of the situation.
He didn't move fast.
He went for the Heavy and final strike.
Resonance bit into Voss’s crossed blades and didn’t slide.
It stuck.
The clash sent a brutal vibration back through Voss’s arms—his wrists shuddered, fingers spasming as the resonance feedback traveled through bone and tendon. His grip faltered for a fraction of a second.
Arata felt it.
He stepped in.
A shoulder check slammed into Voss’s chest, driving air violently from his lungs. The impact compressed ribs, not breaking them—but forcing breath out in a harsh, involuntary cough.
Voss tried to disengage.
Arata didn’t let him.
He hooked Voss’s ankle with his own and twisted.
Voss hit the ground hard, the back of his head striking stone with a dull, concussive thud. His vision swam immediately—inner ear destabilized, equilibrium shot.
Arata was on him.
Resonance stopped an inch from Voss’s throat.
The silence hit like a wall.
Voss lay there, chest heaving, eyes unfocused for a heartbeat before clarity returned. He swallowed, then gave a short, humorless laugh.
“…Yield.”
The barrier fell.
“Winner,” Nebula announced evenly, “Cadet Arata.”
The arena stirred—but not with cheers.
Arata stepped back, breathing hard, arm bleeding, leg still half-numb. His hands were shaking—not from adrenaline, but from something colder.
He had won.
But he hadn’t felt powerful.
He had felt—Desperate. Even after being merged with dragon's blood I have let fight's be so dangerous.
As medics moved in for Voss, Wanuy caught Arata’s eye from across the arena.
Wanuy nodded once.
Not approval.
Acknowledgement.
Arata looked down at Resonance.
It hummed faintly, uncertain.
And for the first time since the Choir, Arata understood something that unsettled him more than losing ever could:
He could win fights agaist normal people.
Resonance won't be enough to win against that guy. he thought of Wanuy.
And whatever that was—it hadn’t answered him against Voss. Because he still didn’t understand what his blood was.
***
Lyra hadn’t planned to watch.
She told herself she was only there to confirm something—to ground herself, to prove the Academy was still real and not another echo from the Choir.
She stood near the upper tier, half-hidden behind a support column, arms folded tight enough to hurt. The noise of the arena came to her muffled, like sound heard underwater.
She saw Wanuy’s fight first.
She didn’t understand what he did.
But she understood what it took away.
When Harell whispered “I couldn’t feel it,” something cold slid down Lyra’s spine. Instruments couldn’t measure that. Equations didn’t describe it.
That wasn’t force. That was the absence at the end.
Then Arata stepped into the ring.
Her breath caught despite herself.
He looked… thinner. Not physically. Something else. Like someone who had learned too much too fast and hadn’t figured out where to put it yet.
The fight was brutal.
Too brutal.
She flinched when Voss’s pommel struck Arata’s jaw—felt it in her own teeth, the way the vibration would have scrambled his inner ear, how disorientation would follow before pain.
When Arata fell, her fingers dug into her sleeves.
Get up.
He did.
Not because of resonance.
Because he refused not to.
When the duel ended and Arata stood there—bleeding, shaking, victorious but empty—Lyra felt something twist painfully in her chest.
He hadn’t won like Wanuy had.
He’d survived.
That scared her more than losing would have.
Around her, cadets cheered half-heartedly. Some whispered. Some stared.
Lyra didn’t move.
She realised something then—quiet, awful, undeniable.
The Academy wasn’t teaching them how to fight.
It was teaching them what kind of monsters they could become if they kept going.
Arata looked down at his sword like it had failed him.
Lyra turned away before he could look up.
If he saw her face right now—
If he saw the fear instead of pride—
She didn’t know what would break first.