They called it tradition.
The First-Year Duels of Eidral Academy weren’t just for testing skill—they were blood theatre. A stage for the born-strong to flaunt ancestral pride. House names meant more than results. Technique, posture, heritage—those were worshipped.
And lowborns? They weren’t part of the script.
Until Caelan walked into the arena.
They didn’t even call him by name.
Just “Cadet from the Slums.” Said like a joke. Meant like a warning.
Even the instructors didn’t hide their surprise that he made it this far. Aura Core: Substandard Class-3. Barely qualified. A rank that said: not worth training. Not worth betting on.
But the system had a blind spot. It measured bloodlines, not trauma.
And Caelan had plenty of that.
He stood barefoot in the ring—boots discarded, dirt against skin, heartbeat steady. Virael rested in his hand, chipped and crooked. A blade born from the gutter. A weapon without a name in any known manual.
But Caelan didn’t need history.
He was here to write it.
<hr>
The Arena
Sunset filtered down through the iron-laced lattice above the dueling pit. The sandstone ring glowed red-gold, winds curling like spirits from ancient wars. Around them, cadets gathered—noble and not. Some sat. Some stood.
All waited for a slaughter.
Across from Caelan stood Arvis Trellor.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Second son of House Trellor. Class-1 Core. Lightning-style aura with refined bladework. A golden prodigy, raised on doctrine and aura-rich broths since he could walk.
His sword was ceremonial steel—House Trellor’s signature make. Its name engraved in runes Caelan couldn’t read.
Arvis sneered like he was being punished.
“They’re really letting rats into the ring now?”
Caelan didn’t respond.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even blink.
Just angled his sword forward.
<hr>
The Opening Clash
Arvis charged first—graceful, deadly, a blur of trained fury.
The nobles cheered.
Then stopped.
Because Caelan blocked it.
Virael screamed as it took the hit—a vibrating, metallic growl—but it held. Sparks danced. Dust kicked up. Arvis slid back half a step.
His eyes narrowed.
“That blade...”
No time to finish the thought.
Caelan lunged.
Not elegant.
Not proper.
But real.
His movements were like a hunted animal—tight, explosive, survival-wired. No flourish. No waste. Every block was a death feint. Every strike was an old scar turned into muscle memory.
<hr>
The Turning Point
Arvis fought harder. Embarrassed. Angry.
Aura surged off him like flame. His footwork became faster, tighter, meaner.
But Caelan kept matching him.
One step late, one breath early—but never broken.
And then—he slipped inside Arvis’s guard.
One cut. Low. Upward.
Steel kissed steel.
And Arvis’s blade—one passed down by blood, blessed by instructors—snapped in two.
The top half spiraled into the sand.
Arvis fell to his knees, eyes wide, disbelief raw on his face.
The silence in the arena was louder than war.
Then:
“Winner: Caelan of Batlak Slums.”
No cheers.
Just silence.
Just breath.
Just stares.
<hr>
The Aftermath
That night, in the barracks, Caelan sat cross-legged, Virael across his knees.
He didn’t polish it.
Didn’t pray.
Didn’t grin.
He whispered to the blade like it was a person.
“We’re not done.”
Down the hall, whispers began.
Cadets avoiding eye contact.
Others stealing glances.
Instructors taking notes they didn’t share.
And from the upper floors—behind the viewing glass—three figures had seen everything:
Lucan Dras Varro. The Berserker Knight, face unreadable, but knuckles white around his practice axe.
Eryx. The bastard homeroom teacher. Laughing quietly to himself.
And her.
Elira Veilnare. Noble-blooded. Trial-defeated. Watching with cold, distant eyes.
She didn’t blink once the entire duel.
And when Caelan’s sword broke steel, she whispered to no one:
“He’s not like us.”
Then she left.
The nobles stopped laughing that day.
They started watching.