The throne room reeked of old magic and rot.


    Bones crunched under Caelan’s boots as he stepped forward.


    Dust clung to him like ghosts.


    The others lay broken behind him—some unconscious, some barely breathing.


    Only the Lich moved now.


    Its hand outstretched, lazily spinning one of its cursed mana-cores between its fingers.


    “You shouldn’t have touched them,” Caelan said.


    Virael hummed in his grip. Not eager. Not afraid. Just ready.


    The Lich tilted its head.


    “You speak as if they matter.”


    Then it moved.


    Faster than thought.


    A black glyph ignited beneath Caelan’s feet—designed to erase flesh, aura, soul.


    He jumped sideways, barely. Virael screamed as it clashed against necrotic energy mid-air, absorbing the shockwave like it was drinking fire.


    The duel began.


    But this wasn’t a duel. It was a war of survival.


    <hr>


    Hour One


    Caelan didn’t attack.


    He couldn’t. Not directly.


    Instead, he deflected. Dodged.


    Let Virael drink every ounce of corrupted aura it could without shattering.


    He circled pillars. Slashed glyph traps. Lured the Lich into ground collapse zones and mana sinkholes.


    He bled. A lot.


    But he didn’t fall.


    <hr>


    Hour Three


    The Lich was annoyed.


    Not wounded. Not worried. Just… annoyed.


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    “Why won’t you die?” it hissed.


    Caelan was crawling now. Legs torn. Shoulder dislocated.


    But his grip never left the sword. Not once.


    His stare never blinked.


    He moved like instinct. Like something inside him was puppeteering bone and rage.


    He stopped dodging and started interrupting.


    Cracking a spell mid-cast.


    Breaking the Lich’s focus just long enough to disrupt ritual sequences.


    Not fighting to win. Just fighting to stall.


    <hr>


    Hour Six


    The Lich finally tried to leave.


    That was the mistake.


    Caelan threw Virael—straight into the Lich’s back—embedding the blade between its mana cores.


    It screamed. Not in pain. In insult.


    It turned back.


    And stayed.


    <hr>


    Hour Twelve


    The air was ash.


    Half the throne room was rubble.


    The Lich stood, skeletal cloak frayed, one core dimming.


    Caelan was leaning against a broken pillar, one eye sealed shut, fingers twitching around the sword’s hilt.


    Help arrived.


    Elite instructors. Seal teams. Mages from the Tower Guard.


    They expected death. Corpses.


    Instead, they found one first-year cadet standing.


    Still alive.


    Still breathing.


    Still staring at the Lich like he could go another twelve hours.


    “What the actual hell…” one of the Tower Guard muttered.


    The Lich hissed once—and vanished in a vortex of black light.


    Not defeated.


    Just delayed.


    <hr>


    The Aftermath


    They carried him back.


    His pulse was slow. His wounds were impossible.


    No one understood how a cadet with no recorded combat level had lasted twelve hours against an A-rank Lich.


    But before the word could spread—


    Eryx appeared.


    The bastard homeroom teacher. Silent. Calm.


    He stood over Caelan’s bed.


    Then he moved.


    No spells. No chant.


    Just one word.


    And memory shattered.


    <hr>


    Every cadet from Unit 12 forgot.


    The mission? Still remembered.


    The shift to Black Dungeon? Still logged.


    But the Lich?


    Caelan’s stand?


    Gone.


    Deleted from the mind like bad code from a scroll.


    Only Caelan remembered.


    And no one knew why Eryx did it.


    Not the instructors.


    Not the healers.


    Only Eryx, who watched Caelan walk out of the infirmary three days later—limping, bandaged, but alive—


    And whispered under his breath:


    “You were never supposed to awaken this early…”


    Then he walked away.