Rise Of The Lesser-Blood

The suffocating silence holding the Arena was finally broken by the sharp, metallic snap of a flag.

”Winner: Thomas of Class 1-A!” Instructor Cross’s magically amplified voice boomed across the wind-swept summit of the academy tower. The battle-scarred veteran lowered his rod, his stern gaze lingering on the farm boy for a fraction of a second longer than usual before he gestured to the medical mages waiting in the wings. ”Clear the sand. Prepare the brackets for the next rotation.”

Thomas didn’t say a word. He turned on his heel, his tattered uniform fluttering in the cold high-altitude wind, and walked calmly up the stone steps toward the spectator benches. As he reached the back rows, the lesser-blood section erupted into quiet, breathless mutters of awe. Ryan slammed a heavy hand against his shoulder, his eyes wide with uncontainable excitement, while Lina and Mina let out massive sighs of relief they had been holding since the first strike.

”By the gods, Tom,” Ryan whispered intensely, leaning in. ”You did it.”

Thomas kept his expression smooth as glass, settling into his wooden bench as his hidden system screen dissolved into a faint mist behind his eyelids. ”He left himself wide open, Ryan. I used my talent just found the fracture point.

”Down on the arena floor, Instructor Cross tapped his heavy rod against the marble platform, summoning the next pairing onto the blackboard.

”Next Match: Julian of Class 1-A versus Vance of Class 1-C!”

The stadium fell completely silent as Julian rose elegantly from his premium leather seat on the elevated noble platform far above. He didn’t use the stairs; with a subtle twist of his hand, a miniature distortion of space wrapped around his boots, allowing him to glide down to the black sand like a deity descending to a mortal plane. He adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses, his striking ebony eyes entirely devoid of emotion.

Across from him stood his opponent from Class C a visibly trembling youth carrying a Grade B Support talent. The boy took one look at the fractured stone floor beneath Julian’s feet, rem , and felt his knees buckle. He hadn’t even drawn his practice wand before his hand shot into the air.

”I... I forfeit!” the Class C student stammered, his voice cracking through the stadium speakers. ”I concede the match!”

A wave of disappointed groans rippled through the upper tiers, but in the end the High-bloods simply nodded in agreement. To them, it was only natural. A Grade B support type trying to stand against a Grade S national treasure was nothing short of suicide.

”Winner by Forfeit: Julian!” Instructor Cross announced, his voice flat as he updated the slate board.

Julian didn’t offer a single smirk or a triumphant gesture. He turned around carelessly, his eyes subtly flicking up to the very back row where Thomas sat before he glided back up to his elevated booth. He hadn’t even lifted a finger, yet his dominance over the freshman block was absolute.

”Do not lose focus!” Cross’s bark snapped the crowd’s attention back to the sand. ”Moving immediately to the next preliminary block. Mina of Class 1-A versus Roy of Class 1-D!”

Mina’s posture immediately stiffened next to Thomas. She let out a sharp breath, her sharp hazel eyes narrowing as she smoothed down her uniform jacket. Her Grade C Utility talent, Scent Tracker, was phenomenal for wilderness navigation and tracing hidden mana trails, but the black sand of a public arena offered no terrain to hide in.

”Be careful ,” Thomas said quietly, his voice carrying a calm weight that caused Mina to pause. ”Prove them wrong about us.”

Mina blinked in surprise, then gave a firm, grateful nod. ”Thanks, Tom. I’ll make him run.”

She stepped down the stone stairs, her movements agile and calculated. Waiting for her at the center of the arena was Roy, a stocky muscular High-blood student from Class D. He carried a heavy iron-bound practice club over his shoulder, his face twisted into a confident, arrogant smirk.

”Roy,” Instructor Cross called out, checking his ledger. ”Grade C, Combat talent: Crag Fist.”

The floating amber flags flipped to a brilliant crimson. The countdown timer began to tick down, and Thomas leaned forward, his right eye subtly tingling beneath his eyelids as he prepared to analyze how his classmate’s utility gift would fare against the raw, unrefined brutality of a high-born combatant.