The early morning fog still clung to the academy grounds like a shroud of uncertainty. Dew shimmered across the ancient stone paths, and the distant chants of early cultivators echoed faintly in the vast training fields. Normally, this hour would have passed with serenity. But today, murmurs spread like wildfire across dormitories, lecture halls, and sparring arenas.
A petition had been filed.
Not just any petition—a formal challenge to the Top 20 Academy Leaderboard. And worse—for the nobles—it had been signed by over a hundred students.
From the towering windows of the Head Instructor's Pavilion, an elder gazed down at the rapidly gathering crowd in the central plaza, his expression unreadable. Crumpled in his hand was the very document that had been pushed onto his desk before dawn. The seal of the Student Council burned crimson across the bottom, legitimizing the demands.
> "We request a restructuring of the Top 20 Leaderboard via formal duels to eliminate noble bias. Talent must be recognized. Not bloodlines."
At the center of this storm sat Sebastian Raizen, lazily reclining atop the branch of a plum blossom tree, chewing a stalk of dried lemongrass.
He had watched the flames ignite with curiosity. After all, it wasn't every day that the powerless barked loud enough to rattle the thrones.
Across the courtyard below, Luna Blossomveil stood in silence, her arms crossed, silver hair glistening under the rising sun. She hadn't spoken much that morning. Her violet gaze swept over the bulletin board, now defaced by bold charcoal ink declaring:
> "THE DUELS COMMENCE IN THREE DAYS."
Not an order.
A decree.
Sebastian tilted his head, amused.
"Oh? So that's how they're doing it..." he murmured. "Duels, huh?"
He rolled off the branch and landed lightly beside Luna.
"You didn't sign it," she said without turning.
"Didn't have to. The moment I saw the word 'duel,' my pen couldn't move fast enough." He smirked. "You think I'd miss out on the fun?"
Luna arched a brow. "I thought you hated crowds."
"I hate being bored more."
From across the square, Garet, now known by whispers as The Commoner's Flame, stepped forward. His eyes burned—not with indignation, but resolve. The heat around him pulsed faintly. He wasn't the one who filed the petition. But he didn't have to be.
He was its symbol.
A ripple spread through the watching students. Some scoffed. Others watched in silence.
One noble in particular—Theron Arvale, ranked 16th—sneered.
"This is absurd," he muttered. "Duels against commoners? What's next? Letting them sit with us at banquets?"
His peers laughed, but unease lurked beneath their mirth. The petition had passed. The Council had approved it. The Headmasters had remained disturbingly quiet.
Too quiet.
In the shadows of the gathered elite, a hooded figure watched—silent, still, with golden eyes glowing faintly under the hood. Number 9, the only half-noble, half-commoner among the elite, offered no reaction.
But his silence was a promise.
---
Three hours later, Headmaster's Office – South Pavilion
The Grandmaster of Duels, an old man whose soul ring bore twelve concentric circles, placed the roster scrolls on the lacquered table. His voice was like gravel over fire.
"The duels will take place over one week. Students who wish to challenge a Top 20 rank may do so. Matches will be randomized where necessary. All duel outcomes are final."
The inner circle of instructors nodded. Yet one hand rose.
It was Professor Kael Torin, mentor to advanced strategy and a former noble-turned-wanderer.
"What of lethal force?" he asked.
The room stilled.
Grandmaster Suun met his gaze. "It will be... tolerated. The stakes must be real."
Across the campus, the Duel Grounds were already being prepared. Towering monoliths were being reawakened—old platforms from the academy's foundation year, carved with multidimensional runes that could contain power levels up to Tier 6.
And in the courtyard, where all students could see the freshly rewritten leaderboard, Sebastian Raizen's name still hovered at the top.
Beside it, a fresh note was added:
> "Currently Unavailable for Challenge – Until further notice."
Sebastian raised a brow when he saw it. "Huh. That wasn't me."
Luna answered calmly, "The instructors likely assumed you'd kill someone."
He grinned. "Not if they're interesting."
---
Later That Night
Garet stood before the obsidian mirror in his small dorm. The arena flame engraved in his iris glowed as he clenched his fist. Every breath, every muscle, burned with momentum he'd earned—not inherited.
He stared at the rankings again.
Twelve.
He wasn't there yet.
But he would be.
No matter who stood above him—noble, beastkin, cultivator, or mage.
By midday, the academy resembled a battlefield disguised in elegance.
Sprawling banners were raised atop tower balconies, and factions began to gather. Not sects—not yet—but student groups aligned by bloodlines, aspirations, or belief.
For the first time in its short existence, the academy's ideal of meritocracy would be tested in full view of its creators.
And deep within the Archives Pavilion, six floors below ground level, the Council of Flame convened—an unofficial cabal formed by rising noble bloodlines to decide how best to maintain control.
"Let them swing their weapons and shout about justice," a red-robed heir to the Fentross Clan scoffed. "We'll remind them why the sky always bends toward bloodlines."
But even within their circle, anxiety brewed. Not everyone shared that certainty anymore.
Especially with him walking among them.
---
In the Main Sparring Field
Garet stepped into the crowd, unflinching. His cloak billowed faintly, too short for drama, too long for arrogance. His expression was steel carved into bone.
Dozens of students had already challenged members of the Top 20. Most had failed.
Brutally.
They were commoners—alchemists, martialists, spell weavers, and runebinders—each with a dream. But dreams shattered under the precision of well-bred cultivation.
Garet's match was next.
His opponent?
Vas Corwin, Rank 13, a dual-affinity wind and blade user from the Crescent-Fang Nobility.
The arena shimmered with containment sigils as both stepped onto the polished obsidian platform. The chants of the crowd dimmed to a hum.
The match overseer, a jade-robed elder, raised his hand. "No outside interference. Victory by incapacitation or surrender. Begin!"
In a breath, Vas dashed forward.
No flashy words. No arrogant posturing.
Just speed.
Blades drawn—two curved scimitars that left silver trails in the air.
Garet slid one foot back and exhaled.
Mana flared.
But not outward.
It condensed—within his core, along his spine, and into his limbs.
He didn't summon spells.
He became the spell.
A whisper-thin aura cloaked his arm, and his spear flicked upward, catching the descending arc of Vas's first blade. Sparks burst. Wind howled.
But Garet was unmoved.
Vas twisted, dancing around to strike from behind, only for Garet to pivot on one heel, dragging his spear in a crescent sweep. It wasn't flashy.
It was clean.
A calculated rotation with three points of intention:
Break the rhythm.
Redirect the momentum.
Retaliate.
Vas leapt, wind magic erupting beneath his feet. He struck from above, blades spinning like twin wings.
Garet didn't retreat.
He stepped into the storm.
Thwack—!
The spear caught both blades mid-fall, and Garet's palm glowed with reinforced mana. He spun, elbowing Vas in the chest before following through with a low sweep that forced the noble off balance.
The crowd gasped.
Vas snarled, rebounding with a twist of wind—his fastest strike yet.
A blur of steel flashed toward Garet's exposed back.
Clang!
Garet's spear—now held behind him in reverse grip—blocked it. The sound echoed like a war drum.
Then—he moved.
Spear Art: Second Form – Ember Spiral.
His body twisted, and the tip of the spear circled in an inward loop. Each rotation built pressure, compressing mana at the shaft's edge before unleashing it in a violent burst—
BOOM!
Vas was launched off his feet, crashing into the arena wall.
Silence.
Then a cough.
And then—
"...I yield."
---
A single cheer rose from the crowd.
Then dozens.
Then hundreds.
Garet stood still. His breathing steady. Not a drop of blood spilled. No cruelty in his technique.
Just proof.
Proof that one didn't need to be born with status to stand among giants.
From the far side, Sebastian watched, lips curved faintly.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Not bad at all.
---
The results of Garet's duel sent ripples through the academy halls like a pebble cast into a mirror-still lake.
He had not simply defeated a noble ranked in the Top 20—he had dismantled him.
No wasted movement. No gloating. No emotional outburst.
It was as if Garet had walked into the duel expecting to win—and then left exactly as expected.
The nobles were furious.
The commoners? Inspired.
But the faculty?
They were watching.
---
In the grand hall where the petitions were reviewed, Headmaster Veren closed his eyes as he listened to the echoing cheers from afar. His grey robes shimmered faintly with spiritual runes of suppression and silence, but not even those could keep the noise from finding him.
It was impossible to ignore momentum. Even harder to resist it.
The list of students requesting to challenge the Top 20 had grown from a dozen to nearly seventy-five by the end of the day.
And the petition?
It had passed.
Unanimously.
For the first time in the academy's history, the rankings would be restructured through formal duels, sponsored by the academy itself. No longer an informal hierarchy of inherited power—but a battlefield where merit could roar.
At the bottom of the petition, one name stood out.
"Sebastian Raizen."
He hadn't even been challenged. He just signed it.
No remarks. No conditions.
Only that signature—inked in mana, blood, and something else that made the paper hum when touched.
"Fascinating boy," Veren muttered.
---
Elsewhere, in a quiet mountainside dojo...
A lone figure moved in perfect silence.
Sweeping arcs. Faint glows of violet sword qi. Footsteps so light they barely disturbed the falling plum blossoms.
Silver hair. Violet eyes.
Luna Blossomveil.
She cut through six phantom targets in a single breath. The wooden dummies shattered, their spiritual cores cleanly bisected.
Then she stopped.
A junior from the Blossomveil faction rushed to her side, panting. "Senior Luna! The academy has approved the petition. The matches begin in two days!"
Luna didn't respond right away.
She simply turned her blade, watching the petals fall across its edge.
"So… they finally decided to give the commoners a chance."
"Y-Yes, but… doesn't that put the Big 8 at risk?"
"No."
"...Why not?"
She sheathed her sword.
"Because we didn't rise by bloodline. We rose because we earned it."
---
Day 2 of the Challenge Matches
The arenas had shifted. The central courtyard now featured eight dueling rings, each linked to an elder overseer. Betting pools swelled, not in coin, but in faction reputation, resources, and future wagers for cultivation manuals.
Three commoners had already broken through.
Rank 20: Enn, a deaf girl with wind tattoos across her spine who used vibration-based movement arts and flute-enhanced bursts of resonance.
Rank 19: Kor, a former bandit orphan who wielded a rusted chain like a snake and fought with a brutal, unpredictable rhythm.
Rank 17: Selis, a stoic fire dancer from the Ashen Wastes, whose flames did not burn outward but inward—every technique compressed into self-ignition, raising her speed and strength tenfold at the cost of life span.
Each of them had defeated opponents through raw will, unique martial paths, and unrelenting grit.
But they were not perfect.
Bruised. Burned. Limbs trembling from exhaustion.
Still—they had won.
---
In the far arena, beneath a viewing platform of obsidian, Jovhan Raizen stood in silence.
He was not smiling.
He rarely did.
The wind rustled his phoenix-embroidered robes, and a trace of flame shimmered across his shoulder.
"Even the trash burns bright for a moment," he said aloud.
Beside him, a noble girl with twin fox tails and arctic eyes whispered, "You don't think one of them could rise further?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, his gaze shifted—to Sebastian, who was leaning against a wall, eyes half-lidded, hands folded behind his head.
Watching. Amused.
Bored.
Jovhan's fingers curled.
"So long as he remains, the rest are shadows."
---
Two days later – Challenge Match: Rank 12 vs Garet
The ring was silent.
The crowd, not.
Sebastian leaned against the far balcony rail, eyes sharp beneath his mop of black hair. No words were needed—his grin said it all.
This was the one he had been waiting for.
Garet stepped into the stone platform, his training uniform torn at the sleeves. No armor. Just the same cheap spear he always used. He looked up toward the crowd, then to his opponent—Ravan Dyleth, twelfth on the leaderboard. A noble from the Dyleth House of Illusion, known for his dreamstep footwork and mana projection arts.
"You're a fool to challenge me," Ravan sneered, his silver robes glittering with enchantments. "Stick to the back alleys where you belong."
Garet didn't respond.
He planted his foot into the ring. The stone beneath cracked.
The duel began.
Ravan opened with a wave of his sleeve—five mana needles shot forward, dancing erratically in midair.
Garet moved.
His spear blurred into a full-body spin, deflecting each projectile with measured precision. The shaft moved like an extension of his limbs, not a weapon. No flashy bursts. Just economy of motion.
Ravan smirked. "You won't get past my illusions."
He stepped backward—and vanished.
The air distorted.
Garet's eyes narrowed. His foot twisted. A half-step pivot, body lowered—
Clang!
He blocked an attack from behind. Ravan had reappeared mid-strike with a mana-forged dagger aimed at Garet's spine.
"How?" Ravan hissed.
"I don't rely on sight," Garet said quietly. "I trust the rhythm."
Another attack—Ravan split into four afterimages.
The crowd murmured. "He's using Dyleth's Mirage Bloom Step."
Garet didn't flinch.
Instead of retreating, he stepped into the illusion.
One breath.
Two heartbeats.
Strike.
He swept his spear diagonally, intercepting the real Ravan mid-movement. The impact disarmed him, the dagger flying into the air. Garet followed up with a rising spin-kick to Ravan's chin.
The noble flew backward—and was caught by a pulse of mana mid-air to soften the fall.
The match should've ended.
But Garet stepped forward.
Ravan roared and drew on his final technique—Phantom Convergence, a mental-space illusion trap that targeted a fighter's deepest fears.
The moment Garet entered, his body staggered. His muscles froze. Sweat beaded down his temple.
From the outside, nothing moved.
But inside his mind…
He stood back on the old dirt path near his village, the same moment his cousin had mocked him. "You'll never be a mage. You were born broken."
The illusion looped.
Once.
Twice.
Then it cracked.
Because Garet smiled.
"I'm not a mage," he whispered, his grip tightening around his spear. "But I don't need to be."
Mana surged through his legs. A crimson burst.
Snap.
He tore free of the illusion and unleashed a burst step—closing the distance with a singular spear thrust aimed directly at Ravan's throat.
The noble blinked—and found cold steel stopped a breath from his jugular.
He froze.
"I yield."
The entire arena erupted.
---
Atop the walls, an old noble with tired eyes leaned forward.
"That one… he uses his mana not for spells, but for movement. Flow. Precision."
Another nodded. "A magic spearman. In a world of casters, he's something new."
"Unpolished."
"Unrefined."
"But not unworthy."
---
Later that evening
In a private garden overlooking the central courtyard, Garet stood awkwardly across from a dignified man in ceremonial robes—Lord Ardyn Caelren, a lesser noble known for his wisdom and neutrality in faction conflicts.
"I've been watching you," Ardyn said.
Garet bowed. "Sir."
"No need to kneel. You've earned a name now. I'm offering sponsorship. As is custom, you will take my name—if you accept."
Garet paused.
He didn't speak for a while.
Then nodded. "I accept."
"Then rise, Garet of House Caelren."
---
Somewhere else, watching the duel replay on a mana scroll, Sebastian's eyes glinted.
"He's growing faster than I expected."
Jovhan's voice echoed from behind, calm and laced with heat. "He'll die faster too."
Sebastian turned.
And smirked.
"Not if I kill you first."
---
Night fell, but the academy didn't sleep.
Talk of Garet's victory exploded like wildfire. In taverns, training halls, and even among the inner circle of noble houses, his name now floated on every tongue.
The commoners had hope.
The nobles had fear.
The big names had interest.
---
Inside the Grand Colosseum, preparations for the final day of the challenge round were underway. The top 20 spots were being finalized. Many battles had already been fought—and most ended predictably.
Some commoners who dared to challenge were crushed. Brutally.
A boy from the forge district was hospitalized after going against Rank 14, who shattered his ribs in three strikes.
Others were humiliated.
One girl was frozen mid-motion, then levitated and spun like a doll before being dropped unconscious.
But a few survived. A few endured.
---
Only four commoners had made it into the list—but it was enough to send a message.
---
Elsewhere…
Lord Veylar stared out of the window, looking down on his son.
"Kael has climbed far," he said softly. "But blood will always matter in the end."
His advisor leaned in. "But the boy never accepted the noble half of your name."
"Even so. He carries my talent… and my sin."
---
Meanwhile—Sebastian's Dorm
The Raizen heir watched the night sky.
He could hear the rumblings of change—the kind that tickled his instincts, the kind that sharpened his hunger.
"This is what I wanted," he murmured.
A knock tapped against the door.
He didn't turn. "Enter."
A girl with sharp eyes and quiet steps walked in. It was Luna Blossomveil, her silver hair tied into a high tail, her sword sheathed on her back.
"You saw it, didn't you?" she said. "Garet."
"I did."
"And?"
Sebastian turned, smiling faintly. "He's still rough. But…"
He licked his lips slightly.
"He might be fun later."
Luna narrowed her eyes. "Don't break him. He's not yours to toy with."
"Oh?" Sebastian arched a brow. "And what is he to you?"
She didn't answer.
He leaned back, watching her. "One day, Luna… the stage will be set. You, me, Garet. The Big 8. The pretenders. The believers. The monsters. All of them."
He looked to the stars.
"And then we'll see who's left standing."
---
In the Shadows
A figure walked the back corridors of the academy, flicking through documents.
Petitions.
Signatures.
Factions forming.
A whisper slipped from their mouth.
"Let the games begin."
Current Top 20 Standings (Unofficial)
1st–8th: The Big 8 (unchallenged)
9th: Kael Veylar (Half-noble, Half-commoner – undefeated)
10th–11th: Nobles of mixed houses
12th: Garet Caelren (formerly commoner, newly sponsored)
13th–16th: Noble-borns
17th: Rynn (commoner, staff wielder, known for explosive momentum shifts)
18th: Noble
19th: Faen (commoner, dual dagger user, trained in footwork-heavy assassination style)
20th: Mire (commoner, former scrap scavenger, uses chain-style weapon enhanced by mana flow)