Episode 23

The once-raucous training ground fell silent. jeers had been flying moments ago; now there was only hush.

“Miss Haria… is there any chance he’s an apprentice adventurer?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a powerhouse on the cusp of B-rank.”

Bork lay unconscious at the far edge of the arena. He didn’t seem gravely injured, but he wasn’t getting up anytime soon. The other adventurers who’d been caught in the blast were out cold as well. By any measure, the outcome was clear.

“Looks like the reports were right. His spellwork is on a different order of precision.”

“And if you knew that, then why—”

“It’s not his ability I question, you know? We in the Mage Corps know a little about him. …What I meant to challenge was the Lagias family’s conduct.”

They couldn’t speak to Zeke’s character. But nothing the House of Lagias had done was praiseworthy, nor had any of it been settled. As a mage serving the crown, Yorn had his misgivings—that was all.

“Though yes, I was curious to see his strength too.”

“So in the end, we let ourselves get played.”

“I did say I wasn’t piling on, didn’t I? Besides… I’m not the one who goaded him.”

Aaron kept his eyes fixed on Zeke, intent on missing nothing.

“I’ll treat the wounded… Never thought I’d be patching people up before the council even starts,” Bart grumbled.

He moved from body to body, mending injuries—yet from the outside, the scene looked bizarrely like a bandit stripping victims.

“We’re not going to get a bill for all this later, are we?”

“Hm? I mean, that’s on them. They picked the fight and swung first. Call it self-inflicted.”

One-sided heckling, then the first punch—only to be routed. The adventurers’ pride was in tatters.

Zeke, who had sent them flying, was chatting with Marcus and Keat.

“Unreal. I could train my whole life and never cast like that.”

“Having seen ‘that’ three years ago, I can’t say I’m shocked.”

“Are you two idle? Take your idle talk elsewhere.”

He was perfectly calm even post-battle, as if none of it mattered.

“Isn’t that enough? I think they understand…”

“That’s for those incompetents to decide. They started this.”

With a faint smile, he stepped forward. He wasn’t backing down.

“What’s wrong—already done? Are there only cowards in the capital?”

He spoke like a sneer—plain provocation.

Hiroto wasn’t a battle maniac who craved the fray.

He could admit that, whatever the path to get here, the House of Lagias had earned its share of criticism. Some of it was rumor, but some people had been harmed. The rank-up was similar—being the youngest A-rank would draw suspicion.

The arena was full of enemies. He felt no anger. If anything, he was plotting how to use the situation.

Even with a ducal recommendation, he’d never wanted the promotion. The Association had acted on its own, and he resented it. If he used this to flatten a few more adventurers and make a scene, he could embarrass the recommending ducal house and the Association brass—and with luck, get himself demoted.

He didn’t want titles or honors; they only drew targeted requests and, like today, trouble. To survive, he’d decided to discard anything he didn’t need.

Fool might take offense, but he had a counter: they had attacked first.

Fueled by indignation, the rattled adventurers rallied. One by one they took up weapons and closed in until roughly twenty faced Zeke—no greenhorns, but veterans who could make a living from the capital branch.

“Those simpletons…”

“Spooky. Now we really do look lawless.”

“…You two—no stopping him. We watch.”.

At Aaron’s suddenly serious tone, Yorn and Bart fell quiet. He seemed to be gauging something.

Blades, spears, hammers, staves—adventurers armed with all sorts of weapons squared off against Zeke. The air was one spark from exploding.

“That all? I thought numbers were your only merit.”

“On any other day I’d call that brat’s talk cheap… but you’ll regret being born a Lagias. —Go! Show this sheltered fool reality!”

The frontliners surged in with no hint of pulling blows, swords and spears flashing with sharp cuts and thrusts. The capital’s adventurers were, as expected, skilled. But Zeke slipped past each strike with unhurried exactness—arching, ducking, springing—moving as if he had eyes on every angle.

“Why won’t anything land!?”

“He hasn’t even drawn a weapon—how!?”

The geometry of his movement bordered on a dance.

In back, mages tried to cast, but he flowed through their lines so that other adventurers blocked the firing lanes. Front and rear alike were neutralized.

“Is ditch-clearing in the capital that lucrative?”

“Quit mouthing off! Draw your weapon!”

A greatsword slammed down where he’d been; he slid past it with the smallest motion, eyes shut as he taunted them.

“Frontline, fall back! Mages, fire! End it!”

On cue, the vanguard withdrew. Even hot-headed, they heard and obeyed. They came from different parties, but they could still snap into formation.

The rearline had long since charged their spells. If they couldn’t get clear lanes, they’d do the opposite: pour in far more mana than usual and trust their allies’ timing.

A volley launched at once—lances of flame, blades of water, volleys of stone. Every spell was powered above the norm.

For the first time, Zeke’s feet stopped. Magic swallowed him, and his figure vanished.

“Hah! Let’s see you dodge that.”

“He took us lightly. Adventurers have our own way of fighting. Our magic doesn’t take a back seat to the Mage Corps!”

They’d been rattled minutes ago; now they basked in triumph. Some even looked worried they’d overdone it.

Dust roiled where the spells had landed, hiding Zeke from view. Convinced of victory, they sheathed weapons and turned their backs—until—

“Don’t tell me… that’s all.”

The adventurers froze. Impossible. They whirled around. There stood Zeke, untouched.

“No way… those spells hit.”

“What are you… how are you still standing?”

Zeke replied in the same flat tone.

“Don’t measure me by your yardsticks. …Eyesores, the lot of you—begone.”

Ice pillars exploded up from their feet. Flung skyward, they crashed back to the floor and went still. He had, quite literally, beaten them into the ground.

“This is a problem. The scary one’s going to be furious. Look—he’s glaring holes already. What now?”

Bart, who had just finished a round of triage, scowled as more bodies piled up.

“Against that many… and a clean win.”

“Their teamwork wasn’t bad. …They just had the wrong opponent.”

The “thugs” had real skill. But as Yorn said, the gap couldn’t be bridged by momentum.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you say words have consequences?”

“—Tch! …Fine. Then we do this properly. Wings of Light, with me.”

Haria’s party assembled—five A-rank hunters, each at least B-rank in their own right.
A-rank party versus A-rank adventurer.

“You know this is a skills check, not a death match, right?”

“That’s exactly why. Any more of this will drag our whole profession through the mud.”

The air around them shifted—like hunters sighting a deadly beast.

“No… You don’t understand. Miss Haria. You can’t,” Aaron said quietly, sharply—an entirely different man than before.

“What are you—”

“I said what I meant. —You’re outclassed. Fall back.”

Pressure rolled off Aaron like a physical weight. Haria and the Wings of Light couldn’t move under it.

“Don’t take it personally. I’d rather not add more criticals.”

“Going all in, Lord Aaron? …What are you plotting?”

“…And I’ll play along with your angle too, Mr. Yorn. Let’s keep this fair.”

Sensing another fight brewing, Bart hustled more bodies to safety. (From a distance, he looked even more like a kidnapper.)

For the record, when Zeke nudged at a fallen man with his boot to clear space, Bart fixed him with such a murderous glare that he relented.

“Thanks for waiting. Curtain up for the headliner.”

A tall, trim man: dark-brown waves, the poise of a well-bred noble.

“The loudmouth from the meeting.”

“He’s the heir to House Izosaar, a marquessate,” someone whispered.

“A prodigy of court swordsmanship—every knight knows the name,” Keat added.

Zeke didn’t seem impressed.

“Never heard of him.”

“You are… entertaining. Shall we?”

They took their marks.

“Properly then. I’m Aaron Izosaar. Our house stands at the rank of marquess within the realm.”

“Hmph. Irrelevant. Start.”

“As you wish…”

Aaron blurred. A rapier flashed—needle-straight thrusts screaming for Zeke’s vitals.

“Wonderful! You dodged that?”

Zeke arched away, slipping through the chain of stabs with the bare minimum of motion.

“Then what about this?”

He broke off in a long backstep, chanting.

“Lightning Spear!”

A spear of lightning hurled forth. From incantation to release to flight speed—everything was fast.

“Tch. Tiresome…”

Zeke raised an ice wall—not to block, but to deflect the trajectory, wary of the secondary risk of conduction.

“Excellent! You truly know your magic. We’re only getting started!”

“Thunder Arrow.”

“Elect Slash.”

“Bolt Whip.”

A torrent of lightning spells—using thunder’s speed to smother any counter with rapid casting.

“The Izosaar Prodigy vs. the Lagias Brat… this might actually be rough.”

Yorn muttered, now beside Marcus and Keat.

“Rapier work takes a different skill set than the sword. If you don’t know it, it’s harder to answer… What’ll you do, kid?”

Zeke was on the defensive; he hadn’t launched a single attack. His evasions had been small and efficient; now they were growing larger.

“Marvelous! How long can you keep delighting me!?”

Aaron halted. The flow of mana around him changed, drawing Zeke’s wary eye.

His rapier crackled, caging itself in thunder. He leveled it, poised to pierce.

“This is my version of court swordsmanship. First time I’ve gone this far in a mock bout.”

“—! Icicle Protect!”

Zeke snapped up a sheathing ice-ward. A heartbeat later, Aaron’s lightning-charged, near-invisible thrust smashed into it.

“You even guard against that!? Still… let me offer a veteran’s tip.”

He spoke through the clash.

“Every spell has an ‘origin point’—the locus where it manifests, and its weakest spot.”

Mana flared off Aaron like a storm; thunder boomed in the cavernous hall.

“And right now, I’m striking that origin. Your spells are too exact. That makes them easy to read!”

The ice wall shattered in a burst of blue-white arcs.

“Izosaar-Style Court Swordsmanship—Thunder Radiance!”

Zeke’s silhouette vanished inside the lightning.

“Hah… hah… Maybe I overdid it,” Aaron panted.

He dropped to a knee, breathing hard. The strobing glare faded; he blinked his sight clear and scanned the floor.

Zeke—run through by the lightning-imbued thrust—lay at the far edge of the arena.

“Mr. Bart. I’m sorry—see to him, please. Likely critical.”

It was rare to see someone badly hurt before a mission, and rarer still during practice. He grimaced, imagining the commander’s rebuke.

“What’s my excuse going to be…”

“Excuse… for crawling so pathetically?”

A chill like winter stabbed down Aaron’s spine. Fatigue—or fear? He couldn’t turn.

“Impossible… The hit was clean. And you—were lying there…”

“Does that ice statue look like me? That’s your level.”

The “Zeke” at the far wall shattered—only a sculpted decoy whose mana had just now run out, glittering to dust.

“You’re joking…”

“Well then. You sounded like you were having such fun. Is that all?”

He forced his leg to move and pushed to his feet, bracing on the rapier—only to feel the Lagias Brat at his back.

“A lesson for you… You’re ordinary.”

Cold-laden mana gathered in Zeke’s right hand. He set that hand lightly between Aaron’s shoulder blades.

“Bye now. —Concussive Wave.”

Aaron pinwheeled through the air, skimming past Bart before smashing into the wall and going limp.

“You wanted a critical, right? Get to work. Wouldn’t want the security detail shorthanded.”