Clark and Clément, however, didn't share her sense of awe. Their faces remained grim, almost worried.
"Why are you both making those faces?" Lisa asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It's true you haven't fought Saba in a long time," Clément replied, his voice low and serious, "but you should remember—that's exactly the kind of technique he uses. That ability to counter instantly, to respond without hesitation, as if no attack could shake him… That's classic Saba style."
"I had almost forgotten…" Lisa murmured, her expression clouding as old, unpleasant memories resurfaced—memories of battles that had left more than just physical scars.
This technique was infamous among those who had faced Saba's fighters. Despite decades of combat, the warriors of the Kingdom of Asturies had never uncovered how Saba's soldiers managed such flawless counters—or at least not to that degree of precision. What Élio had just demonstrated was disturbingly close to that level of mastery. Normally, such clean execution was only seen in Rank 3 Saba warriors. To see it from someone at Asturies' Rank 1 was deeply unsettling.
Clément and Clark exchanged a look. They had already made up their minds—they would question their students thoroughly and begin a discreet investigation. If Élio was an infiltrator, they had to know. And even if he wasn't, they were determined to extract his secret—by any means necessary—to pass it on to the others.
Meanwhile, Élio casually walked back toward the group of observing students. He couldn't help but notice the intense stares coming from the instructors.
"Well, looks like I've already got their attention," he thought to himself, a faint smirk forming on his lips. "That was easier than expected."
"Tell me, scarecrow," Arthur called out, his voice serious, "were you even going all out during the pre-term trials?"
"I gave it my all," Élio replied, chuckling, "but I didn't show all my cards. Gotta save a few surprises for the school year, right?"
Arthur frowned, the contempt in his eyes hard to miss. Deep down, he realized something uncomfortable—after seeing Élio's performance, winning against him would be much harder than he had hoped. But not impossible.
With a mix of defiance and doubt, Arthur stepped into the arena. His opponent, less confident, followed reluctantly.
"I don't think this fight will last very long…" Lisa muttered, arms crossed.
"After what that kid just showed us, I'm ready for anything," Clément said with a half-smile, though his tone hinted at tension.
Phénix, Arthur's opponent, stood silently, his heart racing. All eyes were on him, and none of them looked hopeful. The weight of those doubtful stares pressed down on him like a storm cloud. It brought back painful memories—despite being an A- ranked ability user, he had always felt inferior. Especially next to his brother, whose talent was so overwhelming that Phénix often felt like a mere shadow.
It was like staring at an impossibly high wall—so vast the comparison wasn't even fair. No matter how much effort he put in, no matter how hard he trained, he always came up short. It was as if the gods themselves had ordained it: you will never surpass him. That belief had morphed over time, from confusion to sorrow, then to anger—a quiet, burning rage that never truly went away.
Now, standing in the arena, that old feeling returned. But this time, it didn't drag him down. It fueled him. He clenched his fists, his eyes lit by a fire that had long been buried.
The two combatants faced each other. Silence fell over the arena.
"You may begin," Frank announced, stepping back.
Oddly enough, neither of them rushed forward. Arthur hesitated—not out of fear, but caution. Phénix's gaze had changed. There was something new in his posture, something solid. Arthur wondered if, like Élio, this guy was hiding something too.
He advanced slowly.
Then, in perfect sync, they both launched a right hook. The punches landed at the same time, shaking their heads slightly. Arthur was surprised—not only did Phénix not fall back, but he didn't flinch at all. Neither of them did.
They continued fighting, blow for blow, without using any powers. Fists flew, guards shifted, each hit heavier than the last. There were barely any dodges, no one stepped back. It became a test of endurance, of willpower. The crowd watched, stunned.
"He's tougher than I thought," Clark murmured, a small smile forming.
"He's got the spirit we demand from Asturies fighters," Clément added, clearly impressed. "The rest can be taught."
After several long minutes, Phénix was clearly losing. His face was bruised, blood ran from a cut near his eye—but still, he didn't stop. He didn't back down. He fought like someone possessed. A rage beyond explanation pushed him forward, a fury that only he understood. It came from his past, from years of feeling like a failure. From his desire to prove—if not to others, at least to himself—that he was more than a shadow.
Eventually, he collapsed, too battered to rise.
The arena was silent for a moment.
Arthur, panting and bruised, looked at him with new respect.
"People really are stronger than they let on…" he thought, wiping blood from his lip.