As soon as the two step into the arena, the battlefield changes, and the Simulation Core already recognises the data in their connectors.
A pulse of golden light ripples across the arena floor. The hard metal beneath their feet flickered—then crumbled into particles of glowing code, dissolving the structured arena of steel and circuitry, unravelling like a dream.
In its place came a scorching desert.
The ground hardened into cracked sandstone. Sand swirled in dry gusts, stinging their skin. Jagged cliffs loomed in the distance. Above them, the artificial sun beat down with merciless heat.
Arthur rolled his shoulders, stepping up to the massive weapon rack that loomed like a digital altar at the edge of the arena.
It spanned nearly the length of a wall—an ever-shifting holographic interface flickering with hundreds, maybe thousands, of choices. Swords, axes, spears, bows, firearms, chains, whips, gauntlets—every weapon imaginable, and many that defied logic or classification entirely.
Some were elegant and refined; others were brutal, jagged things that looked like they belonged in nightmares or alien worlds. A toothbrush with a serrated edge. A violin case hiding a flamethrower. Someone once swore there was a weapon shaped like a door.
With a few taps on the glowing interface, Arthur selects a sword—his usual. A moment later, the machine hums to life. Nanites swirl within the transparent forge chamber, forming the weapon molecule by molecule. Within seconds, the finished blade clicks into the dispenser with a hiss of steam.
Arthur grabs it without hesitation. Cold steel meets skin. Familiar weight. Balanced perfectly for him.
Opposite him, Tandav smiles. With a casual stride, he approaches his own 'rack', where the holographic interface awaits. He barely glances at the options. His fingers dance across the display with familiarity.
Two long daggers begin to materialise, built from light nanite threads.
He effortlessly plucks the two daggers, twirling them between his fingers like an artist would a brush.
Giving one a quick flip, and catching it by the tip, he points it at Arthur across the field.
In the stands, the hum of excitement was building. Students leaned forward, some whispering bets, others watching with anticipation.
"Fifty credits on Arthur," a boy in a silver jacket said, flicking his connector screen to lock in the bet.
Further down the row, a girl was fanning herself dramatically with her hand. "If Tandav wins, I'm legally required to fall in love with him. That's how poetry works."
"You said that about Daniel last week," her friend deadpanned.
"Yeah, and I did fall in love with him. Multiple people can have my heart. I'm not stingy."
A boy clutched his connector like it was a lifeline. "I get to watch two of the top 10 fight, for real?"
Behind him, someone replied, his voice dry in disbelief. "They have literally fought every day since the beginning of this year, why are you shocked?"
Someone stood up and shouted, "LET'S GO TANDAV! SHOW HIM THE WAY OF THE PEACEFUL BLADE SECT!"
"Shut the fuck up, Kevin!" multiple students yell in unison. Kevin sat back down, unbothered.
Meanwhile, a group of goths in the corner murmured darkly.
"If Arthur dies, can I have his bones?"
"…What the fuck?"
"I just think they'd look nice on my shelf."
Amid the noise, the two fighters stood unbothered in the arena.
"What's the score?" Arthur asks as he brandishes his sword.
"200 wins and 135 losses, in my favour," Tandav replies with a smirk.
"Bullshit," Arthur scoffs, frowning.
"You both are at 0-0! Somehow, you both lost every round. Ever," Giuseppe shouts from the stands with a grin, blatantly spreading misinformation.
"Don't listen to him. The score is 182-182—you two are completely tied!" Marcus corrects him.
"How did you remember that?" Giuseppe turns to him, raising a brow. He looks at Marcus as if he is an alien.
"Because I'm not a goldfish like you," Marcus shrugs, his tone smug enough to be provoking.
"Tsk. Dickhead,"
'Well, I mean. Tandav's answer didn't even make sense mathematically in the first place,' Daniel wanted to call out but realised that it wasn't worth the effort.
Tandav and Arthur stretch their bodies, readying themselves for the spar.
"This is it, your final spar of the year. Hold nothing back—because trust me, after this, you won't have as much free time anymore…" Mavena strokes the flames of their fighting spirits, not that it was needed.
In Giuseppe's vision, the image of a lion and a sphinx face each other, muscles coiled, eyes burning with ancient rivalry.
"Begin!" Mavena shouts.
As the signal for the match to begin was declared. A wave of excited shouts, gasps, and someone barking like a dog (for reasons unclear) echoed across the arena.
Arthur wastes no time, he surges forward, sword raised high. His muscles tense, his breath steady. His blade comes down like a guillotine, aiming straight for Tandav's head.
Tandav reacts in an instant, crossing his two daggers in an X to catch the strike. The force of the impact sends a violent tremor through his arms. Arthur is stronger—his sheer weight pressing down, forcing Tandav's knees to a bend.
Sparks fly as steel grinds against steel, the sound echoing through the arena.
Arthur grits his teeth and pushes harder, his knuckles white around the hilt. Tandav's feet slid back against the sand, his boots digging trenches into the ground. Sweat beads on his forehead, his muscles trembling under pressure.
He can't win in terms of raw strength—but he doesn't need to.
He shifts his stance, twisting his body at an angle. In one swift motion, he sacrifices his left dagger, letting Arthur's sword slip past his guard. The moment it veers off-course, Tandav moves like a shadow.
Arthur's balance wavers for half a second. Half a second is all Tandav needs.
Arthur attempts to recover, but Tandav pivots, flipping his remaining dagger into a reverse grip. His now free hand snaps up—pressing against the butt of the hilt to drive his attack with brutal force
Tandav's attack aims straight for Arthur's neck.
But Arthur isn't done.
At the very last moment, he drops his weight, dashing backwards, transforming his stance into the one he practised against the shadow figure in his room this morning.
Tandav is shocked by Arthur's stabbing stance, but he has no time to react.
Arthur's blade stops just before Tandav's throat.
The fight is over.
"…"
"…"
"..Since when did you learn to do that?" Tandav exhales with a slight glare, yet accepts his loss.
"Who knows?" Arthur says with amusement as he smiles like a Cheshire cat.
"The fight is over! Winner—Arthur Rain!" Mavena steps forward as she announces.
The two walk out of the arena and sit back into their seats, their bodies aching with, their minds still replaying every move.
A wave of noise exploded through the spectator stands like a damn breaking. Cheers, gasps, curses and total nonsense overlapped.
"Arthur just built different, for real."
"Did he just unlock a new skill mid-fight? Like, this some anime-power-up type of bullshit."
A girl was openly sobbing into her sleeve. "I bet all my lunch credits on Tandav! I can't survive another week on free cafeteria food!"
From the back, Kevin yelled, "ARTHUR RAIN! YOU HAVE DISRESPECTED MY PEACEFUL BLADE SECT! YOU ARE COURTING DEATH!"
"Kevin, sit your bitch ass down!" Giuseppe shouts.
A group of students were already replaying their fight on their connectors.
Mavena, standing on the viewing navigator, smiled ever so slightly.
'Let's see…'
Without wasting a second, Mavena's voice rang out once more, crisp and commanding.
"Daniel Gonzales. Sasha Graves. Step forward."
Daniel stood up calmly, adjusting his glasses with one hand. His usual stoic expression remained intact—but there was a strange shimmer in his eyes
"You better not lost to some no-name, Danny boy," Giuseppe called out to Daniel's passing figure.
To the surprise of none, Daniel didn't even spare him a glance.
"She's not a no-name," Marcus corrected, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the arena. "She's ranked eighth in our year."
"Is that so?" Giuseppe yawned. "Should be an easy win then—Danny's rank five."
Tandav blinked, "That is factually wrong."
Giuseppe's head snapped toward him, shocked and quite frankly—outraged. "What?!"
"I will never understand your ability to believe the reality that your mind constructed for you," Marcus mutters with disbelief.
"He's never been ranked five," Tandav said gently like he was correcting a child. "You're probably thinking of the last term. He peaked at six. He's nine now. Got bumped by Rachel, Maya, and—well—Sasha."
"Who the fuck are they?" Giuseppe replied, unbothered and clueless in equal measure.
Marcus sighed and massaged his temple like this conversation had personally aged him a decade—he internally gave up on Giuseppe. "Forget it."
"Whatever, man. Doesn't matter," Giuseppe waved his hand in a dismissive manner, "they can scramble through the ranks all they want—they'll never reach us."
Marcus gave a rare smile. "Now that's the spirit."
Giuseppe smirked, raising a fist in solidarity. "That's what I'm talki—"
His words died mid-breath.
Across the arena, Sasha Graves stepped forward.
She is a petite young woman with short brown hair and piercing blue eyes. She's dressed in blue jeans, a plain white shirt, and a black hat—casual, unassuming, almost forgettable.
His brows furrow. That's the new number five?
"Really?" He scoffs, unimpressed.
Giuseppe's gaze sharpens as he scrutinizes her, his eyes turning a shade darker like two black orbs. And then—he sees it.
Or rather, he doesn't
His jaw clenches. His teeth grind together. His hands curl into fists.
"Fucking bitch…" he mutters under his breath, his glare cold and cutting.
There was nothing. No fire. No presence. No heart. Not a single ounce of fighting spirit.
An. Empty. Fucking. Shell.
Nothing like what he had seen in the others.
The others noticed instantly. That look. That intensity. They'd seen it before.
But never this intense.
"How did someone like that get to become rank 8?" Arthur murmured.
None answered. The air had shifted.
Regardless, the group decides to forget about it, since the fight was about to begin anyway.
As the two fighters step into the arena, the scenery changes once more.
The Simulation Core activated, seamlessly reconstructing the battlefield.
In an instant, the arena was reborn.
The sterile training grounds are replaced by a lush, sprawling forest landscape. Towering trees stretch, high above towards the sky, their thick canopies swaying gently.
Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves.
Dense bushes and vibrant green grass cover the terrain, rustling gently with an artificial breeze.
The scent of earth and foliage fills the air, the sounds of distant birds and rustling leaves adding to the illusion.
Daniel stepped into the centre of the simulated forest, slowly removing his glasses. His hair fell over his eyes, casting a shadow over his face.
Then, with a smooth motion, he slicked it back—his entire demeanour shifting with it.
"Hey, Sasha," Daniel calls out casually, voice low
"Yes?" Sasha tilted her head.
"How about we make this an official duel, eh?" He smirked.
At his seemingly simple question, a silence sharper than any blade slices through the air.
Gasps echoed across the spectator stands. Even Giuseppe, usually unfazed, raised a brow. Mavena's expression tried to remain stoic, but her lips shook as she tried to contain her smile.
An official duel.
Those words were sacred.
Unlike a regular spar, an official duel carries absolute authority, bound by the ironclad laws of humanity itself. Once declared and accepted, no one—no instructor, no student, no outside force—can interfere until a winner is determined. Even if it means one of them doesn't walk away.
'This is why I like you, Danny boy. You just never fail to surprise me,' Giuseppe leaned forward, gazing into the arena—grinning now, already forgetting about his earlier anger.
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Author Note:
;)