Chapter 334 Perfect Realm Swordsmanship

As the last of Darvin’s spells vanished in glittering fragments, Renn stood still, his blade lowered at his side.

The whispers from the crowd barely reached him.

For a moment, the arena faded from his senses.

Something tugged at the back of his mind—faint, like a memory rising through fog.

He blinked.

And he was five years old again.

The sun was softer back then.

It was his birthday.

His father, stoic but warm in his way, had handed him a gift: a wooden sword.

Not store-bought. Handmade.

The wood was dark, smooth, and oddly heavy. His father said nothing of where he got it, only that it was "a gift meant to stay close."

Renn, wide-eyed and giggling, had carried it everywhere since.

He even slept with it by his side.

He remembered swinging it clumsily through the air, chasing chickens and pretending to be a knight.

He remembered the warm pride in his chest every time it made a solid thwack.

But something else had followed.

A feeling.

Each time he swung the blade, something stirred—like a sleeping beast taking shallow breaths.

He didn’t understand it, but it felt... good.

Until the incident.

He had been seven.

It was evening, and he was alone near the family’s western farmland.

He remembered swiping the sword at empty air, grinning at the invisible foes in his mind.

And then—without sound or warning—something tore through the world.

Half the field vanished.

No fire. No tremor—at least not until a beat later. Just... absence.

The crops, the soil, the fence—gone.

He’d stood there, shaking, unable to speak.

His father had arrived moments later, breathless and pale. For the first time, Renn had seen fear in the man’s eyes—not at the destruction, but at him.

There were no words that night. Only silence. Then the training began. Hard, repetitive, and focused.

But the sword never came up again.

Not that night. Not in the years after.

And the sensation? It never returned fully.

At times, he could coat the blade faintly in a strange glow.

Until now.

Back in the present, Renn looked down at the wooden sword. His grip tightened.

It wasn’t just a tool. It never had been.

That night had left a scar—not just in the earth, but in his mind. His father had never trusted the blade again. Perhaps not even him.

But now, as the blade hummed faintly, Renn didn’t feel afraid.

He felt whole.

The thing inside him, whatever it was, had awakened again.

With clarity.

As if it had waited for this exact moment.

Darvin tried to cast again.

His hand lifted, mana swirling at his fingertips, forming the outline of a glowing circle—but then he froze.

His entire body stilled.

Slowly... his pupils dilated.

A thin, cold sensation touched his neck. No pressure, no heat. Just a trace of something that didn’t belong.

Blood.

A bead slid down from beneath his ear to his collarbone.

Darvin’s hand trembled.

He hadn’t seen Renn move.

No one had.

But something had touched him—and if it had been any deeper, it wouldn’t have been a cut. It would’ve been an end.

The spell in his hand collapsed into sparks.

And without waiting for judgment, Darvin lifted both hands and said in a steady but low voice.

"I yield."

The arena went still.

A few people blinked, unsure they’d heard right. But the blue-robed woman didn’t hesitate.

"Winner—Renn Noah."

The effect was immediate.

Shock rippled through the audience.

Not because a noble had lost.

That had happened before.

But because this noble had admitted defeat.

One must know that the other nobles that lost would have continued fighting for their "pride" had the officials in blue robes not stepped in.

Renn straightened his stance and gave a knight’s salute—fist to chest, followed by a bow.

Darvin, composed even in defeat, returned the gesture with a mage’s salute—fingers pressed together over his heart and dipped once in quiet acknowledgment.

Then he turned and walked off the stage.

Not defeated in dignity, but undeniably... outmatched.

He was silent the entire way.

But inside?

Darvin’s mind churned.

He wasn’t angry—not in the usual noble way.

He had pride, but he wasn’t blinded by it. His instincts as a mage—no, as a scholar—were buzzing.

What had that been?

Even now, his skin itched near the shallow wound. There had been no heat. No surge of energy. Just... motion. A blade that passed through the air like a whisper—and somehow, through his defenses.

Darvin sighed as he reached the edge of the arena.

He wasn’t okay with losing.

But he wasn’t one that couldn’t accept a defeat.

Perhaps, this attitude has attributed to his current height.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a spark had lit—a curiosity not of resentment, but research.

Up on the officials’ platform, the blue-robed woman still hadn’t moved.

But the man beside her slowly let out a breath and chuckled under it.

"...So the Duke’s competition really did drag some monsters out," he said wryly. "Perfect Realm swordsmanship... in a boy who can’t even grow a proper beard yet."

The woman didn’t respond. Her eyes narrowed slightly, flicking between Renn and Michael.

"...You think the wooden sword’s enchanted?" she asked at last.

"Maybe," the man muttered. "But I doubt. That was him."

A long silence followed.

Then he added, quietly,

"With that level of refinement in his technique... as long as Renn isn’t too weak as a knight, there’s almost nothing they can do to stop someone like him."

He tapped his notes twice, then turned the page.

"Including us."

The woman finally nodded.

And below, as Renn returned to his seat beside Michael—breathing softly, his hands still tingling from the sensation of that final strike—the crowd had yet to settle.

Another noble had fallen.

And the competition was only halfway through.

A moment later, two more names were called to take the stage.

And just like that, the matches continued.

Some won.

Some lost.

Occasionally, both participants were eliminated.

Round after round passed.

Until finally—when only nine matches remained—Michael’s turn came.