Among the 57 nobles that had entered the competition, 12 had now been eliminated.
That left 45 nobles.
Aside from three, the rest had already fought and won.
On the other side, things had been far more brutal.
The commoners had suffered greatlyânot just from their matchups.
In more than one instance, both participants were eliminated when it was clear neither possessed the qualified strength.
Victory wasnât enough if the officials deemed you unqualified.
And so, while a few roseâlike Uga, the hulking youth who flattened his opponent with a single palm, and Renn Noah, whose swordsmanship left even mages speechlessâmany fell.
Now, after hours of trials, bruises, and blood, only 18 participants remained.
Among them stood Michael.
And three nobles who had yet to fight.
The arena hushed.
"Next pairingâMic Nor versus Leonard Vale."
Michael stood.
There was no reaction from the crowd at first.
Well, except for some commoners who immediately started murmuring to themselves.
His name meant nothing to some nobles.
No family crest. No famous clan.
Just a quiet young man with no armor, no visible weapon, and robes more suited for a walk through a garden than a duel.
But he didnât seem nervous.
He moved with the same calm grace heâd shown since the startâshoulders relaxed, eyes steady, as if what he was about to do was routine.
The silence cracked a light when Leonard Vale stood.
This time, it was the nobles who reacted.
Whispers surged like a tide.
Leonard Vale.
Twenty-five years old. The upper limit for participation.
He descended from the Vale branch of the royal familyâdistant blood of the current queen herself. A noble with power, resources, and more importantly... a bloodline.
The White Leopard Lineage.
It granted enhanced agility, explosive strength, and mana sensitivity far beyond the norm.
Leonard wasnât some ordinary noble.
Leonard didnât walk to the stage.
He glided.
Each step was measured, elegant. His white hair caught the wind, and even without armor, the silver-trimmed uniform he wore gleamed with quiet dominance.
A few of the commoners didnât know who he was, but most nobles did.
Michael, meanwhile, made no attempt to mask his indifference. He wasnât dismissive, simply... unaffected.
That in itself made several nobles scoff.
It was arrogance, some thought.
Foolish pride.
And yet, those who had heard of his actions yesterdayâthose who had paid attentionâwatched with narrowed eyes.
They thought he was at the Advanced Stage. Probably peak.
At his age, he had to be a freak... but such existence was not impossible.
As such, thanks to their ignorance, he general belief remained unchanged:
He was powerfulâyes.
But within reason.
Someone like that had the right to be arrogant.
And Leonard?
Leonard had the right to put such arrogance in its place.
He stepped onto the stage, letting his aura pulse slightlyâa restrained pressure, like a spring held just tight enough to remind you it was there.
Michael met him at the center, and the two locked eyes.
Leonard smiled faintly, lips curving in a way that was both friendly and predatory.
Michael simply stood.
No stance.
No tension.
As if the battle hadnât begun yet.
As if it never would.
Then the woman in blue robes lifted her hand.
"Begin."
The moment the word left the officialâs lips, Leonard moved.
There was no hesitation. No testing the waters. No drawn-out build-up.
He was arrogant, yesâbut his pride wasnât foolish. This was a chance. A rare chance. Even he knew the Dukeâs competition wasnât tailored for him.
It was meant for other people.
However, he had no intention of falling before them without giving everything he had.
That meant securing victory now, against this "Mic Nor," whose exploits yesterday had drawn quiet conversations and hidden reports.
Before facing whoever the competition was designed for, Leonard planned to eliminate all variables.
Michael was one of those.
Which is why he didnât hold back.
His body glowed faintly as he activated his bloodline.
White streaks traced his limbs, glowing lines like tribal runes etched into skin, and his pupils narrowed into feline slits.
A thin sheen of silver shimmered across his arms and neck, hair whipping back from the surge of energy.
The White Leopard had awakened.
In a burst of speed that made air crack, Leonard vanished.
A second later, he reappeared in front of Michael, fist drawn backâaimed straight at his chest with terrifying precision.
But just as it was about to land, Leonardâs eyes widened.
Michael had moved.
He hadnât blocked.
He hadnât countered.
He had simply... tilted.
A slight shift, almost lazy, and Leonardâs fist grazed the edge of his robe instead of his ribs.
The momentum carried Leonard past him.
Michael took a step back, calm as a drifting cloud.
Leonard landed lightly and spun, his face now serious.
That shouldnât have been dodged.
The gap in their distance closed again, this time with a flurry of strikesâfast, clean, and relentless.
Fists.
Palms.
Sweeps.
Short kicks.
Leonardâs movements were sharp and feral, combining martial refinement with beast-like aggression.
But Michael kept evading. Not with desperation. Not with effort.
With grace.
Each time Leonard struck, Michael would shift, sidestep, or lean, never more than he needed to, always just enough.
From the stands, it looked like a light showâblurs of white and silver, broken only by a flicker of movement as Michael avoided each blow like he already knew where it would land.
And all the while, Michael watched.
Not coldly. Not with disdain.
But with curiosity.
As if Leonard Vale was a fascinating new toy.
At first, Leonard didnât think much of it.
Leonard pressed harder.
He poured more of his bloodline into his movements, pushing his legs past their comfort, accelerating his reflexes.
His body blurred as he launched another combinationâa rising knee, a twisting elbow, a clawing palm toward Michaelâs throat.
Michael didnât blink.
He simply leaned again, letting the wind of the blow pass through his collar.
Leonardâs fist crashed against air.
However.
Again.
Again.
And again.
The White Leopard Noble began to falter.
Leonardâs chest tightened. His muscles trembledânot from exhaustion, but from something worse.
Despair.
It crept up slowly, like cold water climbing his spine. A question echoed louder with each missed strike.
Am I really this weak?
Or is he justâ
"No," Leonard hissed under his breath, forcing the thought down. "Iâm not done."
He prepared to lunge again.
And thenâ
"Thatâs enough."
The voice wasnât loud.
It didnât echo.
But it was final.
Leonardâs body stopped.
Noâfroze.
His pupils shrank, the blood in his veins recoiling. A strange pressure fell upon him like a mountain, slamming him down to the ground before he even realized heâd moved.
His knees hit the arena floor.
Then his back.
Then darkness.
He didnât even feel the fall.
The last thing Leonard heard was the crack of air shifting,
And thenânothing.
From the stands, silence fell once more.
The match hadnât ended with a strike.
It had ended with a single word...
Leonard Valeâheir of the Vale line, bearer of the White Leopard bloodlineâhad been outclassed.
Utterly.