Inside a private glass-paneled observation room overlooking the VR arena grounds below, the tension was almost palpable.
Dozens of screens hovered in the air, each displaying a different match from the simulated battlefields. Despite the variety of fights happening at once, almost every instructor's gaze was locked onto a single screen.
A single student.
Adrian Blackthorn.
"Did you see that counter?"
"Unreal. He read that before it even happened."
One of the instructors leaned forward, eyes wide behind his glasses. Another let out a long, impressed whistle.
The room buzzed—not with conversation, but with quiet, stunned murmurs.
Most of the instructors present didn't know each other well. They'd been pulled from different departnts specifically to evaluate the cadets for the upcoming tournant—an effort by the Academy to avoid favoritism and departntal bias.
But right now, none of that mattered. Adrian's performance spoke for itself.
"I thought he was a high-rank cadet," one of the instructors murmured, eyes never leaving the screen, "but this is sothing else…"
"He's not just strong. He's refined," another added, arms crossed, lips pressed in a firm line of concentration. "Look at that stance. No wasted movent."
Each swing of Adrian's sword was precise, controlled. There was no showboating, no hesitation. His blade moved like an extension of his will, and each strike blended into the next with terrifying fluidity.
Three enemies surrounded him, all of them working in perfect sync—and yet, they couldn't touch him.
Every ti their blades ca close, Adrian's sword was already there, intercepting, redirecting, punishing.
"Amazing…" soone muttered under their breath, almost reverently.
"He's… making this look like a performance."
"It's like watching a veteran. Not a first-year."
The room fell into a brief silence as Adrian disard one of the attackers with a deft twist of his wrist and a sudden, decisive strike that sent the opponent's weapon flying.
He didn't stop to celebrate.
He moved forward without missing a beat, sliding into a new stance, his eyes calm—cold, even—as he faced the next challenger.
No fear. No urgency. Just clarity.
"His control is frightening," an older instructor said finally, stroking his beard. "He's not just reacting—he's predicting."
"His arts… they're synced with his swordplay. That's not sothing you can fake."
"I don't even think he's going all out," another whispered.
The thought sent a chill through the room.
To most of the instructors present, the battlefield wasn't a simple exercise anymore—it had beco a showcase. And Adrian Blackthorn was putting on a masterclass.
One of the younger instructors leaned toward the display, tapping a few controls to rewind a short segnt of the fight.
"Look here," she said. "Right there—did you see the footwork? He baited the third attacker without even glancing at them."
The footage played back in slow motion, and sure enough, Adrian's foot shifted just slightly—enough to draw the third opponent in, and within a second, his sword whipped around and cut clean across their chest plate, scoring a critical blow.
"Instinct," soone muttered. "No, not just that—experience. How old is he again?"
"Fifteen," ca the reply.
A stunned silence followed.
Then: "When I was fifteen, I was still learning how to hold a sword properly."
"He's different."
No one argued.
The instructors all stood, watching, quiet, absorbing everything they were seeing. So were already writing notes. Others were simply srized.
There was no doubt about it.
Adrian Blackthorn was going to be a problem—for everyone.
And sowhere deep in that room, in the quiet spaces between breaths and exchanged glances, a consensus began to form among the evaluators:
He wasn't just good.
He was dangerous.
And if he kept improving at this rate…
He might be unstoppable.
---
The battle on the screen finally ca to an end.
Adrian stood alone in the middle of the simulated ruins, sword lowered at his side. His opponents were sprawled out across the field, their projections flickering out one by one as the system registered their defeat.
Not a single scratch on him.
The instructors didn't speak at first. The silence wasn't awkward—just heavy. Like everyone in the room was letting what they just witnessed sink in.
Then soone exhaled, long and low.
"Well…"
A short chuckle followed, dry and disbelieving. "I don't even know what to write on my evaluation sheet."
"I'm putting a star," another instructor said with a shrug, flipping their tablet over and tapping the screen. "Maybe two."
"Just two?" the woman next to him asked, raising a brow.
A few chuckles rippled around the room.
"I don't know what they're feeding the kids these days," the older instructor muttered, shaking his head. "But I want to know who trained that boy."
"No one in the first-year roster teaches him," soone said. "He hasn't taken any personal swordsmanship tutoring either. At least, not inside the academy."
There was a pause.
"Wait—so he's self-trained?"
"Mostly. From what I read in his profile, he entered the academy already possessing advanced combat knowledge. He passed the physical assessnt with a near-perfect score and even declined redial sparring sessions."
Another silence.
"…Is he aiming for the tournant?"
"He already qualified. This is just extra footage for bracket seeding."
One of the instructors swiped on his screen, pulling up Adrian's profile.
Adrian Blackthorn. Age: 15. Departnt: Combat. Rank: High First-Year. Background: Transferred from a rural division. No noble lineage. No sponsorship.
"He's not backed by any family?" soone asked, frowning. "Not even a minor house?"
"Nope," the man said, scrolling. "No clan. No recomndations. Entered through the regular testing route."
That raised a few eyebrows.
"No support, no background… and yet he fights like that?"
"He's a monster in the making," one instructor said plainly.
"Or a miracle," another replied.
The room grew quiet again, and several of the instructors found themselves glancing back at the screen, where Adrian's silhouette still stood on the battlefield, silent and unshaken.
The system began to fade the scene out, transitioning to the next simulation.
But none of them were paying attention to the others anymore.
Only one na lingered in the air.
Adrian Blackthorn.
And as they all began writing their notes, it was clear: whether the tournant liked it or not, a storm was coming.
And that boy was at the center of it.
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