With the tension gone just like that, I let out a small breath—one I hadn't even realized I was holding.
Honestly, I couldn't care less about the people who'd been seconds away from tearing into each other. Aside from Deandra and Ceres, I barely knew any of them well enough to bother—at least until Macho Derrick stepped in.
And sohow, in his own twisted way, he managed to make it worse. Bigger.
Instead of a couple of pissed-off Rankers throwing hands because they didn't like each other's faces, Derrick went ahead and publicly pitched all top ten cadets against each other in so overblown, Ranker-exclusive spectacle.
"That's insane. Can he even do that? Like, officially? Sure, he's an Instructor and can referee duels between cadets, but an entire event like this—just the top ten? Does he even have the authority?" a guy next to muttered to his friend.
I held back the urge to roll my eyes—scratch that. No, I didn't.
He's literally officiating an exclusive duel event right now, you idiot. I rolled my eyes, biting down on my tongue to keep the words from slipping out.
I tuned out the cadet and his friends.
Muscle Derrick's grand idea had been rescheduled anyway. Maybe he really didn't have as much authority as he liked to pretend. Or maybe it just needed so behind-the-scenes prep before the top ten could officially clash.
In the anti, Derrick's so-called lesson dragged on—cadets throwing challenges, getting wrecked, and calling it learning.
The energy had died down. After the thrill of watching four of the Top Ten nearly collide, everything else felt painfully lackluster.
Still, no one complained. No one dared.
"Does anyone else wish to challenge the defender?" Derrick's voice cut across the arena, deep and commanding, just as the fourth challenger in a row crumpled face-first into the dirt.
The silence that followed was heavy. Sa story, over and over. Challenger steps up, fights hard, and ends up broken. The defender still stood tall, unshaken.
That defender—was Chase Hunter.
Black hair. Brown eyes. Dual short swords. A solid fighter, ranked sowhere in the top five hundred, though I hadn't cared enough to rember more than that. He wasn't the type that stood out—until now.
His first challenger had been a no-na who went down before anyone had ti to blink. The next three followed with barely more resistance, thinking the sa foolish thing: Chase must be worn out by now. Four fights in a row—he has to be running on fus.
But they were wrong.
Chase stood there like he hadn't broken a sweat. His stance was steady, his breathing calm, not a single strand of his hair out of place. If anything, he looked… eager.
And that was perfect.
Because the last thing I wanted was an excuse when I put him down.
The silence stretched. No one else dared to move.
Then—
"I will."
My voice rang out as I raised my hand.
Imdiately, heads turned, eyes snapping toward from the crowd.
Derrick's gaze drifted in my direction, one brow arching.
"You are… Hoh."
I ignored the glares and murmurs, walking down to the arena with casual steps that belied the weight of the mont.
"Well, well. Look who we have here…" Macho Derrick's voice carried a note of amusent as his eyes studied from his perch.
Even Chase looked unsettled, his expression a muddled mix of disbelief and annoyance—like he was silently asking, Are you serious?
The cadets behind broke into hushed whispers, the words bouncing through the crowd.
"Number 1499… or I guess I should say—Cadet 846, Victor Bright."
A grin tugged at my lips as I turned to face Derrick Greybarn.
"I'm flattered. You rember ."
His grin didn't falter. It twisted, eyes narrowing with a weight that pressed down like steel.
"Even if I didn't, brat… you've co a long way."
I rembered the very first General Combat Class—when Derrick had nearly strangled the life out of in front of everyone. Back then, I was nothing more than a punching bag.
Now… things were different.
I shrugged, not answering him directly.
"I'd like to challenge that guy."
Derrick scoffed, though his grin stayed sharp and unyielding.
"What? Just 'cause you've climbed a little higher, you think you're hot shit now?"
I smiled back, turning my back on him as I headed up the steps into the arena.
"You said it yourself—I've co a long way."
The crowd's chatter blurred into white noise. I tuned out the mutters, the smirks, the speculation. None of it mattered. My focus was locked on Chase.
"Hey," I called lightly, each step of mine echoing off the stone floor, unhurried, deliberate—like I was taking a stroll rather than walking into a fight.
Chase straightened, his grip tightening on his short swords. His eyes followed warily.
I stopped a few feet away and tilted my head, almost curious.
"What was your rank again?"
He blinked, thrown off. "What?" His brown eyes narrowed.
"I an," I repeated, tone flat, "your Ranking. I forgot. Could you remind ?"
"Dude, what? You don't even know my rank, and you still want to challenge ?" Chase's voice carried disbelief, his sigh heavy with exasperation. But then his brown eyes hardened, locking on with sudden seriousness.
"Look, I'm not big on picking on the weak, but you saw what happened to the others before you, right? Lower ranked or last place—it doesn't matter. If you ca for my rank, I'm not going to go easy on you. So—"
"Oh my God, genius." I cut him off, rolling my eyes so hard it almost hurt. "I asked what your rank was, not for your whole autobiography."
Before he could respond, I slipped one hand out of my pocket and waved it lazily through the air in mock dismissal.
"You know what? Forget it. Doesn't matter. I'll find out soon enough." My voice dropped into a flat deadpan as I crooked two fingers toward him.
"So… co on."
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