In the principal's office, principal Veymoor sat behind his large oak desk, a pile of docunts scattered before him. He is looking at one particular sheet—the official request for a sparring duel between Garrik and Leonhardt. He frowned slightly as he examined the details.
"The duel is set for tomorrow, right?" He asked. His eyes flicked upward to et Professor Gidor, who stood at attention on the other side of the desk.
"Yes, sir," Gidor confird with a curt nod. "And I've been assigned as the official referee."
Veymoor gave a thoughtful hum, setting the request aside and reaching for another docunt. He handed a new set of papers to him. "These just ca in," he said simply. "The results from Bronze Class 2A's archery practice."
Gidor accepted the sheets, scanning them quickly. His brow furrowed. "This doesn't add up," he muttered. "Almost the entire class shows impressive marks. Bronze isn't supposed to learn this much."
His eyes narrowed as he reached Leonhardt's na on the list. The results beside it made him pause, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. "Leonhardt's results... they're exceptional. Almost unnatural," he muttered under his breath.
Veymoor leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together. "The instructor reported that Leonhardt personally coached the other students during practice. It seems his guidance had a significant impact."
Gidor's eyes widened slightly. "He... taught them? Leonhardt? The sa student who used to struggle in his own training sessions? It's hard to believe."
The principal allowed a small, knowing smile to play on his lips. "Leonhardt has been full of surprises lately," he said. "And given what we've seen in recent days, I'd say he's only just beginning. Keep a close eye on the duel tomorrow, Gidor."
Gidor nodded, his grip tightening on the papers in his hand. "Understood sir."
As Gidor turned to leave, Veymoor's gaze lingered on the sparring request still sitting on his desk.
anwhile in the Prince's Dorm.
The butler moved with practiced precision, pouring tea into a delicate cup as Prince Cassian lounged on the velvet couch, his smirk sharp and calculating.
Across from him sat Garrik, his broad fra hunched slightly, his usual bravado muted in the Prince's presence. The tension in the room was palpable.
"I'm sorry," Garrik muttered, his voice low and strained.
Prince raised an eyebrow, lifting the teacup to his lips. "Sorry?" he echoed, his tone laced with mock curiosity. "Sorry for what?"
Garrik's hands clenched into fists on his knees as he struggled to et Cassian's gaze. "For not putting him in his place," he admitted, his voice trembling slightly.
Cassian chuckled softly, setting the teacup down with a faint clink. "Tomorrow," he began, his voice smooth but carrying an edge that made Garrik flinch, "will be your final chance. Either you beat the fuck out of him in that match, or you make him piss his pants and kneel before you. Tomorrow, you end this, you moron."
Garrik swallowed hard. The Prince's commanding presence left no room for argunt.
"Don't worry," he said after a mont, his voice steadier now. "That motherfucker won't even make it to the duel."
Cassian leaned back, his smirk widening. "Oh?" he said, his tone calm but curious. "And what exactly are you planning?"
A wicked grin spread across Garrik's face, but he said nothing more.
Four rough looking guys moved through the hallways, their heavy footsteps echoing. Their expressions were hard, their intent clear as they made their way toward Leonhardt's room.
The room echoed with the rhythmic thud of fists striking a punching bag. Reo's movents were relentless, his sleeveless shirt clinging to his sweat-slicked body as he punching the sand bag with intensity.
His crimson eyes burned with concentration, punches sharp and thodical. The cords of his biceps flexed with each strike, muscles taut and rippling.
Few feet away, Liana lingered hesitantly. Her brown eyes flickered with a mix of fear, concern, and hesitation as she watched him.
Gathering her courage, she finally called out, her voice trembling slightly. "Y-young Master Leo..."
Reo didn't stop, his strikes relentless. "What is it?" he asked curtly, not sparing her a glance.
Liana shifted uncomfortably, her hands twisting the hem of her dress. "You should... reconsider," she said softly, though her words carried an fear.
Reo's punches didn't waver. "Reconsider what?"
"The duel," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "With Garrik."
At that, Reo paused, his fists stilling as the bag swung back and forth in the sudden silence. He turned toward her, his crimson eyes locking onto her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "And why I should do that?" he asked, his voice calm but with challenge.
She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her fingers trembled as she clasped them together. "Because... I already saw what happened last ti," she said, her voice trembling. "You... you were beaten so badly, I thought—" Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath. "I thought I might lose you."
Reo's expression didn't soften, but there was a flicker of sothing in his eyes—acknowledgnt, perhaps, or understanding. He took a step closer.
"Tell , Liana," he said quietly, his tone steady but firm. "Who am I?"
She confused, caught off guard by that question. "You're... you're my young master, Leonhardt Caulem," she stamred.
Reo nodded, his gaze unwavering. "That's right. The heir to one of the three great houses of this kingdom." His voice sharpened slightly. "And you're asking to let myself be pushed around by kids who should bow when they see ? To let Garrik walk all over , again?"
Liana's head lowered, her shoulders trembling slightly. "It's not like that," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I just... I don't want to see you hurt again. You've already been through so much—"
"Liana," he interrupted, his tone softening slightly. Her head snapped up, her brown eyes eting his fiery crimson ones. For an instant, his eyes appeared to reassure, replaced by sothing firr, sothing unshakeable. "I value your concern for ," he told her. "But you don't have anything to worry about."
He ca closer, speaking in a voice that dropped to a level that was low but full of unshakeable determination. "Tomorrow, you'll see Liana. You'll see that your young master has changed. And this ti, you'll be proud of ."
Liana's breath caught, her lips parting as she tried to form a response. The words wouldn't co, but the look in his eyes—alive with fire and purpose—stilled her protests.
Before she could reply, a sharp knock echoed through the room.
Liana turned toward the door, startled. "Who could that be at this hour?" she murmured.
Reo unwrapped the cloth from his fists. "Go brew so coffee for ," he said. "I'll take care of it."
Liana hesitated for a mont before nodding. As she moved toward the kitchen, she glanced back at him one last ti, watching as he walked toward the door.
Reo opened the door, the faint creak of the hinges breaking the quiet hum of the hallway. His crimson eyes locked onto the figures outside—a group of four, unmistakable air of thuggish confidence.
Their postures were casual but deliberate, smirking like they already knew they owned the space. Garrik's lackeys, no doubt. The kind who followed strength blindly, always circling like vultures at his command.
Reo leaned against the doorfra casually, his gaze slicing through them like a blade. He didn't need to ask why they were here—the answer was written plainly on their smug faces. Garrik that fatass, he thought coldly.
One of the lackeys stepped forward, the biggest of the group, cracking his knuckles loudly. "Evening, Leonhardt," he said with mock cheer. "We were hoping for a little chat."
From deeper inside the room, Liana's soft voice called out. "Young Master Leo, who's there?"
Reo didn't look away from the group as he answered smoothly, his tone sharp with practiced nonchalance. "Nobody important. Just so punching bags I ordered."
The lackeys exchanged glances, their smirks faltering for a brief second. Reo's comnt had landed, cutting into their bravado.
He pushed the door shut behind him with a deliberate click, stepping fully into the hallway. Without rushing, he began unwrapping the cloth around his fists, the movents slow and calculated.
They watching him as he rotated his wrists, rolled his shoulders, and started rewrapping the cloth.
"You're a cocky one, huh?" one of them muttered, trying to keep his smirk intact. "What's with the cloth? You planning to fight us?"
Reo paused mid-wrap, glancing up at them with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, it's not a plan," he said casually.
Reo's hands finished wrapping. He flexed his fingers experintally, the stretch pulling taut against the cloth.
"So," he said, his voice low but carrying a sharp edge. "Let's see if Garrik's little pets can keep up."
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