A deadly silence.

Everyone watching was frozen in shock, staring at the unfolding scene as disbelief clouded their minds.

What had happened?

Why had Orzel suddenly collapsed?

And…

As the stench emanating from Orzel's lower body began to spread, many onlookers instinctively covered their noses and stepped back.

The lion infamous for his ferocity and ruthlessness—had he just… wet himself?

What on earth had Moen Campbell done to frighten him so deeply?

The crowd consisted largely of those gathered to watch the spectacle, but due to the sheer number of people and the distance from the action, most hadn’t managed to see what Moen had done. Confusion and curiosity dominated their expressions.

It wasn’t until more and more people noticed Orzel's missing facial hair and his now remarkably smooth chin that realization began to dawn.

His beard?

Had it been shaved off?

When?

Their gazes shifted to Moen, who was twirling a white blade in his hand. This sight made many pupils constrict in sudden comprehension.

A beard being shaved off wasn’t inherently terrifying. In battle, losing some hair, even a beard, was nothing out of the ordinary.

The real problem was how clean the job appeared.

Clean to the point of resembling the work of a professional stylist—so clean, in fact, that it gave Orzel an inexplicably youthful appearance, as though he had aged backward by ten years. Even his skin remained unscathed.

But accomplishing this level of precision… How much time would it usually take? How many blade strokes would be needed to achieve such perfection in an instant?

And during all those strokes… how many opportunities would there have been to kill Orzel outright?

No wonder Orzel was terrified to this.

Fear began to spread like a contagious plague through everyone’s eyes.

But at the same time, this horrifying realization brought forth a new set of questions:

Since when had Moen Campbell become this strong?

…

Moen paid little attention to the crowd. His handsome face still carried the signature nobleman's smile. With impeccable courtesy, he addressed the group of opportunistic "yellow sparrows" before him:

"Come. I’m short on time, so why don’t you all attack me together?"

"...Moen Campbell, what kind of trick did you use?"

After a brief silence, Lence spoke in a low voice.

Even Lence, upon seeing Orzel crumpled on the ground, had felt a flash of shock. However, after exchanging glances with the people around him, he quickly regained his composure.

It was impossible.

Absolutely impossible.

There was no way this was all Moen Campbell’s own power.

A second-year playboy with a reputation as the worst-performing student last semester could suddenly, in a matter of months, possess the strength to incapacitate a top-ranked third-year instantly?

Unless this guy had struck a deal with the Dark God and gained power from them, not even a novel would dare to write such a plot!

Was it a magic device? An ancient relic? Or perhaps some sort of special item?

Lence’s gaze flickered, but he couldn’t identify anything unusual about Moen apart from the striking blade in his hand.

Still, his intuition told him he was right.

"Moen Campbell, while the academy doesn’t prohibit the use of magical items, to behave this way… are you truly living up to the name of the Duke's heir?"

Taking bold steps forward, Lence stood before Moen and declared firmly:

"I challenge you to a fair duel, staking my family name in this fight!"

"Dueling one-on-one… What a waste of time," Moen sighed reluctantly.

But Lence gave him no chance to continue lamenting. He drew forth an ornate rapier decorated with golden roses and lilies from his waist. With one hand behind his back and the rapier pointed at an angle, he pressed his legs tightly together and announced loudly:

"In the name of the Lokir, I challenge you, Moen Campbell, heir of the Campbell!"

"I pray you will honor the name of Campbell and face me honorably—fairly and without resorting to any vile schemes!"

"..."

Moen’s lip twitched slightly.

What kind of nonsense was this? Did these people really announce their names and intentions before a fight?

In a real-life combat scenario, Moen would’ve already struck before they could say a single word. Being proactive and interrupting magical girls before they could transform had long been basic strategy.

But then a flicker of realization struck him as he glanced at the surrounding figures.

This wasn’t a life-or-death battle—it was dealing with a few greenhouse flowers, not worth taking so seriously.

Come to think of it, the guy named Or-something earlier had also wasted time speaking a bunch of nonsense before fighting.

When had there been such a wide gap in mentality between himself and these people?

It seemed evident that fighting these opponents wouldn’t teach him anything meaningful. It was just a frustrating waste of time.

Still, if he wanted them to willingly accept defeat…

Moen drew a deep breath, placed a hand over his chest, and returned Lence's aristocratic gesture with equal flawlessness:

"In the name of Campbell, I accept your challenge. But let me reiterate: Please be quick. My time is precious."

"Rest assured."

Lence’s lips curled into a sneer as he replied,

"I’ll make it quick!"

Quick…

To end you!

Lence lunged forward with his blade.

Instantly, an overwhelming battle aura surged from him, far surpassing Moen’s. The rapier gleamed brightly, scattering light like stars.

Lokir Rapier Techniques, Fifth Form—The goddess’s constellation!

"Moen Campbell, watch yourself!"

Lence gave a gentlemanly warning, but his eyes burned with a fire of inevitable victory.

If this was to be a fair duel, then there was nothing to fear!

Even if you’re a spoiled noble, surely you wouldn’t disgrace the Campbell name by using tricks in front of so many witnesses.

In any case, being defeated by my signature masterstroke is—

*Ding.*

The sudden, clear sound of collision froze Lence’s expression completely.

"How… How is this possible?"

His wide-open eyes stared straight ahead, where Moen languidly raised his pure white blade and effortlessly intercepted Lence’s devastating thrust.

But how could this be?

The Lokir Rapier Techniques were renowned for their swiftness and unceasing ferocity—like a torrential rain of attacks overwhelming any opponent.

Yet this time, the rain didn’t even have a chance to begin, as the very first strike was stopped outright.

Coincidence?

No. This was no coincidence.

Moen didn’t block with the flat of the blade—instead, he used the edge.

The razor-sharp blade, against the rapier's tip.

"This is impossible… Impossible!"

Lence began to unravel, twisting his glowing rapier to unleash a flurry of shimmering bursts.

Sword blossoms sparkled brightly, only to instantly disappear.

Each blossoming attack met an even greater brilliance—a precise counter that shattered them.

The noble blond man standing before him seemed capable of predicting the future. Each movement of his blade aligned perfectly with the path of Lence’s attacks.

No one can truly foresee the future, which meant…

Had his own technique been completely outclassed?

The swordsmanship he had learned as a child—the hours spent practicing until countless wooden blades broke and training dummies crumbled, the thousands of hours of sparring—all were thoroughly crushed in terms of raw skill.

By this man, this duke’s heir, who until recently, was infamous for being utterly incompetent?

Why?

This man probably hadn’t ever swung a sword a thousand times in his life!

"Decent swordsmanship," Moen commented nonchalantly as he continued to fend off the attacks.

"Though your techniques is staler than Professor Pulan’s face."

"You…"

Lence’s eyes bulged in rage. He shifted his stance, altering his approach entirely.

If finesse didn’t work, then brute force would!

Drawing in a sharp breath, his rapier burst forth with a frosty brilliance.

An immense battle aura enveloped his weapon, stirring gusts of icy wind that sent the snow on the ground swirling upwards.

Covered in artificial snowfall, Lence charged. The ground beneath him split open, leaving a trench half a meter deep behind him.

The crackling rapier glowed, a comet streaking across the battlefield, bearing unparalleled momentum as it struck toward Moen.

A Tier-Three fighter against a Tier-Two—the advantage is mine!

And at that exact moment.

Amid the swirling snowflakes, Lence saw Moen Campbell’s expression finally grow slightly serious. Raising the blade in his hand, it erupted with—

Thunder.

…

"Why… Why?"

Lence finally managed to voice the question:

"When did you become so strong?"

"Oh, it’s nothing."

Moen shrugged dismissively.

"Early to bed, early to rise. Work hard, admire beautiful women… and strive to stay alive.

That’s about all I’ve done."

"Is that so?"

What kind of joke…

Do those words have anything to do with getting stronger?

Lence turned his gaze to the broken remains of his rapier and gave a bitter laugh, coughing up a mouthful of blood before collapsing powerlessly to the ground.

Without a glance, Moen strode past him.

"You two are next, aren’t you?"

He looked ahead at Bronk and Doramus, who stood blocking his path. His hand continued playing idly with Elizabeth, his expression peaceful:

"I’ve had enough of facing opponents one at a time. So let’s change things up—how about I challenge you both at once?"

"You…"

The arrogance in his tone enraged the pair, and they exchanged a glance. Without a word, they transformed into two blurred shadows and rushed at Moen Campbell simultaneously.

Unlike Orzel’s inexplicable collapse earlier, this time Moen Campbell had demonstrated his strength clearly and directly by obliterating Lence—a fact not lost on Bronk and Doramus.

They understood that they couldn’t afford to hold anything back. Even if it meant being labeled as dishonorable for ganging up on him, defeating Moen Campbell here and now was their absolute priority!

Bronk’s movements were faster than Doramus’s. In the blink of an eye, he had already reached Moen.

His hand swung fiercely—but not to wield a weapon.

Instead, what appeared was… an ancient hourglass.

An ancient relic—Snake’s Eye Hourglass!

Using an item in combat might be despicable, but Bronk didn’t concern himself with aristocratic values like Lence did.

And besides…

Moen Campbell—given how casually you’ve defeated others, **you** started this!

Bronk’s eyes glinted with ferocity. Without hesitation, he flipped the hourglass over.

The snake eye on the hourglass instantly emitted an eerie glow.

In that moment, as if someone had pressed the pause button, the entire world within Bronky's vision slowed down.

It was as though time had stopped.

But he knew—this wasn't time stopping.

Even with precious ancient relics, something like true Time Freeze was utterly impossible.

This was acceleration.

A special power from the hourglass granted him tenfold physical acceleration, twentyfold reaction speed acceleration, and a fiftyfold boost in thinking speed!

Adding to this was his natural expertise in speed and agility; Bronky, known to others as the "Black Snake," relied solely on his velocity to dominate. Even the top one, Fannie Sawyer, was no match for him in pure speed!

A look of excitement appeared on Bronky's face. With his thinking sped up by fiftyfold, even though his own movements seemed to slow down to himself, in his vision, Moen Campbell appeared static—like a photograph formed by magic, almost entirely immobilized.

So, kneel down and beg for mercy, Moen Campbell!

Bronky struck a palm towards Moen’s undefended chest.

But just as his palm was about to make contact with Moen, he felt an inexplicable gaze fall upon him.

A gaze? Where was it coming from?

Terrified, Bronky looked up, and to his horror, the seemingly static Moen Campbell, like a ghostly photograph coming to life, suddenly moved.

Moen's eyeballs shifted to lock onto Bronky, the corners of his mouth tugged up into a sneering smirk.

"That's... it?"

The elongated drawl echoed next to Bronky's ears, and before he could even react, a terrifying force erupted against his chest.

Somehow, Moen Campbell had managed to move first, his palm slamming into Bronky’s chest.

"Urgh..."

Everything returned to normal.

Bronky spat out blood, his aura instantly weakening, his eyes filled with disbelief.

Why?

Why could Moen Campbell keep up with my speed?

Could it be...

Bronky recalled Orzel’s beard being plucked off—could that incident not have been due to some artifact Moen used, but because Moen was genuinely *that* fast?

There wasn’t time to think. Bronky’s expression once again twisted with ferocity as the hourglass in his hand flared with its ominous glow once more.

This hourglass... had more than one use!

"Hmm?"

Moen frowned suddenly, looking down at himself.

He couldn’t move.

This... was petrification?

Glancing at the snake's eye hourglass in Bronky’s hand, Moen raised an intrigued eyebrow.

Though it seemed like petrification, it wasn’t actual petrification. It merely immobilized him temporarily.

But in this fleeting moment, a chill descended upon the air!

From a blind spot in the shadows at his side, Duranmuth suddenly emerged, seizing the opportunity. His dagger, cold and menacing, was aimed straight at Moen’s vital points.

Even the surrounding onlookers gasped, stunned. None had expected this—Duranmuth, a fellow son of a great noble, to be so adept at assassination techniques, let alone possess skills he'd never revealed before.

Seeing Moen immobilized like a lamb to slaughter, Duranmuth couldn’t help but show a victorious grin.

What was the saying again? Only the one who laughs to the end is the true winner.

So, die, Moen Campbell!

Belland cannot tolerate two...

*Splurt—*

The crisp sound of flesh and blood being torn apart echoed. Duranmuth’s grin froze in place.

He lowered his head, staring at the dagger that had pierced mercilessly into his own abdomen. His thoughts spun into chaos.

"Why?"

He and Bronky, who stood frozen in shock beside him, voiced the same question:

"How are you still able to move?"

The so-called petrification wasn’t magic—it was a curse.

Precisely because it was a curse, wasn’t it meant to be even more inescapable?

"Huh?"

Moen’s expression remained calm. As he pulled *Elizabeth* from Duranmuth’s abdomen, he casually delivered a follow-up strike to the still-struggling Bronky. His tone was dismissive, almost nonchalant:

"Didn’t you know? The higher your resilience, the less susceptible you are to control effects. It just so happens that I’ve got thick skin—and pretty high resilience."

"Huh...?"

Duranmuth’s face twisted in a mix of confusion and disbelief. He slowly collapsed to the ground, blood gushing from his abdomen.

The injury Moen received wasn’t fatal, but it was enough to deprive him of all his combat ability—Bronky was in the same plight.

Yet, in the fog of weakened consciousness, Bronky couldn’t help but echo Duranmuth’s question:

"Moen Campbell... You... A useless duke's son—how did you suddenly become... so strong?"

So strong, it was like facing a monster.

Could someone in this world transform so completely in just a few months? Or...

Was *this* Moen Campbell the real one, and the former merely a façade all along?

"A useless duke's son?"

Hearing this, Moen chuckled. He suddenly knelt beside Duranmuth, grabbing a fistful of his hair to force their gazes to meet.

Eyes as blue as a pristine lake.

So tranquil.

And yet, to Duranmuth, it felt as though he was staring at the abyss of something terrifying. His face filled with fear; his body began to tremble.

Because he could feel it—the killing intent.

This was not the killing intent of a pampered and sheltered duke’s son. No, what Duranmuth saw reflected in the deepest recesses of Moen Campbell’s gaze... was a mountain of corpses and an ocean of blood.

"In the past," Moen murmured, "I never minded when you all spoke ill of me behind my back.

"For two reasons. One, much of what you said was true—I couldn’t argue against it. And two, at that time, I had no power to shut you up."

"But now? Now I’ve turned over a new leaf. And I do have that power to shut you up."

"So..."

Staring directly into Duranmuth’s fearful eyes, his ever-present serene smile never wavered. His tone was calm, as though sharing heartfelt advice with an old friend:

"In the future, show a little more respect—to me, and to the name Campbell. Alright?"

...

The snowfall ceased.

The world grew ever quieter.

It was as though everyone had been silenced by some spell, their shock conveyed only through blank stares.

At the news agency, Mingot nearly tore the freshly drafted newspaper in half. After a long moment of stunned silence, he lowered his head. Looking at the substantial pile of Emil he'd wagered on the betting line, his face turned ashen.

Elsewhere, the still-present Weier’s round eyes widened so much they seemed about to pop out of her head.

She stared in the direction where Celicia had disappeared, as though wanting to shout something. Yet her lips moved soundlessly—she couldn’t utter a single word.

...

This battle, which had seemed protracted, had actually been brief.

To onlookers, Moen Campbell had made it look like child’s play, dispatching these four opponents with ease.

These four, considered the strongest in the third year aside from Fannie Sawyer.

No one had expected this.

Or rather, no one could have expected this.

This absurd display of overwhelming power caused some to recall another monstrous figure who had similarly slapped countless spectators over their faces:

—The second-year top ranker, now capable of going toe-to-toe with fifth years. A former illegitimate daughter of a count, now formally recognized as the first heir: Ariel Bugard.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t present. Otherwise, some might already have begun speculating what a collision between these two titans would look like.

Others still stared at the scene before them in disbelief, scrambling for explanations to Moen Campbell’s sudden rise in strength—most likely looking for loopholes could explain.

...

"Anyone else?"

Moen glanced around. Seeing no response, he exhaled deeply and shook his head.

"Just four? I thought for sure there’d be at least ten challengers. Guess I’m really not cut out to play the big-shot role."

"But oh well. Maybe now things will quiet down for a while."

Moen turned and waved casually to the side.

"I’ll be heading out now, Fannie. See you in seven days."

"..."

Fannie stood there, dazed, her rosy lips parted as though she could swallow an egg.

It wasn’t until Moen vanished from her sight that she came back to her senses, letting out a bitter smile.

"Moen... You truly are the most unexpected one."