Karl had his doubts, but he reassured himself—it was probably just overthinking.

On the dueling ground, Glot approached Freya and handed her the substitute doll he’d just demonstrated.

"Both challenger and challenged must wear this doll. If it’s destroyed during the match, you lose. Win the duel, and it’s yours."

Freya accepted it and fastened it at her waist.

Glot studied her carefully. "What’s your current rank?"

"Silver Rank, Intermediate Stage."

As previously explained, this world’s power system has seven major ranks. Each rank splits into three minor stages: Initial, Intermediate, Peak—based on how many magic circuits one has unblocked. Cultivating magic means clearing these internal pathways. More circuits unblocked equals higher rank. For Bronze Rank: one circuit = Initial Stage, two = Intermediate, three = Peak. Silver Rank begins at four circuits. At five, you reach Silver Intermediate Stage. But the required circuits multiply with each tier: Bronze needs three total, Silver six, Gold Rank twelve. Progress grows harder. Many remain trapped at one rank their whole lives.

Back on the field, Glot nodded. "Reaching Silver Intermediate Stage so young—truly remarkable talent. But remember: beyond every peak lies a higher one."

He snapped his fingers. "Jelo, you’re also Silver Intermediate Stage. Step up. Show her that same rank doesn’t mean equal skill."

A tall young man with gleaming golden hair—nearly six feet tall—stepped forward from the formation.

"No problem, esteemed Headmaster. I won’t disappoint you."

Jelo positioned himself opposite Freya and slowly drew his waist sword.

The other nine retreated to the arena’s edge, laughing.

"Don’t make our future junior cry~~"

"Be a gentleman! Give her room!"

"Go all out again and you’ll never get a girlfriend."

They grinned, already certain of Freya’s defeat.

Jelo ignored them, turning to Freya. "Don’t mind them. I’ll fight at full strength—from start to finish. That’s respect. For you. For me."

Freya gave a cold, silent nod.

The crowd murmured below. Most favored Jelo.

"He’s an outstanding student of the Imperial Royal Academy’s Combat Department."

"Same rank, but his real combat experience? No comparison."

"Freya’s got zero chance. I’d bet my life on it."

Headmaster Glot stood listening. His face stayed neutral, but pride swelled inside. He’d built the Academy’s Combat Department from nothing to legendary—twenty years of sweat.

Both fighters settled into stance.

Glot raised his arm high. "Begin the duel!!!"

Jelo stomped forward, surging toward Freya like lightning—not just a phrase. Cracks of actual electricity wrapped his body, boosting speed and power. In a blink, he stood before her, sword raised to pierce her throat. Thanks to the substitute dolls, they fought without restraint: fatal blows transferred to the doll.

His thrust roared with flashing lightning—a signature move: Thunderclap Sword Technique, built on speed and force.

Freya stood still. To onlookers, she seemed frozen, unreactive.

But she wasn’t slow. She simply saw no need to move much.

The instant Jelo’s blade neared her throat—

*Shing.*

A single draw. A single sheath. One sharp ring of steel. One flash of light.

Jelo’s torso lurched midsection-first. At the split, a brilliant ice flower bloomed.

"T-this… this…"

He froze, collapsed to his knees, palms braced on the ground, forehead beaded with sweat. The substitute doll at his waist lay cleanly severed—ice crystallizing the cut.

Without it, he’d be dead.

Silence shattered into chaos.

"W-what just happened?!"

"Jelo lost?! An Imperial Royal Academy Combat Department star—defeated?!"

No one saw the move. One strike. One win.

His nine peers gaped. Jelo wasn’t top-tier, but he had skill. Losing after a hard fight? Understandable. Instantly? Unthinkable.

Glot’s eyebrows twitched slightly. He said nothing.

Humiliation burned sharp. Moments ago, he’d warned Freya: *mountains beyond mountains*. Now *she* stood atop his.

Ouch.

Freya lifted her sword, blade pointing at the remaining nine.

"This one was too weak. Next."

In the stands, Karl watched Freya’s blazing resolve—and felt his uneasy premonition crystallize into truth.