The paved stones cracked beneath his boots as he lunged forward, blade cutting through the air in a blazing arc of crimson light.

Both men moved at once.

However.

The blows never landed.

A third figure slipped between them with impossible timing. Two broad hands shot out—one swallowing Michael's knuckles, the other catching Ryn's sword.

The shock traveled through the stranger's forearms and into the ground with a dull, heavy whump. Dust ringed their feet.

He was a burly youth built like a fortress—thick shoulders, corded neck, forearms dense as stone. He wore the plain, sleeveless training top and loose, dark trousers bound at the shins.

Lira's breath hitched. "Taris Veld," she whispered.

This was another popular figure.

Year Four—number one. Taris Veld. A Martial Artist.

Even Ryn's entourage stiffened.

Taris' class was the common grade Martial Artist class.

A common-grade class on paper—ubiquitous and unglamorous. In Taris's hands, it had become something else entirely.

Rumor also had it he was already brushing the ceiling of Rank 3 and would breach Rank 4 in a handful of years.

Michael's gaze sharpened. He felt the instant feedback in his wrist and shoulder: there was give in the grip, but not much—just enough to protect joints, not so much as to be called soft. Whoever this was, he hadn't simply interposed; he had bled the force cleanly into the floor.

Ryn's eyes flared. "Taris—" he started.

"Enough," Taris said.

He released both fists and let his hands drop to his sides. "Academy rules need to be held. "

"You both broke the first," he said to Michael then turned to Ryn, "And your next moves were going to break the rest."

Ryn's jaw worked, pride warring with caution. "He—"

"Started?" Taris cut in mildly. "You baited. Same weight."

The fifth-year's mouth flattened. He didn't argue further.

Taris shifted his attention to Michael.

Michael gave the barest nod and said nothing. He turned, set his hands back into his coat pockets, and began to walk.

"Michael—" Lira snapped out of her daze and hurried after him, casting one last wary look at Ryn, then at Taris. She dipped her head to the fourth-year out of reflexive respect. "Thank you," she said under her breath.

Taris didn't answer. He stood where he was until the space between the groups widened, then glanced once at Ryn.

"If you want a match," he said, calm as ever, "book a ring."

Ryn's fingers flexed, the knuckles whitening, but he said nothing. The students around him found new places to put their eyes.

*

Michael walked in silence for a while, the sound of his boots echoing faintly against the paved path. The anger that had been simmering moments ago was gone, replaced by a quiet, curious calm.

Finally, he turned slightly toward Lira. "Who were those two seniors?" he asked. His tone wasn't sharp or emotional, just steady—like someone sorting pieces of a puzzle.

Lira exhaled softly, still shaken from what had just happened. "The one you fought was Ryn Halvane, a fifth-year student," she began. "He's a Magic Swordsman , Level 50. Peak of Rank 2. He's been stuck there for a while but… most people think he'll break through soon. When he does, he'll probably reach Rank 3 with a perfect foundation."

Michael nodded slightly, absorbing the information. "And the other?"

Lira hesitated for a moment, as though speaking his name demanded respect. "That was Taris Veld, Year Four's top student. His class is Martial Artist."

"Martial Artist?" Michael glanced at her. "That's a common-grade class, isn't it?"

"Normally, yes," she said with a half-smile. "But in his hands, it's anything but common. Taris is… different. He's the kind of person who makes even instructors cautious. He doesn't rely on magic or flashy techniques—just his body, his control, and an absurd sense of timing. He's already close to the peak of Rank 3, and some people say he'll reach its peak before graduation."

Michael's brows lifted slightly at that. "Impressive."

"More than impressive," Lira said with a wry laugh. "He's terrifying when he fights seriously. People say he once took down a Rank 3 instructor during a spar—without using mana, just pure technique."

Michael glanced back briefly. "I see."

Lira thought that was the end of it, but Michael's next question made her blink.

"Do you know why he was so hostile toward me?" he asked quietly.

Lira hesitated. She'd been wondering the same thing.

Michael's gaze lingered ahead, expression unreadable. "He didn't just come to provoke me. He knew who I was—and more than that. That's not normal for a first meeting."

Michael was wary. After all, Ryn had not only known his full name, he had even mentioned his family. That level of familiarity didn't happen by chance.

Lira bit her lip, uncertain whether to say what she was thinking. "You're… not wrong," she said slowly. "It's not normal at all."

She looked down briefly, sorting through her thoughts before continuing, "If I had to guess, I'd say you probably touched his interest—without meaning to."

Michael turned his head slightly, giving her a sidelong look. "Touched his interest?"

"Mm." She nodded, though her voice dropped lower. "You're the top 1 student of this year, right? Before the results were announced, everyone assumed that position was guaranteed to go to his younger sister—Rynne Halvane. She's ridiculously talented, even compared to most prodigies. I heard she was already accepted into the academy early, but the rankings still mattered for recognition and privileges."

Lira sighed softly. "But when the results came out, her name was second. Yours was first. That… might be the reason for all this."

Michael frowned slightly. "So, I became his problem by existing."

Lira gave a nervous chuckle. "Maybe."

Michael didn't respond immediately. His pace slowed as he mulled it over. The logic made sense—but something about it still didn't sit right.

In any case, Jester was at home with his family to protect them.

No matter what the issue was, Ryn should not be crazy enough to target them.

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