Leon didn't step out of the ring.
He smeared the blood from the corner of his mouth and shifted his grip on the sword. The hilt felt hotter now, slick with sweat that had soaked deep into the leather wrappings. His breath came short and jagged, chest heaving under the cloth of his uniform. Still—he stood firm.
Then came the knight's voice again. "Round two: Defense."
Kira had already retreated. Now in her place stood a different kind of threat — taller, broader — Reinhardt Voss. Firstborn of a knight-baron. Talk in the ranks was that he was next up for a crest upgrade. His blade made Leon's look small — two-handed, heavy, the kind meant for cleaving trees, not people.
Leon shifted his stance, rolling his ankle once. No time to loosen up. No room for doubt.
The bell rang.
Reinhardt didn't hesitate. He came in fast, like something unchained, his blade sweeping down in a brutal arc.
Leon ducked low, nearly to one knee, and felt the wind from that massive sword slice over him like a guillotine.
He pivoted, rolled to Reinhardt's left side—not to counter, just to breathe.
This round wasn't about winning.
It was about surviving.
Reinhardt turned on him again — a feint low, then an upward slash that would've gutted him if he hadn't stepped back—once, twice, just enough to let it sail past.
Every move set his muscles on fire. His legs cried out. One misstep, a slip in balance—and Reinhardt surged forward, reckless and fast.
Leon met the charge with his blade at an angle. Steel kissed steel, and though he deflected it, the weight of it sent him stumbling back.
Then again.
Then—
His boot gave way.
He hit the ground hard, elbow cracking the dirt, sword barely hanging on.
Reinhardt roared as he raised his weapon.
Leon rolled just in time.
The blade slammed into the ground where his skull had been.
A cloud of dust burst around them.
Leon came up behind Reinhardt — still not striking. Just breathing. Holding ground.
"Hold," the knight barked from above.
They froze.
Leon on one knee, chest rising fast.
Reinhardt standing there, flushed and panting, sword embedded in earth.
The bell rang.
"Round two complete."
From above, low murmurs rippled through the gallery.
Leon rose, legs unsteady. Reinhardt gave him a nod. Not out of respect — more like disbelief.
No one had expected him to last this long.
He walked off the field, slow, waiting to hear the next name.
"Final round: Judgment."
His heart thudded.
He'd never heard that one before.
Then the silence hit — heavy.
Because this time, the opponent wasn't another hopeful.
It was Sir Elric Dane.
S-Rank contender. Former champion of the royal tournament. An actual graduate.
Leon's hand tightened around his sword.
A test? Maybe. Or a message.
Either way, the crowd wasn't expecting a fight. They were expecting a lesson.
He stepped forward.
Elric was already there, arms folded, blade still sheathed.
He looked at Leon the way a blacksmith might look at scrap — something rough, unfinished.
And then, coolly, he said, "Make your move."
No bell.
Leon understood.
This wasn't a match. It was a reckoning.
He stepped in, careful, blade tilted to feint. Elric didn't blink.
Leon shifted — struck low, testing.
Elric parried with ease. No effort.
Leon swung again — changed direction mid-swing — aimed for the side.
Too late.
Elric had already moved, slipping past the blade like it was smoke.
Then came the strike — not with steel, but the hilt — straight to Leon's head.
He dropped to one knee.
Gasps from the stands.
Stars danced behind his eyes.
Elric didn't follow through. "Is that it?"
Leon's legs shook.
He stood.
No words.
No stance.
He just walked forward.
No guard. No plan.
Just forward.
Elric watched him, frowning slightly.
Leon raised his blade — trembling — and swung.
Blocked.
He didn't fall.
He swung again.
And again.
Each one weaker.
Each one slower.
But still, he stood.
Until finally — he dropped again, sword slipping from his hand, chest heaving.
Elric held still.
The knight above raised a hand. "Round three… complete."
Silence.
Then applause. Not from nobles.
From the veterans. The ones who knew.
Leon rose, barely, but on his own.
And he left the field without help.
The Princess rose to watch him go.
The infirmary reeked of herbs and old cloth.
Leon sat on a cot, shirt peeled down, steam curling from a cloth on his ribs. Each breath echoed Reinhardt's blade — the bruises, the pressure, the memory.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the water flask.
He didn't drink.
Just held it.
Across the tent, two other candidates whispered. One went quiet when they noticed him watching.
Then — boots on gravel.
A shadow in the entrance.
Leon looked up.
Roselyn stepped inside, no court dress today. Just worn riding leathers. She shut the flap behind her. No guards. No spectacle.
"You're not dead," she said.
"Not yet."
She smiled, faintly. "Elric gave you three chances. You only caught one."
Leon said nothing.
"I figured you'd crack after round two," she added, stepping closer.
"I nearly did."
"But you didn't."
She stopped in front of him, holding out a fist.
"Your next step."
He opened his palm.
She dropped a silver crest into it.
The brass was gone.
He stared at it — bearing the House mark, slimmer than the official badge, but real. A symbol of progress. Not full knighthood — but a step into the next tier.
"You're joining Cohort Seven," she told him. "They train alone. They're vicious. You'll hate it."
Leon traced the metal with his thumb. "Good."
She studied him. Voice softening.
"Do you regret stepping into that ring?"
"No," he said.
Because the part of him that had died back there—the part that flinched from sweat and shame and hard truths—was gone.
And the man standing in his place wasn't done rising yet.
Roselyn turned to leave, then paused at the flap.
"Don't get comfortable, Thorne. You made noise today. That always draws knives."
She left.
Leon looked down at the crest in his hand, the ache of the fight still alive in his bones.
He closed his fingers around it.
And braced for whatever came next.