"I am not the one to ever miss a chance to fight."

He plucked the least offensive of the dull blades from the rack—narrow, single-edged, unbalanced—but not entirely cursed. He gave it a spin in his hand, as if greeting an old, tired friend with whom he'd once shared a war.

Then following that, he stepped lightly into the ring, his boots making only the faintest noise against the rune-carved stone floor.

The moment he passed the central threshold, the hum of the barrier began to awaken—a slow pulse building like a beast being stirred from sleep. Across the ring, Arcten gave him a look that straddled the line between pity and exhaustion.

"Youngsters these days," the man muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like this entire situation was a migraine dressed in boots and sarcasm.

With an effortless flick of the wrist, he tossed something through the air.

"Wear it."

Lucavion caught the suppression bracelet one-handed. The metal was cold, too smooth for something so basic. He eyed it for a second, then slid it onto his left wrist.

CLICK!

The rune flared to life—bright blue, sharp, almost arrogant in its glow.

And then—

It hit.

Lucavion inhaled sharply as the artifact surged. The pressure started at the wrist, rippling out through his arm like a slow toxin meant to numb and bind. His mana pathways began to tighten, and the familiar sense of constriction spread toward his core.

But almost immediately…

'Hmm…'

Something was wrong. Not with him—but with the bracelet.

He felt it.

The artifact's suppression was working… poorly.

Too sharp in places, too dull in others. The pattern wasn't aligning cleanly across his meridians. Instead of binding evenly like a well-fitted seal, it struggled—flickering in rhythm with his heartbeat, attempting to clamp down on something it clearly didn't understand.

Lucavion let his hand fall to his side, curling and uncurling his fingers slowly.

'This thing was made for normal awakened…'

He let his gaze drift down to the bracelet, then up to Arcten, who had already slipped on his own with a grunt.

'…but I'm not normal.'

The Requiverse Physique.

His core wasn't positioned like theirs. His meridians didn't run in a single closed loop—they inverted, spiraled, crisscrossed through his body like a mirrored web. His entire system pulsed against the suppression like a heartbeat out of sync with the world.

'It's trying to seal what it can't follow.'

To the artifact, he must've looked like a storm without a center.

'Clumsy little toy. You don't even know where to bite.'

His mana wasn't surging—but it wasn't still, either. Some of it slipped through the cracks. Not enough to overpower the system, but enough to remind him: the rules weren't made for him.

He raised his gaze again—slow, calm, unreadable.

Arcten hadn't noticed. Or maybe he had.

Didn't matter.

Lucavion exhaled slowly, the breath visible in the cold air as the barrier around the arena sealed with a soft, shimmering glow.

He let his limbs relax, posture unassuming—every inch of him playing the part of a student complying with the rules, standing within the cage of suppression like everyone else. The bracelet pulsed quietly at his wrist, unaware of its own failure.

No need to show his cards.

Not yet.

'Let them believe I'm sealed like the others.'

If they knew… if anyone suspected what ran beneath his skin—what didn't align with their spells, their diagrams, their precious systems—they'd adapt. Harder restrictions. More constraints. Just like the blades, dulled and rigged to fail.

'Would make sense,' he thought, flicking the edge of his dull sword lightly. 'They already tried to bind me with cheap metal and cursed steel. What's a faulty artifact compared to that?'

He rolled his wrist once, letting the blade move like it had weight it didn't deserve.

'Heh… whatever.'

The moment he gave them a reaction, they'd twist it. Weaponize it. No—better to let them assume. Let them see what they wanted to see. That was always easier.

Arcten finally turned toward him, finished with his own preparations. His eyes scanned Lucavion with that same, tired scrutiny. No curiosity. Just calculation.

"I guess you're ready."

Lucavion gave a faint smile, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of the dull blade.

"I am always ready, Instructor."

Arcten snorted.

"...Yeah, whatever."

He lifted his blade slightly and took a long step forward.

"Weaponship Evaluation, candidate Lucavion," he said aloud, voice echoing slightly within the dome. "Begin."

He didn't wait for breath. Or stance. Or acknowledgment.

He moved.

THRMM—!

The stone cracked beneath Arcten's foot as he launched himself forward, a blur of motion honed by decades of war and repetition. His blade came sweeping from the left—an opening slash too wide for dueling form, but perfect for snapping the rhythm of someone caught unprepared.

Lucavion didn't flinch.

He watched.

And then he stepped.

Not back.

In.

The blade screamed past his coat with a whistle of displaced air—SHHRK!—missing by a hair as Lucavion turned through the arc like he was dancing with it, not dodging.

He didn't raise his sword yet. Not immediately.

'You want to come swinging like a wall of steel?'

His eyes locked onto Arcten's movement, the weight behind his hips, the tightening of his shoulders—

'Then I'll step where your wall can't follow.'

He pivoted on his heel, the sound of his boot barely audible over the hum of the dome—

SKRRK.

—and swept behind Arcten's flank, low and quick, the dull blade coming up to strike—not slash—at the back of the man's knee.

THWACK.

The dome shimmered, measuring the contact.

Minimal damage.

But precise.

Arcten shifted instantly, pivoting into a back-kick without even turning. Lucavion caught it with his offhand, absorbing the blow through his forearm as he twisted away.

WHUMP.

He landed a few paces off, blade raised now.

Expression calm.

Smile faint.

Eyes sharp.

'Not bad for a man running on too little sleep and too much ego.'

Arcten's brows furrowed slightly. Not from pain—but from adjustment.

Like he just realized Lucavion wasn't here to survive the test.

He was here to study it.

And maybe enjoy it, too.

Lucavion gave him the courtesy of a slow exhale, sword tilting ever so slightly.

"Shall we keep going?" he said, voice casual.

Arcten's stance didn't change much—still loose, still bored—but his gaze lingered on Lucavion a heartbeat longer than before.

"Not bad."

The words weren't praise. Just… observation. Like someone remarking on the weather.

His eyes, half-lidded and unimpressed, barely flickered with recognition.

"I didn't expect this much."

Lucavion tilted his head, letting the dull blade rest lightly against his shoulder. "Heh. Why?"

Arcten gave a one-shouldered shrug, the motion almost lazy.

"You're a freshman," he said, matter-of-fact. "But you're pretty good for one."

Then came the second part—spoken with less care, like something that slipped out unfiltered.

"But it's a shame."

Lucavion's brow lifted.

"A shame?"

But there was no answer.

No smirk. No elaboration.

Just motion.

SHTHH—!

Arcten vanished in a surge of compressed air, the ground beneath his feet cracking from the force of his launch.

Lucavion's eyes widened the moment he saw it.

Arcten wasn't just moving now. He was committing.

Mana flared across the man's limbs—not explosive, but woven—layered through muscle and bone with a precision most students couldn't even fake. And then it extended—up the length of his sword, coating it in a ghostly blue shimmer that vibrated faintly at the edge of control.

Lucavion shifted his footing—barely in time.

CRASH—!

The first strike came like a hammer, not a sword. Lucavion's blade caught it—barely—and the impact drove him a half-step back. The dome pulsed. Feedback rippled.

'Fast!'

Arcten didn't pause.

He pressed in immediately, feet sliding with practiced economy, each movement part of a flow Lucavion could only describe as battlefield-honed. The second swing curved low toward his ribs—Lucavion ducked, blade sweeping to parry—but before contact even landed, the third attack was already coming down from above.

CLANG—! CLACK—! SHHUNK—!

Steel screamed against steel.

Lucavion's grip strained. His forearm rang with the shock of each blow. His footing staggered by the fourth strike, forced back by sheer momentum.

'He's not just strong—he's experienced. I guess that is what you would expect from an instructor.'

Arcten wasn't showing off.

He was probing the limits of what Lucavion actually had beneath the posture and clever footwork.

Another strike—overhead. Lucavion shifted left to evade—

Too slow.

Arcten adjusted mid-swing, dragging the blade down toward Lucavion's exposed shoulder—forcing a desperate parry that sent sparks flying.

SKRRRCK!

The feedback barrier rippled harder now. The dome's runes lit up with each connection, tallying damage, precision, mana stability. It wasn't looking good on paper.

"Really a shame."

As Arcten's words echoed, the blade approached Lucavion's neck.

The fatal point that would end the examination…

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