Renn stepped onto the arena platform, his boots quiet against the stone floor.
The sun glared slightly over the rooftop frames, but he barely noticed. His eyes were on his opponent.
The youth waiting across from him was dressed in fine navy robes laced with golden thread.
His posture was perfect, his chin slightly raised. Every part of him screamed refinement, heritage, and rank.
Renn didn't know him but thanks to the middle aged man in blue robes, he knew his name.
Darvin Elorance.
Among the noble circles, it was a name whispered among noble circles.
Twenty-four years old—one of the oldest nobles present—and an Advanced Rank Mage.
Renn, by contrast, looked quite ordinary.
The wooden sword at his waist lacked any ornamentation. And though he, too, was a noble by birth, there wasn't a single soul in the audience who would've guessed.
To the commoners, he looked like one of them.
Renn hated how much that got to him.
