Meeting of Interests – Part 3
The academy buzzed with restless energy, the halls alive with the echoes of excited voices. The announcement of the tournament had shaken the entire student body, filling the air with tension and anticipation.
"Did you hear? Even upperclassmen are competing this time!"
"This year's rankings will change completely."
"Forget that! What about Seraphina? Is she entering?"
"Of course she is! You think she'll just sit back and watch?"
Lyrian paid little attention as he walked, the distant chatter nothing more than a background hum.
He wasn't interested in the rankings or the competition itself.
His focus was elsewhere—on his own shortcomings.
His combat skills weren't good enough. He knew that.
And if he wanted to survive in this academy, let alone uncover the truth about his existence, he needed to improve.
That was why he found himself here—inside one of the academy's expansive training centers, a vast hall where students sparred, honed their techniques, and displayed their abilities. The space was alive with movement—flashes of mana, swift footwork, and the sharp sounds of weapons clashing.
Lyrian quietly found a seat near the edge of the training grounds, observing.
Different students engaged in mock battles, testing their skills in fast-paced duels. He watched closely, trying to pick up anything that could help him.
Possibly a battle technique or something that could make him improve.
How do they move?
How do they counter?
What makes their attacks effective?
Then—
A voice beside him.
"That one's too slow on the counter. If his opponent feints a strike to the left, he won't be able to adjust in time."
Lyrian tensed.
When did someone sit next to him?
He turned slightly, but the figure remained shadowed in his peripheral vision.
The voice was calm. Neutral.
As if simply making an observation.
"And that one over there… too aggressive. He wastes movement. If his opponent strikes faster, he'll lose control of the fight."
Lyrian's curiosity piqued. He glanced back at the sparring students.
Now that it was pointed out, he could see it. The small flaws. The tiny moments of weakness.
Who is this guy?
Lyrian hesitated before speaking. "You really know a lot about combat, huh?"
A short pause.
Then—
"Pretty much."
Lyrian frowned. The person's tone was casual, almost indifferent, yet there was an undeniable confidence in the way he spoke.
He still couldn't see their face.
Something about it unsettled him.
Lyrian leaned forward slightly. "Since you know so much, care to show me a few things?"
A chuckle.
"Hmm… you're quite curious, aren't you?"
Lyrian exhaled, standing up. "I just want to improve."
The figure finally moved, rising from his seat.
"Alright."
They stepped onto the training ground, facing each other.
Lyrian took a stance. His posture wasn't perfect, but it was stable enough.
The figure stood in front of him, unreadable.
Then—
The fight began.
Or rather—Lyrian lost immediately.
A blur of movement. A shift in weight.
A strike knocked his balance off before he even processed it.
He staggered—then felt a palm press against his back, sending him forward.
"You rely too much on reaction."
Lyrian gritted his teeth, trying to reposition. But the next moment, a light tap against his leg caused him to collapse onto one knee.
"Your footwork is unstable."
A sharp impact against his ribs. Not hard. Just enough to show he was wide open.
Lyrian swung instinctively—but his arm was caught mid-motion.
He barely saw it happen.
The figure held his wrist for only a second before releasing it, stepping back effortlessly.
"Too predictable."
Lyrian clenched his fists.
How was this happening?
This wasn't normal skill.
This wasn't even advanced skill.
It was something beyond that—as if this person had been watching him train for weeks, knowing every flaw before he even moved.
He pushed himself up, his breathing uneven.
Then—for the first time, he saw his opponent's face.
And his chest tightened.
Because he had seen him before.
Not in the training grounds.
Not in passing.
Professor Marlowe's office.
Varos.
The rumored Transcendent.
An elite among elites.
Realization crashed down on him like a weight.
He turned quickly—but Varos was already gone.
Lyrian scanned the area, but there was no trace of him.
Yet he was certain.
That was him.
And for some reason—he had been watching.