F-Class Swordsman, S-Class Commander

The dueling ring shimmered under the morning sun, clean and cruel as ever.

Stone tiles, scorched from years of clashes, were scrubbed spotless for the tournament's opening match. The crowd buzzed—not with excitement, but with that particular anticipation people felt before a public execution.

Rodric Faelin stood at center field, sword balanced in one hand, his other arm raised in a half-bow to the judges' box. His coat gleamed with his family's crest. His blade glittered like it had been polished just for this moment. Probably had.

The announcer's voice rang out:

"Match One! Rodric Faelin of House Faelin versus… Renard Valtierre."

The pause before Renard's name was short—but heavy.

Whispers rose as he stepped into the ring.

"He actually showed up…""Is he even carrying a real sword?""This'll be over fast."

Renard said nothing.

He moved like mist—quiet, weightless, unnoticed even on stone. His blade was plain. His coat unpolished. His posture loose and wrong in all the ways nobles mocked.

Rodric turned with a grin, his voice projected just enough for the audience.

"Don't blink, folks. I can't guarantee he'll last long."

Laughter. A few snickers from the stands.

Renard met his gaze.

Blank. Silent.

From the stands, Elric leaned forward.

He didn't laugh.

He didn't even blink.

He was watching Renard's feet.

The placement.

The deliberate imbalance.

The slack grip on the hilt.

That's not untrained. That's bait.

The announcer raised his staff.

"Duelists. Begin on signal. Yield, knockout, or ring-out ends the match."

Rodric flourished his sword with a showy spiral.

Renard barely moved.

The staff fell.

And Rodric lunged.

❖ Round One

Rodric opened clean—textbook noble strike. He came in fast, a wide arcing slash designed for spectacle. Cheers followed the first step alone.

Renard shifted.

Not back. Not away.

Off-angle.

The blade missed by a hand's breadth.

Rodric spun again, this time for a reverse cut.

Renard lifted his blade late. A clumsy block that jarred his elbow.

Gasps from the stands.

"He's already off-balance!"

Rodric grinned.

Elric frowned.

That "block" hadn't been a block.

It had been an assassin's redirect—a flick of the flat, guiding the strike just enough to keep control of spacing. Deliberate tempo-breaking. No one else would have noticed.

But Elric had trained in it.

He's not just fighting.He's gathering.

❖ Round Two

Rodric circled, playing now.

Feints, tip strikes, shoulder dips to goad a response.

Renard didn't bite.

He moved like he was trying to stay alive—not win.

But every deflection was just late enough to look lucky.

Every parry came a fraction of a second behind pace.

To the crowd?

A swordsman in over his head.

To Elric?

A trap waiting to spring.

Renard's breath slowed. His vision narrowed.

Sequence one complete.Flourish reset confirmed.Recovery delay: 0.4 seconds.Third pass—identical posture.

One more loop.

❖ Round Three

Rodric advanced with flair—feint, spin, slash.

Renard retreated—feet dragging, blade barely up.

The strike came high.

He turned his shoulder.

The flat clanged off his backplate.

Rodric raised his blade in flourish, showing his teeth.

The crowd cheered.

"Do you yield, Baron's son?" Rodric called. "Or shall I keep dancing?"

Renard looked up.

No fear.

Just calculation.

Three sequences down.Weakness exposed.

❖ Round Four

Rodric stepped forward.

Same rhythm. Same pivot. Same reset.

And that—that was the error.

Renard's foot slid forward.

Not clean. Not precise.

A broken step—deliberate. The kind no duelist would copy.

Rodric followed, blade already rising.

Renard turned.

And struck.

It wasn't beautiful.

It was fast.

The blade drove forward, short and sharp—like a dagger, not a sword.

It hit under Rodric's ribs, where padding split slightly during turns.

A breath.A crack.A collapse.

Rodric's body hit the ground before anyone reacted.

Silence.

The crowd stood still.

No cheers. No bell. No movement.

Then a gasp.

Rodric didn't rise.

Blood pooled beneath him—thin, but steady.

The referee moved in, knelt, checked—

"He's not—he's not breathing!"

Shouts broke out.

The announcer stumbled for words. A healer from the stands bolted down the steps.

Renard stared down at his blade.

His hands had stopped shaking.

In the stands, Elric sat in stunned silence.

He had seen that move before.

Not in a duel.

On a battlefield.

That was a battlefield kill.He didn't strike to win.He struck to end it.

[System Alert]

Combat style confirmed: Ghost Edge – Live Execution

Commander Trait Activated: Kill Window Recognition

[Skill Evolution Triggered]

Trait fusion detected:Assassin (S) + Commander (S)

New Class Path: Phantom Tactician [A Rank]

Status: Unique — No lineage precedent

Ability Type: Disguised Instinct ExecutionPublic Read: "Untrained Swordplay"

Renard blinked.

Then the window closed.

A scream from the back row.

Then chaos.

Instructors pushed through the crowd. Someone called for backup. Another voice said "He killed him—he actually killed him—"

And then—A new voice.

Soft.

Sharp.

Clear.

"Move."

The world hushed.

From the far stairwell, a figure descended the steps.

A girl—tall, pale, silver hair coiled in a braid. Not Academy garb. Not noble uniform. Something foreign, edged in velvet black and silver runes.

She crossed the field like she belonged there.

People stepped aside without knowing why.

She knelt beside Rodric's body. Touched his chest with bare fingers.

A flicker of golden light spread across his skin.

Gasps.

"That's—"

"She's—"

She didn't look up.

Only spoke.

"I can save him."