The air shifted the second Zach drew steel.

  Not flashy steel. Not ceremonial. Just honest, tempered weight. His grip was steady. His stance? Improvised. Not from drills—but from instinct.

  Lucien stepped forward, slow and precise, like the fight had already begun the second Zach summoned his blade.

  The crowd didn’t cheer. They leaned in.

  Lucien raised one hand slightly, open-palm, non-threatening.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice calm.

  Zach tilted his head.

  “I don’t want to be here,” he replied. “But here we are.”

  Then he moved.

  Not fast. Not reckless. Just a single clean step and a cut—angled, close, a warning shot aimed for Lucien’s ribs.

  Lucien parried without blinking, one forearm redirecting the blade’s path, the movement so smooth it looked practiced.

  Zach followed it with a jab from his free hand—quick, sharp.

  Lucien leaned back just enough to avoid it.

  Zach dropped low.

  ‘Break.’

  His heel swept for Lucien’s legs—a trip, not a finish.

  Lucien hopped back, landing in a tighter stance.

  “You mix strikes with the blade,” Lucien noted aloud.

  Zach adjusted his grip. “You’ve got good eyes.”

  Lucien came in fast—one step, body turning with a palm strike aimed for Zach’s collarbone.

  Zach brought the sword up in a tight block. The force slid down the blade, jarring his wrists.

  ‘He’s strong. Even when he’s holding back.’

  Lucien pressed the advantage—three quick steps, a blur of momentum.

  Zach ducked the second strike, pivoted, shoulder-checked Lucien mid-spin, and came up with a short slash toward his ribs.

  Lucien blocked again, but this time his foot slid back a half-step.

  Zach caught it.

  ‘He moved.’

  It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

  Lucien reset his stance. No wasted movement.

  “You’re not bad,” he said.

  Zach shrugged, sword low, body loose. “You’re not invincible.”

  Lucien’s eyes flickered with something faint. Not irritation.

  Recognition.

  Then he vanished.

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  Zach’s instincts screamed. He twisted—just in time to feel the rush of air as Lucien’s punch tore past his ear.

  Zach countered without thinking—elbow, knee, pivot—

  ‘Crush.’

  His shoulder slammed into Lucien’s side, hard enough to stagger.

  The crowd gasped.

  Lucien caught himself with a skid and landed two feet away.

  He looked up.

  No smile. But his stance shifted again. Just slightly.

  Both hands came up.

  Zach felt his grip tighten around the sword.

  ‘Alright. He’s done playing.’

  Lucien moved first.

  A straight dash—clean, efficient. No wasted steps, no flash. Just speed and intent.

  Zach braced, feet sliding into motion.

  Their blades and first met with a sharp clang—steel on skin-tightened air. Lucien didn’t use a weapon, but his punches carried the weight of one. Every strike was guided by that invisible force he commanded. Each palm, each blow, had presence.

  Zach twisted his blade, redirecting the impact.

  Another strike came—Zach blocked with the flat of his sword, spun into a low step, and came up with a slash aimed at Lucien’s side.

  Lucien ducked and countered with a sharp jab to Zach’s shoulder.

  Zach’s arm jolted from the force.

  He rolled with it, stepped in close.

  ‘Rush.’

  He used the recoil to step through Lucien’s stance, shoulder brushing past him, pivoting mid-motion. His blade snapped out behind him in a tight arc—Lucien barely avoided it, leaning back just enough that Zach felt wind across his knuckles.

  Lucien retaliated instantly.

  A flurry of palm strikes—one high, two mid, one low.

  Zach parried the first with the back of his blade, blocked the second with his elbow, twisted—

  ‘Direct.’

  He slipped under the last hit, kicked off Lucien’s leg, and launched himself into a backwards roll, blade raised defensively as he landed.

  Lucien paused for the briefest second.

  Zach exhaled.

  ‘Fuck Zach what are you doing just play dead now what are you doing you know you can’t beat him’

  Lucien didn’t give him more time.

  Another step.

  Another strike.

  They met again—blade to wrist, elbow to rib, knee to shin. Each movement from Zach chained into the next—his sword never leaving center mass, always coiled like a spring. And every time Lucien blocked, he was forced to move, to shift, to respond.

  The crowd around them was dead silent.

  Zach gritted his teeth.

  Lucien’s fist came in low—Zach caught it with his free hand.

  They locked for a half-second, strength pressing against strength.

  Zach pushed up—ducked under a swing—pivoted.

  ‘Break.’

  His blade came down hard, forcing Lucien to block with both forearms.

  The force echoed through the floor.

  Lucien slid back a foot.

  Zach didn’t chase.

  Lucien reset, chest rising slightly.

  Then—for the first time—he cracked his neck.

  Just once.

  A subtle acknowledgment.

  And raised both hands again.

  Zach pulled his sword back into stance.

  His breath was steady now. Focus sharp.

  ‘Maybe just maybe I won’t get embarrassed’ Zach says tightening his grip

  Lucien exhaled slowly, his stance tightening.

  Zach adjusted his grip. He could feel the ache in his arms now—each block, each counter, every small win stacked like weights on his joints.

  Lucien moved.

  So did Zach.

  They clashed again—no hesitation this time, just momentum and will. Zach’s blade came from the right, Lucien met it with a forearm. Zach followed with a spin-step, low slash aimed for Lucien’s legs.

  Lucien jumped—Zach pivoted with the motion, flipping his sword up in a rising arc.

  Lucien caught the edge with his palm, redirected it wide, stepped inside Zach’s guard.

  Zach didn’t backpedal.

  He dropped his weight.

  ‘Drop.’

  He twisted with his full body, brought the sword back around, and—

  ‘Crush.’

  His elbow slammed into Lucien’s ribs.

  Lucien gasped—just a little.

  Zach spun again, blade flashing.

  This time—

  It hit.

  A clean, diagonal cut across Lucien’s shoulder.

  Not deep.

  Not fatal.

  But it landed.

  Blood hit the tile in a single, sharp line.

  The crowd lost it—gasps, movement, shouts.

  Zach’s heart kicked harder in his chest.

  ‘He felt that.’

  Lucien looked down at the cut, hand hovering near it. Then he looked up.

  And for the first time in the fight—

  His stance changed completely.

  No more test strikes.

  No more light footwork.

  He stepped in.

  Fast.

  Too fast.

  Zach tried to pivot—too late.

  Lucien’s palm slammed into his stomach.

  Air ripped out of Zach’s lungs.

  He stumbled—

  Lucien followed.

  ‘—’

  A punch to the side of his head.

  Then another.

  Zach’s vision blurred. The sword slipped from his hand.

  The last thing he saw was Lucien stepping forward again, both hands up, striking in a tight arc like a hammer falling—

  CRACK.

  Zach hit the floor, hard.

  Everything went quiet.

  Except the pounding in his ears.

  And even that faded.

  Zach’s body crumpled to the floor.

  No fight left. No breath to catch.

  He didn’t twitch. Didn’t groan. Just folded into the tile like his bones had turned off.

  Lucien stood still for a moment, blood trailing slowly from the cut across his shoulder. He looked down at Zach—not with anger or pity. Just consideration. As if taking a mental note.

  Then he turned and walked.

  The crowd parted without a word. Not from fear—just from the knowledge that Lucien wasn’t someone you stopped. He wasn’t fire or lightning. He was gravity. Quiet and undeniable.

  Mika was already at Zach’s side, on her knees. “Oh my god. Hey. Zach. Treeboy. Don’t die. I have so much left to bully you for.”

  Elle dropped beside her, hands already moving. “Pulse. Breathing. He’s alive.”

  “Barely,” Sato muttered, checking Zach’s eyes with a tiny light pulled from his sleeve. “High chance of concussion. Mid chance of internal trauma. Low chance of learning anything from this.”

  Derrin stood behind them, watching the crowd. Silent. Guarded.

  Up above it all, leaning against the steel beam just outside the cafeteria doors, stood a girl no one had dared to talk over since orientation.

  Kira Nekhebi.

  Tall. Lean. Skin a warm bronze tone with golden undertones that made her pink-tipped blonde hair glow even more violently in the afternoon light. Her uniform jacket was open, sleeves rolled, cleavage visible beneath her tank top like she dared someone to comment. A massive cleaver hung lazily across her back, black metal chipped and rotted at the edges like it had been dragged through corpses, not forged.

  She chewed gum like it was a threat, pink bubble snapping loud as Lucien passed by.

  Her four dragons slithered around her like living shadows—thin, long, and empty black eyes. One curled around her wrist. Another around her throat like a scarf made of teeth. Anything their jaws touched began to rot. Slowly. Beautifully.

  She gave Lucien a lazy once-over and grinned.

  “Aw. You almost looked serious for a sec.”

  Lucien didn’t stop. “He got a hit in.”

  “And you used both hands,” she said, voice sing-song with sarcasm. “That’s, like… emotional growth.”

  He paused in the doorway.

  “He’s not what they think.”

  “Neither are you,” she said. “But the difference is—I’m honest about it.”

  Lucien glanced back once, just a flicker.

  Then he stepped into the hall and vanished.

  Kira’s grin widened. She turned her head slightly, gaze falling down to where Class 1-D was lifting Zach off the floor—shoulders under his arms, legs dragging. A mess of limbs and determination.

  She blew another bubble.

  Pop.

  “Don’t die yet, sword boy,” she murmured. “I wanna see if you scream the same when I break you.”

  One of her dragons hissed softly.

  She laughed, sharp and unbothered.

  And then she, too, disappeared into the hall.