? Chapter 195 - Same Song (3) ?

  As the day dragged on, the boredom in the stands only climbed higher.

  A yawn stole Soren’s face again, and he let his chin sink into his palm, staring blankly down at the arena with heavy-lidded eyes.

  The stone ring below was full of motion, steel flashing, mana flaring, the occasional cheer when someone landed a clean hit, but the longer he watched, the more it all blurred into the same shapeless noise, like his brain had decided it wasn’t worth sorting any of it.

  It didn’t help that mock duels had a very specific kind of rhythm.

  Most fights started tense, then ended fast, and after that, you just… sat there.

  Overseers called names, people shuffled in and out, and everyone acted like the slow parts weren’t the majority of the day.

  To his left, Esper was talking to Aeriel.

  Not about the duels, and not even while watching them, just talking as if the arena didn’t exist.

  Aeriel hovered beside her like a pale shimmer caught in the wind, her faint outline traced by swirling currents that never fully settled, and every time she shifted, it looked like a breeze had decided to take the shape of a person.

  “No, no,” Esper said, waving a hand dramatically. “If you tug my skirt again in the middle of a fight, I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

  A faint gust ruffled Esper’s hair in response.

  Esper clicked her tongue.

  “Oh, so you’re going to pretend you didn’t do it? Really? You’re shameless.”

  Soren didn’t even bother looking at her properly.

  He had learned, over time, that Esper’s conversations with her spirit were always half strategy and half bickering, and the ratio changed depending on her mood.

  Today, it leaned heavily toward bickering.

  To his right, Amelia was asleep.

  Her head tilted slightly, breathing slow and even, like the arena noise was nothing but background music, and every so often, one ear twitched in response to a distant cheer.

  She looked… peaceful, which was ridiculous considering where they were.

  Even more ridiculous was the fact that she had ignored the overseers twice already.

  The first time her name had been called, the overseer had waited, then waited longer, then repeated it with more irritation as students nearby started snickering.

  Amelia hadn’t moved, hadn’t even opened her eyes, and in the end, someone had been sent up to shake her shoulder.

  She had blinked once, stared at the person with a blank, sleepy expression, and said, very plainly:

  “…Later.”

  Then she closed her eyes again.

  Soren had to respect it.

  He also wanted to throw something at her.

  Felix wasn’t sitting with them anymore.

  After his most recent duel, one he won, of course, he had wandered off with the casual confidence of someone who never thought consequences applied to him.

  A few rows down, he had found a different group of girls and inserted himself into their circle as if he belonged there, laughing too loudly, leaning too close, acting like he was the main character of a romance story nobody asked for.

  Soren’s eye twitched faintly.

  ‘What a weirdo.’

  He told himself he didn’t care, and he didn’t.

  Not really.

  Felix had always been like that, and everyone in their group had always known it, even if they joked about it.

  Soren had only tolerated it because Felix was his first friend, and sometimes that history made certain things harder to be annoyed about.

  Still… watching him slide into that act so easily rubbed the wrong part of Soren’s brain.

  Maybe because it looked effortless.

  Maybe because Felix could laugh with strangers while Soren had spent the last week feeling like he was holding his own relationships together with his fingernails.

  A slow breath left him, and he forced his gaze back to the arena.

  It didn’t matter.

  Not now.

  He didn’t want to think about Felix, and he didn’t want to think about that conversation earlier either, the blunt refusal to apologise, the stubborn honesty under it, the uncomfortable silence that had followed like a door slamming shut in slow motion.

  It lingered in the back of his mind anyway, a splinter he couldn’t stop his tongue from prodding.

  Soren could ignore a lot of things.

  But he couldn’t forget anything.

  Not with [Library of Memories].

  It didn’t matter how trivial the moment was, or how badly he wanted it to vanish, his mind still catalogued it.

  Every expression, every word, every shift in tone that might not have mattered at the time, was stored cleanly and permanently, like his head was a library that never lost a book and never misplaced a page.

  So instead of fighting that, he did the only thing he could do.

  He pushed it back.

  Not gone, not erased, just… shelved, the way you shoved a volume into the darkest corner so you didn’t have to look at the title every time you walked past.

  “Ugh…”

  Another yawn, another slow blink.

  There were five going on at once right now, split across adjacent circles and practice platforms, each one separated just enough to stop people from accidentally hitting the wrong opponent with a stray spell.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Spells flickered, swords clashed, someone got blasted backwards and landed on their ass to a wave of laughter, and somewhere to the far left, a student tried to do something flashy, misjudged their footing, and immediately ate stone.

  Most of it was forgettable.

  Only one match was worth paying even mild attention to.

  Rank 125 of Martial Studies versus Rank 72 of Arcane Studies.

  In other words…

  Alex.

  Soren watched Alex step forward with that same steady posture he always had, sword in hand, expression calm in a way that made it look like he was walking into a spar, not an assessment in front of the entire year.

  Alex’s opponent, some Arcane Studies student whose name Soren didn’t catch, looked tense, shoulders stiff, hands hovering too close to their spell focus as if they were afraid it would run away.

  They always looked like that once they realised who they were against.

  Alex’s ranking was a joke at this point, a number that existed to keep people comfortable until it was too late.

  A red herring, a deliberate understatement, the kind of thing that made students think, “He’s good, but he’s still beatable,” right up until the moment their weapon was knocked aside and they were on the ground, staring at the sky, wondering what had just happened.

  ‘It’s already over…’

  Soren didn’t even need to see the end to know how it would go.

  Alex didn’t waste movement, didn’t show off, didn’t panic, didn’t do anything that screamed for applause.

  He just did what he needed to do with the kind of clean precision that made it feel unfair, like he had skipped all the messy stages of learning and started at the finished result.

  And sure enough, less than two minutes later, the overseer called it.

  Alex’s victory, overwhelming and clinical.

  No [Divinity], no flashy power display, just footwork so controlled it looked rehearsed, timing so perfect it made the opponent’s casting feel slow, and one decisive strike that ended the duel before the other student could even adapt.

  Soren stared down at the arena, unimpressed in the way only someone who had already been personally crushed by that “unimpressive” skill could be.

  ‘Seriously, what a monster.’

  And yet…

  Soren had won against that monster only a couple of weeks ago.

  The thought surfaced automatically, almost smug by reflex, then the correction followed just as fast, sharp enough to cut the pride cleanly in half.

  ‘…That was relics.’

  He didn’t let himself linger on it.

  Relics weren’t allowed in the mock duels.

  No Bloodrop, no Labrys, no safety net disguised as equipment, and no way to turn one mistake into something survivable by brute force.

  Which meant that if Soren was honest with himself, he should’ve felt more pressure today.

  He should’ve been tense, anxious, coiled up and ready to snap.

  Instead, he felt… tired.

  Tired enough that even fear couldn’t fully take root.

  Maybe that was why he had already won two duels.

  Not just won, but overwhelmed.

  Rank 80 of Arcane Studies, then Rank 78, both going down fast enough that the crowd barely had time to react before it was over.

  It wasn’t because Soren was some incredible, dominating mage.

  It was because most mages fought like statues.

  They stood still, cast spells, and they hoped their opponent couldn’t close the distance before the casting finished, as if the arena would politely wait for them.

  Soren didn’t fight like that.

  He fought like someone who didn’t have the luxury of trading blows, someone who moved because staying still meant getting hit.

  A mage who moved like a warrior.

  A coward’s style, if you asked certain noble idiots.

  A survivor’s style, if you asked Soren.

  Against mages who couldn’t dodge, who didn’t even think to dodge, his style was suffocating, pressure that never gave them room to settle into a rhythm.

  And now there was only one opponent left.

  Rank 71 of Martial Studies.

  Twenty-five ranks higher than him.

  A proper fighter.

  A problem.

  Soren stared at the arena and felt… nothing.

  Not confidence, not arrogance, and not even panic, just the quiet, dull certainty that he had to deal with it, one way or another.

  He knew his place, knew he was weak; he reminded himself of it constantly, like it was a habit carved into his brain, but when he thought about what he had already faced, what he had already survived, a mock duel didn’t inspire the kind of terror it probably should have.

  He had stared down a bishop of the Lunar Cult and walked out alive.

  He had been through a dungeon, bleeding, and still managed to keep moving.

  He had killed one of the Seventy-Two Demons.

  So what was a low-ranked Martial Studies student?

  A blade, a body, and a problem to solve.

  Soren yawned again, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.

  “When is this gonna be over…” he muttered.

  As if the world had been waiting for him to complain, the overseer’s voice rang out across the stands.

  [Rank 96 of Arcane Studies and Rank 71 of Martial Studies, please come down to the arena.]

  Soren blinked, then exhaled, slow and flat.

  “…Ah. Finally.”

  Esper’s head snapped up immediately, boredom evaporating as if someone had poured cold water over her.

  Her grin returned in an instant, bright and sharp, like she had been waiting for this moment just to have something to do.

  “Ooh,” she said, leaning forward a little. “That’s you.”

  Soren didn’t look at her, because if he did, he would see the amusement, and that would make him want to throw her into the arena with him.

  “Unfortunately.”

  Esper’s smile widened, eyes glittering with the kind of delight that should’ve been illegal between friends.

  “Try not to die.”

  He finally glanced at her, expression deadpan, and answered with the same tone he used when he was too tired to be properly sarcastic.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Aeriel’s wind tugged at Esper’s sleeve again, gentle but persistent, like the spirit wanted to add her own commentary to the conversation, or maybe she was simply offended on Soren’s behalf.

  Esper clicked her tongue at it.

  “Don’t start.”

  Esper narrowed her eyes, then muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like she was arguing with air again.

  Soren’s attention shifted to his right.

  Amelia still hadn’t moved.

  Still asleep, still breathing slow and even, as if the overseer’s call had been background music she’d decided wasn’t part of her day.

  Soren stared at her for a second, waiting for the moment when she would inevitably wake up and act like she had been awake the whole time.

  It didn’t happen.

  He leaned over and tapped her shoulder with two fingers.

  “Amelia.”

  No response.

  He tapped again, slightly firmer.

  “Amelia.”

  Her ear twitched, just a tiny flick like an involuntary reflex, and then she settled right back into stillness.

  Soren sighed.

  He could’ve shaken her, he could’ve called her name louder, he could’ve tried to bribe her with food or threaten her with embarrassment, but experience had taught him something very important about Amelia Indras Einhardt.

  If you tried to force her, she dug in.

  So instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was clear, deliberate, and unmistakably personal.

  “If you keep sleeping,” he whispered, “I’ll touch your ear.”

  Amelia’s eyes opened instantly.

  Not slowly, not sleepily, but like a switch had been flipped in her head, her gaze locking onto him with immediate, sharp awareness.

  For a second, she just stared, blank and mildly offended, like she couldn’t decide if she was insulted or impressed.

  “…Don’t do that.”

  Soren straightened, stretching lazily as he stood up, as if he hadn’t just threatened the academy’s strongest first-year.

  “Then stay awake.”

  Amelia blinked once, the offence fading into something quieter, and her eyes drifted toward the arena, as though she was reminding herself why they were here in the first place.

  “…Okay.”

  He stepped past the bench and started down the stairs with a slow, steady pace, letting the movement wake his body properly.

  The air down toward the arena carried different smells: stone warmed by sunlight, faint metal, the sharp bite of mana residue that lingered after spells.

  The crowd’s noise pressed in from above, layered with the overseer’s steady commands and the occasional shout of someone who thought they had found their voice in the middle of a duel.

  Soren kept his pace measured, not because he needed to conserve energy, but because if he stopped too long, his mind would do what it loved to do.

  Thinking.

  And he didn’t feel like giving it that opportunity today.

  ————「??」————