Almost instantly, bolts of lightning and a sphere of fire converged on her position. Langford’s people weren’t cowards. Like Bloodstone, they didn’t have many aristocrats padding their ranks, but they had grit. Even staring down a monster like Yara, they aimed to make her bleed.
Too bad she was too damn fast. Her body twisted in the air, bending in ways that shouldn’t be possible, narrowly slipping between the attacks. Her leg snapped out, thighs like steel cables.
“Crack!”
The other melee fighter tried to block, fists raised. It didn’t matter. Her kick blasted through his guard, bone shattering, and hurled him backward.
Axel, still at the rear, just shook his head. With Yara going berserk like this, there was no reason for him to even bother revealing his own strength. She alone was enough to wipe the floor with them.
He focused instead on the raw pressure radiating from her. If he had to guess, her Force compression was near his own level. The Bureau’s dossier had pegged her at ninety percent compression—roughly twenty-two hundred total Force. She was a damn powerhouse.
“Fuck, how are they this strong?” one of the Langford students spat, frustration lacing his voice.
But they knew the truth: this was unwinnable. Bloodstone was simply out of their league. Still, Yara fought them like they were mortal enemies, giving them no mercy. Within minutes, Umar’s finishing blows ended it. The match was over in five.
Blood stained Yara’s clothes, but she didn’t bother wiping it away. She stood tall in the center of the ring, her aura sharp and unrelenting.
Beside Axel, Yakov adjusted his glasses, voice low. “Yara’s… different today.”
Axel felt it too. She wasn’t just fighting—she was building something, coiling her energy tighter and tighter for the battle still to come.
He remembered Drakenfall, remembered dropping Cody—the Ministry’s Level 4 Deputy Commander—with a single punch. On paper, it should’ve been impossible. Axel was only Level 3 at the time. But fury had carried him, and Cody’s fear had sealed the deal. Strength mattered. But so did momentum, and the will to crush your opponent.
“Win,” Yara said flatly, turning away.
A moment later, Bradley reappeared, announcing the result with a sweep of his hand.
Back on Lone Peak, Axel noted how much quicker this round had ended compared to the last. The final four had already been decided: Bloodstone Warfare, Stormwatch, Eagle’s Crest Command, and Hollow Fortress.
The bitterest faces belonged to Cavalier's Honour. They knew damn well a little more vigilance could’ve landed them in the top four.
“This round is over. The semifinals begin tomorrow,” Bradley declared before vanishing again.
Yakov glanced toward Yara, expecting some rallying speech, some plan for the next match. But she only turned and walked to her cabin.
“Rest up,” she said.
Inside, she sat cross-legged on her bed, eyes shut, her killing intent simmering but never fully fading. She would hold it there, sharp and waiting, until tomorrow.
.....
“The established war academies.....”
“We brought our students here to compete, to broaden their horizons.”
“There’s a massive gap. Hopefully, those arrogant brats will return home a little more humble.”
Inside the Olympic Sports Center’s private viewing room, several academy principals sat together, exchanging casual remarks.
“This time, Neville’s made quite the name for himself.”
“Indeed. Under his leadership, Hollow Fortress has been growing stronger every year.”
Their laughter was light, free of the tension that had weighed on them while their own teams still had a stake in the competition. But as they looked around, they realized that Hollow Fortress’s principal, Neville, was no longer among them.
.....
“Have the reporters been arranged?”
In the express lane outside the stands, Neville strode forward with his head held high. His perfectly tailored black suit emphasized his broad frame, his posture ramrod-straight, radiating authority.
His assistant hurried to keep pace, nodding quickly. “They’re waiting right outside.”
Neville gave a slight nod and pushed open the doors. The moment he stepped out, a volley of camera flashes lit up his confident face.
“Mr. Neville, this is Hollow Fortress’s first time competing, and you’ve already broken into the top four. What’s your secret?”
“Mr. Neville, tomorrow you’re up against Bloodstone Warfare. How confident are you in your chances?”
“Mr. Neville—!”
The reporters surged forward like a tidal wave, microphones thrust into his face, nearly choking him with questions.
Neville only smiled faintly, lifting both hands in a subtle, calming gesture. Strangely enough, the noisy press corps quieted, as though his very presence compelled them to listen.
He cleared his throat and began, his voice steady and magnetic. “Yes, this is indeed our first time entering the competition. But the result? It doesn’t surprise me.”
“Hollow Fortress Academy may not have ranked in the top four in past years, but we’ve long had the strength to do so. What we lacked was the chance to prove it. For that, I want to thank the Ministry of Education for expanding the slots in this year’s tournament—an opportunity for our students to show the world their worth.”
His words flowed smoothly, full of rhythm and conviction, drawing nods from more than a few reporters.
“As for tomorrow’s match against Bloodstone Warfare—well, no one can truly predict the outcome until the battle itself is decided.”
A ripple of disappointment crossed some of the reporters’ faces, but Neville pivoted smoothly, his expression sharp. “That said, I believe in my students. The so-called Four Great War Academies have sat on their thrones for too long. Hollow Fortress is no less capable than any of them.”
He ended with a crisp bow of the head. “That’s all I have to say. Thank you.”
With that, he turned and walked away, his tall, commanding figure leaving only the echo of his words behind. A beat later, the press corps erupted in applause.
At the front of the auditorium, Marcus and Hudson had overheard every word.
Hudson exhaled slowly. “As expected of Neville, the man known for his silver tongue. He’s managed to throw Bloodstone Warfare right into the spotlight.”
Marcus nodded silently. Tomorrow’s battle would be hyped to a fever pitch.
“But you have to admit,” Marcus said after a pause, “his point isn’t wrong. In the end, strength speaks for itself.”
Hudson gave a weary sigh. “You’re being naïve.”
“Oh?” Marcus frowned. “What do you mean?”
Hudson leaned back, his expression complicated. “You think a war academy’s strength is judged only by its top fighters? If that were the case, they might as well just recruit nothing but aristocrats. But that’s not how it works. An academy’s value is measured by its overall strength—its faculty, its graduates, the breadth of its students’ capabilities.”
He glanced sideways at Marcus. “Sure, in this Intelligence Bureau ranking, Hollow Fortress edges out Bloodstone on paper. But if you measured the average combat ability of every student, Hollow Fortress is miles behind.”
Marcus’s brows lifted. He hadn’t realized that.
Hudson continued, his tone steady but edged with disdain. “Neville’s strategy is simple—invest everything into a handful of elites. Looks impressive, but the ordinary students who flock there for its reputation? They’re worse off than if they went to any provincial academy.”
“We were born into aristocratic families, so naturally, we’d do fine anywhere. But for someone from a humble background? Their chances at Bloodstone are far greater than at Hollow Fortress.”
He folded his arms. “Of course, Tristan isn’t about to waste time explaining any of this to the media. And most of the public won’t see it. That’s why tomorrow’s match matters so damn much for Bloodstone.”
Marcus stared at him, admiration flickering across his face. “Brother, I didn’t realize you were this sharp. You’re the real deal.”
Hudson felt a surge of pride—right up until the words sank in. Something about Marcus’s tone rang a little too familiar.
“Don’t butter me up,” Hudson said with a glare.
“I’m serious,” Marcus said, all innocence.
“Bullshit. Roll.”