There was the most silence even more than in Combat Delta in Combat Hall Theta.
It was not due to the low stakes involved, but simply because an event was to be expected that everyone already knew about.
Nclai Azrael entered the ring singly.
No cheering. No mockery.
Not a whisper may get to him.
Just eyes.
They paid attention to each step that he made.
The air seemed more thin. The arena lighter.
Or perhaps, it was simply the fact that its fall had been scored upon Dresk Virel that it was from then on that people began to regard him so.
He was without a coat.
Dark training shirt Rolled in sleeves.
On his wrist there was a faint, thin red shimmering.
The mark of the Crimson Thread.
Across from him, Sorell Vendrell strutted into the ring like a rooster in silk.
Taller than Nclai. Lean.
Wearing high-stitched dueling armor and a noble's grin.
He looked around, smirking at the tension.
"So this is the famous rat prince?" he called out.
"You look smaller in person."
Nclai didn't answer.
Sorell scoffed, flicking his wrist.
A thin crescent of wind sliced the air beside him.
"I'm going to undo that fluke win of yours," he sneered.
"You embarrassed a Virel.
But I'll remind them what a real noble can do."
Professor Ileron didn't even bother to hide his smile this time.
"Begin."
...
Sorell moved first.
He surged forward, blades of kinetic wind forming at his sides.
Dozens of students gasped as sky-colored sigils spun behind him.
This wasn't a show no more
This is punishment.
He lashed out, wide sweeps of wind.
But nothing landed...
Nclai shifted.
An inch here.
A step back there.
Calm, Efficient and Untouched.
Then...
Thin red threads shimmered from his fingertips.
They moved like silk in a breeze.
Almost invisible unless caught by the light.
Sorell lunged again...
And his strike curved midair.
"What...?"
A thread had looped around his wrist.
Another coiled at his ankle.
Nclai flicked his fingers.
Sorell's entire stance broke.
He crashed to the floor with a shout.
Dust rose. The crowd gasped.
...
Sorell turned up on his side, colouring.
"Tricks?"
Then he came forward again and the air whitting knives upon his heel.
Nclai made one step.
Turned.
The weft spun, silent-homicidal.
there was a twist and a plunge of a dagger into the earth at the side of Sorell.
He flinched.
It sufficed.
three threads fastened themselves to his movement.
He punched.
Nclai made no block.
He redirected.
One rope wound round the elbow of Sorell, and he was pulled a little so as to get off balance.
He stumbled.
Next Nclai came forward.
On one open palm was tapped the shoulder of Sorell.
Just enough.
He dropped on the floor again.
...
The crowd was frozen.
No cheers.
No movement.
This wasn't a duel.
It was a dissection.
Sorell groaned, pushing to rise.
"Stand still and fight, damn you..."
"You're not worth chasing," Nclai said quietly.
He raised his hand.
The Crimson Threads tightened.
Sorell's limbs locked.
One knee hit the ground.
Blood slipped from his fingers where the thread had cut skin.
"Winner... Nclai Azrael," the referee said, hesitant.
...
Up in the balcony, Professor Ileron turned away.
Lyra leaned forward slightly, arms crossed.
"He didn't even try," she said under her breath.
"He just... ended it."
...
System Notification
Trait: Crimson Thread – Active
Mastery: 4.7%
Sync Ratio: 15.1% to 16.2%
Bloodline Trait Progress: Moderate
...
Nclai didn't bow.
He just turned and walked off the platform.
The threads faded behind him.
No words.
No celebration.
Only precision.
And silence.
...