Chapter 8: I Want to Be Warm

“Only allow defeat, no victory.”

This was the order Orphilia gave before stepping into the simulated arena.

The origin lay in the newly introduced course at the Magic Academy called “Combat Tempering,” where a notoriously strict instructor had thoroughly shattered Class A’s arrogance.

He was a seasoned swordsman, rumored to have risen under the command of Count Karat, famed for his military achievements.

Using his sword combined with a bit of simple magic, he left these self-assured prodigies of magic utterly dazed.

Orphilia merely stood coldly on the stands, watching this farce unfold.

Her gaze drifted toward Beatrice, who wasn’t even from Class A but insisted on getting involved, and her brows furrowed into a dark cloud.

Anastasia Castilan stood behind Orphilia, clutching her Practice Sword.

She awaited Orphilia’s command, ready at any moment to draw her blade and face the instructor in battle.

She was confident she wouldn’t lose to an opponent of this caliber.

Yet, when she jumped down from the stands and stepped into the arena, she received the strange order: “Only allow defeat, no victory.”

Confused, she cast a questioning glance back at Orphilia but quickly focused on the young instructor before her, who had just completed his Nine Consecutive Victories.

“Oh? You chose to use a sword instead of magic? What’s your name, student?”

“Anastasia Castilan.”

“Castilan… Northern Sun, huh? Seems you’re confident in your swordsmanship, Castilan.”

Anastasia didn’t reply.

She quietly brought her sword forward to chest level, then smoothly glanced aside and gave a perfectly standard salute with her blade.

“Is that alright, young lady?”

The young instructor turned to ask Beatrice, who was still standing on the stands behind him.

Following his gaze, Anastasia saw Beatrice waving at her.

“It’s fine, Aike. If Anastasia has come out to fight, then Castilan over there must have agreed. I’ve been wanting to see… just how strong my new friend really is.”

Freed of hesitation by Beatrice’s approval, Aike made no formal salute like Anastasia.

He merely swirled his sword before him and launched an attack the instant Anastasia looked back at Orphilia.

His speed was like lightning, closing the distance in a blink.

Anastasia hurriedly withdrew her gaze, raised her blade, and the sharp clang of metal rang through the arena.

She bent low, feeling the blood surge in her chest.

Meeting Aike’s full-strength blow in such haste wasn’t pleasant.

Her throat felt strangely sweet, and a metallic, rusty taste exploded in her mouth—she had bitten her tongue in nervousness.

But Aike didn’t gain much advantage either.

Anastasia’s well-executed sword flick disrupted his attack path, and then, almost instinctively, she countered with a defensive strike that cut into his right upper arm like a falling meteor.

In the arena, no one would truly be harmed, but in a real battle, that strike might have severed his arm.

He clearly felt the slight pullback of strength when Anastasia’s blade landed.

He hadn’t expected a swordsmanship master hidden within the magic-famous Castilan family.

Her skill was definitely no less than his.

Judging by her nearly instinctual counterattacks and the rapid reflexes to block surprise strikes, her sword was not just a noble’s ornament—it belonged to a battle-hardened warrior who had fallen and risen repeatedly on the battlefield.

She looked young, small, and slender… yet she came from the battlefield just like him.

For a moment, he recalled the proud, summer-flower-like Sword Hero he once glimpsed from afar.

They shared the same hair color and eye color—could it be the same person?

But Aike quickly dismissed this unrealistic thought.

Though both had red eyes, the Castilan before him possessed eyes like a Dragonblood Stone clouded in dust, dull and shrouded beneath endless dark clouds.

The Sword Hero he remembered had red eyes like an eternal torch.

No matter how deep the valley or how dire the situation, those eyes always shone brightly.

Looking into them, everyone believed they would be led out of hardship…

Though that Sword Hero had long since disappeared without a trace, Aike firmly believed that flame would never die.

He flipped his sword and launched another attack against the counterfeit Castilan before him.

Clang! Aike’s straight thrust was parried by Anastasia’s blade.

She then forcefully pushed his sword tip aside, but like a snake springing from its den, her blade used the momentum to strike toward Aike’s chest.

Aike barely twisted away, narrowly evading the thrust.

In midair, Anastasia’s sword curved like a crescent moon, slashing toward his neck.

He raised his sword to strike at Anastasia’s waist and ribs, but she neither dodged nor parried.

It was as if she intended to take that non-lethal blow head-on and forcibly cut toward Aike’s neck.

Hey, that’s not the tactic a noble should use, Aike thought bitterly.

He quickly sidestepped, but Anastasia’s diagonal slash still caught his shoulder.

His blade sliced under her armpit.

Though simulated, and no real flesh was cut, Aike was confident that in a real battle, he would have torn into Castilan’s flesh.

“Anastasia!”

Simulated blood splattered from Anastasia’s side, sharp pain radiating from her ribs into her chest.

Gasping, she looked up to see Beatrice suddenly standing on the opposite stands.

Her fingers gripped the iron railing tightly as she anxiously shouted Anastasia’s name.

Where was Orphilia?

Anastasia turned, hoping to see at least a flicker of concern on Orphilia’s face.

But she was mistaken.

Orphilia’s face was calm and steady, like still water—no ripple of emotion visible.

For a moment, Anastasia’s heart felt strangely hollow.

But now was not the time for such thoughts.

Anastasia adjusted her breathing, tightly gripping her sword.

Her eyes locked past the blade’s tip, focusing on Aike’s strong arm, studying the muscle movements.

She was like a hunter fighting a lion, carefully examining every detail.

Each detail could determine the outcome of this duel.

She would sell a reasonable opening at the right moment and be defeated in accordance with Orphilia’s orders.

But before that, she would fight with all her might to show her respect for the sword.

It was time for her to attack.

Almost instinctively, Anastasia took a false step forward.

But then she remembered they were under all eyes and swiftly switched to a standard, common attack stance.

This momentary hesitation gave Aike the perfect opportunity.

He dashed forward during Anastasia’s step change, his sword like thunder aimed straight for her heart.

How will you respond, Castilan?

He watched her emergency footwork, eager to see how she would handle a killing blow.

She couldn’t dodge this strike—unless she really was that Sword Hero.

Sure enough, the sword pierced Anastasia’s chest.

Simulated blood gushed from the artificial wound.

Anastasia’s attack came to an abrupt halt, as if her rhythm had been struck by a rest note.

Aike moved to withdraw his blade—the duel should be over.

But Anastasia’s face twisted fiercely like a vengeful spirit.

Her hand clenched tightly onto the blade, refusing to let it shift even a fraction inside her chest—desperately trying to prevent the wound from worsening.

Her hand holding the sword was dyed a deep crimson; drops of blood trickled down the blade, falling on the stone floor, staining it with dark red patches like clusters of spider lilies.

That was real blood.

Her grip on the blade was not considered a hit by the magical protective runes of the arena.

Aike was stunned.

In that moment of hesitation, the silver moon-like blade sliced toward his neck.

It was over.

Aike closed his eyes—but no magic-generated pain came from his neck.

The girl’s sword just barely grazed him; her arm was too short.

A sharp whistle sounded, signaling the end of the duel.

Aike stared blankly as their weapons disappeared along with the magical symbols.

Weak from blood loss, Anastasia’s body sagged.

Years of malnutrition had thinned her blood.

She collapsed weakly onto her back, her mind a chaotic noise of countless voices arguing.

A buzzing, like the wings of flying insects, filled her ears, and her vision darkened.

Within her limited sight, she saw Beatrice anxiously leap down from the stands.

Beatrice ran toward her but was pushed away forcefully by a pair of hands.

Cool raindrops seemed to fall on Anastasia’s face.

But she had no time to care.

It was too cold.

She so badly wanted warmth—even just a little.