Within the Solvador Empire, there is a place of education dedicated to the noble youth. It is called Liberium Academy, where its expertise surrounds sharpening the skills of young lords and ladies so that they are able to stand proudly within high society. General education, etiquette, swordsmanship, and magic are primarily taught to help young nobles achieve their goals.

However, it is most commonly labeled as a school of magic. Their expertise surrounds that field; it was originally built in honor of the war hero, Lanthus.

In Liberium, there are four unspoken factors dwelling upon the campus: the honorary students, low nobility, high nobility, and royalty. They are cliques that the students have categorized themselves into, depending on one's social status. Whatever they were ranked as equated to how their peers would treat them.

Mass majority were nobles, with the small chance of witnessing an honorary or royal student. Since they were so rare, the surface usually remained calm. But once they get tossed into the roster, the peaceful current drastically changes.

In the training grounds was a group of male students in their gym clothes. They dressed lightly, as they were designed to help them move around easily during practice.

Dueling was the boy with crimson hair, the dark tips dripping with sweat. His grey eyes were fixated at the moves of his opponent, parrying their sword by clashing it with his. He was able to make them lose their grip on their weapon, using this opportunity to bag his win.

With one swift movement, he pointed the tip of his wooden blade to their throat. If it weren't for it being a mock fight, the kid surely would have had their skin pierced already.

The redhead's chest heaved up and down, glaring his opponent down in triumph. "Krazor wins!" a student cheered, the surrounding audience erupting in an applause. After the confirmation, the redhead finally afforded a moment to relax, lowering his sword away from his opponent's neck.

A brunette named Truman came over to him, his face full of admiration. "You were really cool just now, Krazor! You really can't be beat, huh? I bet you that you're the top swordsman of our class! No — the academy!" he mused, handing him a clean towel.

Krazor didn't reply back to him, not wanting to entertain his words. Instead, he accepted the towel to wipe off his wet face, looking around to find Lysian. He was sitting on the bleachers, staring down into the ground with his long hair tied back. Krazor's thick brows furrowed further than they already were, suddenly feeling annoyed at the sight of him.

Ever since the class entered the drill hall, Lysian had been avoiding participating in the duels. Or rather, it was like nobody had really invited him to spar.

Truman noticed that Krazor was staring over at him, sighing in response. "It's like that guy's basically asking for attention, sitting out alone like that. He has a mind of his own, so I don't get why he's waiting instead of looking for an opponent," he grumbled, glaring at Lysian, "It's almost as if he's looking down at us, like we're not worth his time."

This piqued Krazor's interest, a brow rising before he left the towel to drape over his shoulders. "Is that so?" he asked, taking a step towards his direction, "Should we put him to the test, then?"

Lysian had been busy kicking his feet on the smoothed dirt, surprised to see two shadows looming over him. His eyes shot up to see who they were, worry dripping down his face as he recognized them immediately.

"Faithstone," Krazor growled, tossing a carved sword at him. In a clumsy effort, Lysian barely managed to catch it from his seat. Krazor glared down at his dainty features, baring his teeth at him, "Let's have a duel."

Before Lysian knew it, he was out in the field with a weapon in his hand. In front of him was Krazor, the very student who seemed to despise him the most.

He gulped nervously, his palms already beginning to feel sweaty. His bright eyes glanced over at the group of their peers surrounding them in a tight circle, not giving him the opportunity to escape from the match.

"Hey," Krazor barked, forcing Lysian to pull his gaze back to look at him. "Stay focused, Faithstone," he warned in a low voice.

Truman was in between the two, acting as the referee. He raised his hand up to introduce the challengers, "Here we have our first opponent, the son of the archduke: Krazor Killian!" The students exclaimed in encouragement, expressing how fond they were of him by chanting out his name.

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Once the cheering died down, he then gestured over to the other side to name the person who'd Krazor be fighting. His voice had less enthusiasm compared to the former, but his expression remained the same, "And our second, the son of the northern duke: Lysian Faithstone."

Regardless, the crowd still cheered. Lysian felt as though they weren't necessarily rooting for him, but ecstatic about the event that was about to unfold.

One of the students amongst the crowd had their arms crossed, tucked away behind a few others to watch from afar. His caramel eyes seemed interested in how the spar would play out, curious about how a Faithstone — who had been sat out this whole period — would perform with a sword.

Meanwhile, Lysian caught a glimpse of Krazor, seeing that he had a tiny smirk on his face. It was as if he could tell that he was feeling anxious.

In the past, Lysian fell ill quite easily. This prevented him from doing many outdoor activities, and this included sword training. As he got older, he paid more mind to the areas he lacked, but he still dedicated himself more to his wits rather than his thew. He was worried he wouldn't last a second against him.

Truman took a step back, yelling out a "You may begin!" to commence the battle.

As expected, Krazor was the first to attack. Even though the two were feet apart from each other, he managed to lunge across the earth to land a strike. Lysian reacted quickly, using his sword to block it.

'Damn! He's strong,' Lysian thought to himself with wide eyes. He was amazed at how much a boy his age could pack behind his arms. Especially when they didn't look any bigger than his. But he could tell that Krazor was going easy on him, to determine his strength.

He grit his teeth, resisting Krazor's power with all that he could.

The redhead clicked his tongue, bothered that Lysian seemed to be non-responding to his rather bold entry. Krazor weighed Lysian's sword back with his own, taking a leap away to maintain distance. He was thinking of another way to strike again.

While he did that, Lysian was in the midst of recovering from the shock.

'I've never fought somebody like this. All I've ever done is learn the basics!' His thoughts were loud in his head, adrenaline rushing throughout his body as he tried to read the next move.

Krazor scowled at the sight of his opponent just standing there, pivoting his feet to wind up a charge. Like a gust of air, he dashed towards him in a blink of an eye.

Lysian gasped, not expecting Krazor to be any faster than he had already been. He prematurely swung at what he thought was him, but instead was an echo of the past.

'Where did he go?!' Lysian glanced around in front of him, unable to find Krazor within his peripheral vision. His eyes widened in realization, swinging his body around to face behind him. It was far too late however, as he took a blow before he could fully make his transition. The battle was becoming increasingly difficult, and it began to take a toll onto him.

Lysian was thrusted into the ground as if his body was built out of sticks. Krazor no longer looked angry but rather upset, frustrated that his opponent had been knocked down so easily.

So far, they hadn't said a word to each other; only the noises from the crowd served as ambience. But Krazor grew impatient, crying out with his next advance.

As Lysian attempted to get back up, Krazor let his emotions get the best of him and swung once more. He tossed aside the concept of strategy, and now relied on pure brawn.

Krazor swung again and again, not leaving time for Lysian to rest. Wood clanked against one another, the belligerent sounds echoing across the drill yard.

Lysian went meek from the sudden aggression, trying his best to block each attack. But each time Krazor clashed their swords together, Lysian's wrists grew weak from the vibrations. It no longer felt like a duel but a vent.

Once he somehow managed to gain some distance, he took a moment to catch his breath. Lysian used this as an opportunity to analyze himself as well.

He had been sitting out for most of the class, yet he was already exhausted. Unlike him, Krazor had gone through a handful of warmups beforehand and seemed to be just fine.

With another frustrated war-cry, Krazor ran towards Lysian with his sword out. At this point, Lysian wasn't sure if he had enough energy to block it this time. Instead of continuing with his defenses, he squeezed his eyes shut to prepare himself for the impact. His grip loosened against the handle, wanting to drop from fatigue already.

The strike he was expecting never came, and instead noticed it had grown oddly quiet. The awkwardness forced Lysian to open his eyes, shocked to see the sight before him.

Hovering barely a foot from the ground was Krazor, having his collar grabbed by a pair of big muscular hands. He was choking, grasping onto the grip that held onto him.

The owner of the arm belonged to a middle-aged scruffy man with a beard. He stood out amongst the gathering of students. Not because he was simply older, but the aura he carried around him. It was intense and suffocating, especially when he was holding one of his students by the throat.

Everyone in the training grounds knew who he was. The man was none other than their advisor and gym instructor.

"M-Marquis! Please let Krazor go!" Truman gasped, trembling underneath him.

The older man raised a brow, his stone-colored eyes lowering down at him. It was almost like a staring contest, as the man refused to blink throughout the duration.

Krazor hacked out a cough from his clutches, pulling the man's attention back to him. He sighed, dropping the poor boy down onto the dirt before turning to face Truman.

The brunette squeaked in fear, legs trembling when he realized just how much taller their instructor was compared to him.

With a low and raspy voice, the man spoke to him, "Are you kids done with your warm-up? We have more to do today, so don't waste your energy on silly games." He robbed the sword away from Truman, swinging it over his shoulder casually.

He then smirked down at him, chuckling at the pitiful sight. "And it's not Marquis but Mister," he corrected, "Mr. Killian."