The air boiled with golden light. Mana surged from Seran's body in waves—no longer tempered, no longer hidden. It howled through the battlefield like a second heartbeat, like the voice of something that had been caged too long. The dust around his feet scattered. The cracks beneath him widened. And above it all, his eyes—once careful, composed, scripted—now burned. The man who had peeled back his mask and held the truth up for the world to almost see. Lucavion tilted his head again, calm in the face of the storm. Then, for the first time— "So," he said, voice cutting through the wind like silk through flesh, "you were peak 4-star all along." His grip on his blade tightened. The glyphs on his vambraces lit up—triple-tiered layering scripts designed for momentum bursts and rapid aura cycling. Lucavion continued, still standing in place, estoc at his side. Seran exploded forward. He didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to hear another syllable from that arrogant mouth, that self-assured tone, that goddamned voice that sounded like it was never asking—but deciding. It wasn't just a duel anymore. The pride of an Awakened at the peak of 4-star, trained beyond limits in shadows no one would ever see. The pride of the attendant to the Crown Prince himself—chosen, forged, and trusted. And no wandering freak of a man—no matter how powerful, no matter how elegant—would look down on him and live to speak about it. His aura roared, brighter than ever before. Gold bled into the stone, the very ground cracking beneath the weight of his will. Lucavion raised his estoc again, calm as dusk. But the fire was coming now. And it would not wait. Seran's foot collided with the earth, and the battlefield shattered beneath him. Not cracked—shattered. The impact ruptured stone in a sunburst pattern, golden veins of mana racing outward like divine judgment. The air screamed as his body surged forward, faster than sound. Lucavion's estoc rose—not in panic, not even in defense. Because this was no longer "Reynald Vale." This was Seran Velcross, peak 4-star, Awakened, trained in royal chambers beneath runic seals and blood-stamped oaths. A weapon sculpted in secret—and now unsheathed. And that blade in his hands? Golden mana enveloped it entirely, wrapping the steel in a burning gleam. The edges pulsed with radiant script—no amateur layering, no half-measures. Runes within runes, echoing legacy and bloodline. Lucavion's eyes narrowed. "…Ah. Not just technique." He stepped back half a pace. "That's a sword art." He said it with reverence. Seran didn't respond. 「Crescent Crown – First Arc: Dawnburst Laceration」 His blade flashed—a rising horizontal slash that curved like a comet's trail. The golden arc carved through the air and cleaved through three meters of stone and wind like silk. Just barely. The edge of his cloak caught the blow— He landed, light, steady, but Seran was already there. 「Crescent Crown – Second Arc: Royal Descent」 A leaping strike from above—vertical, devastating, not meant to just hit but bury. Gold flared down like a sword drawn by a falling star. Lucavion raised his estoc— The impact was deafening. For the first time, Lucavion gave ground. His boots slid back. His knees dipped. The starlight flame along his blade flickered. From the rim of the battlefield, stunned cadets could only watch—many of them still reeling from the Withering Lotus, still trying to understand what Lucavion was. And now, Seran—no, the man once called Seran—was undoing him. Undoing the myth in real time. 「Crescent Crown – Third Arc: Radiant Spiral Fang」 He spun with supernatural speed, blade spiraling outward, golden petals erupting around him in a radiant nova. The strike wasn't just physical—it dragged with it trails of mana, fangs of golden energy flaring out in all directions. Lucavion weaved—elegant, evasive— —CLINK! CLANG! SWOOSH! —But the pressure was immense. Every motion had to be perfect. Every misstep cost distance, control. Lucavion was losing both. His estoc lashed out to counter— Seran's blade struck his shoulder—light, glancing, but it hit. Black cloth burned. A shallow red line bloomed. Lucavion stepped back, breath sharp. And Seran—standing in the eye of his own golden storm—leveled his blade forward, aura roaring around him. 「Crescent Crown Sword Art – Unique Rank.」 Their blades screamed in contact. But it wasn't enough. Steel sang and screamed beneath golden arcs and black flame. The air twisted with the scent of burning mana, scorched stone, and something else—resentment. Lucavion danced between the strikes—not without damage, but without yielding. Every evasion was precise. Every parry was just enough. And yet, he was still bleeding. Another shallow cut traced along his ribs. Another trail of red slid down the edge of his coat. Seran's form never faltered. His blade didn't slow. His technique remained perfect, radiant with the glow of Crescent Crown. And yet— Lucavion remained standing. This was supposed to be it. This was the moment he proved why the Crown Prince had chosen him. Why he had endured those years of suffocating, merciless training. Why he had swallowed his identity, buried his pride, and worn the mask. And now this nameless, absurd, untrained bastard— Still mocking him with every breathless dodge, every sidestep that turned a killing strike into a graze. Seran's eyes narrowed. His grip tightened until the leather of his gloves groaned in protest. "You should be on the ground," he hissed between teeth, voice laced with heat and disbelief. Lucavion ducked beneath another sweeping arc, dragging his estoc up in a narrow parry. Seran shifted—flawless transition into a follow-up stab. No pause. The blade sliced across Lucavion's shoulder, biting deeper this time. Lucavion staggered—but only for a heartbeat. As if the blood meant nothing. As if Seran's masterpiece of a sword art was… annoying. Seran's aura flared with fury. 「Crescent Crown – Fourth Arc: Imperial Verdict」 His blade ignited—blinding gold—and slammed downward with the weight of judgment. Lucavion caught it on his estoc's edge, sliding back— The arena floor buckled beneath his heels. Blood dripped from his forearm. The flame on his blade sputtered. He didn't even blink. And poured more mana into the blade—no longer precise, but angry. The gold flared brighter than before, wild arcs leaking from the edge like a sun unraveling. "You don't understand," he snapped. "You're beneath this." Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "This is a technique—" Seran shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos, "—that the likes of you can never dream to obtain!" He slashed again, golden mana screaming from the arc. The blow caught Lucavion in the side. Blood burst across the field. His body twisted mid-air from the force, cloak torn, ribs likely fractured. He hit the ground hard, dust exploding around him. And Seran stood tall above the crater, blade still burning, voice seething. "Now cease your filthy claims." The silence that followed was heavy—expectant. Final. From the center of the dust cloud—