F-Rank Soul Eater-Chapter 168: Soren Vs ...Ambush? (1)

"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live according to nature."

— Book 12 Meditations by Marcus Aurelius

The Chapter ended with a quote from Marcus Aurelius meditations.

And then a footnote from the first pilot.

"If nature in the Glass is predation on one another, then is to reject it an act of living wrongly, or Will my morals secure my dignity?"

....

With those words heavily settling in his mind, Soren slept off.

His night was filled with the haunting struggle of Chronovore defending against the consumed Shades.

....

Two days went by fast.

News that Soren was facing off a second year cadet spread fast.

Once more, he was the center of conversations again.

Unlike the fight with Goldsworth which was a battle of Egos between two first years, this was a battle that would promote Soren’s status from Clown.

Naturally, everyone was curious to know who he would be battling.

After all, was there ever news concerning this commoner that was not juicy to the ears?

But after seeing who his opponent was, disappointment plastered on their faces.

The academy was big, but it was still its own society.

People knew people, and status and reputation were highly important.

Sophia might have had one of the rarest and most valued abilities in the academy, but her poor background, poor reputation, and stubbornness made her a eye sore.

Many did not want to even know that she existed much less watch a battle she was engaged in.

But to think that somehow, she was to engage in battle with one of the academy’s most controversial rusing stars was a big deal.

Still many speculated that it was but a washed battle.

Soren got ready in his room. Cynthia helped him dress up, putting his shirt over his shoulder gently.

The wound on his chest was still there, still hurting, still a haunting reminder of his inability to do much.

On normal occasions it should be better—considering the abnormal physiology of Soulbound warriors.

But Soren could tell that it was neither healing nor getting worse.

The reason was because of his connection to Chronovore.

Shades and their Soulbound warrior were connected in the most absurd of ways.

Chronovore was wounded and even till now, was still in war with the Shades it had consumed for dominance.

While Soren’s body tried to heal, that internal struggle kept the wound fresh.

He really needed a Healer.

"Soren, do you really have to do this?" Pencil asked.

He sat on Soren’s bed observing as Cynthia took care of his friend. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

He wanted to help too, but his tummy always hot in the way.

Soren turned to him and nodded. "Its the only way Sophia heals me and I am ready to hunt the Shade Stealer in time for the Winter games."

Pencil nodded passively, looking away. He had a sad look on his face.

His white uniform was even more terrible than ever, and Soren could tell from his sitting posture that he was in pain.

Still Pencil was mlre worried about him.

For a second there, Soren felt guilty for not standing up for Pencil the other day when he saw him being bullied.

He made a mental note to solve that problem once and for all.

But for now—

He clicked a few buttons on his wristwatch.

Ding.

"SOREN!" Pencil could not believe his eyes, staring at his watch.

"Its just a little something. Get a new uniform. No, get several."

Pencil looked at him, eyes watering. He wanted to say something, but the words would not come out.

Instead, he leaped to hug Soren.

Soren’s eyes widened, "No... no..."

Crash.

"Sorry..." Pencil apologised meekly as Cynthia dressed Soren woth fresh clothes again as the last had been stained with blood from his room.

She turned to Pencil, vapour releasing from her helmet.

"...sorry," Pencil repeated even lower than before.

Just a chuckle from the door. "Oh, let the ball be. He was just excited. Not nearly as excited as the audience waiting for you out there."

They turned. It was polystar. He had let himself in.

Soren did not mind.

Ploystar was dressed neatly, black hair combed with a furry black coat over his tunic— tall frame resting against the door frame. Fingers pushing up his glasses.

He looked like he was getting ready for a party.

"Audience?" Soren asked.

"Party recruiters, noble brats wishing your downfall, you know, the usual—pursuing a rising star about to shed his clown status." His eyes moved to Cynthia. "—Their, clown status." He corrected.

Then his eyes fell on Pencil.

Pencil waved back. "No, not me... I’m not participating in the battle. I am okay just where I am," he looked away, nervously.

Polystar really could not understand why Pencil was so comfortable with his bottom of the barrel situation.

It was indeed a sore to his eyes. But he was a noble. Hiding his intension or perspective of another was skill his kind had.

But Soren noticed the gaze.

"Hmmm... So where is your other wife, not here to help?" Polystar joked.

However Cynthia fumed, vapour releasing from her helmet.

"Neither are my wives," Soren rolled his eyes, "...and if you are referring to Bloodshine, she is running an errand for me."

"Errand?" Polystar asked curiously.

Soren pointed to his bandage, "I need more."

"Hmmm." Polystar nodded.

"And what of you—still protesting for the freedom of Shades?" Soren asked.

Polystar shook his head. "I am letting that go for now."

Soren’s eyes widened.

Cynthia was too busy to notice, but Pencil did.

’Were these two actually having a conversation or...’

Pencil did not know that he was right.

Just now, these two had probed each other subtly.

One aged by his continous looping, now thinking further than a child his age should, and the other taught to play this game from birth.

"Ahhh, that reminds me. I got you this. I know your battle with the second year is a false one. But you should at least enter with style."

It was a walking stick the height if Soren’s waist, curved at the end, perfect for his situation.

"Oh, thank you." Soren said sincerely.

Soren adjusted his grip on the walking stick and stepped toward the door.

Cynthia moved with him without needing to be asked, her steps heavy as usual. Pencil trailed behind, still glancing at the points Soren gifted as though it might vanish if he looked away for too long.

Polystar did not follow.

He remained where he was, leaning against the doorframe, fingers loosely hooked around the frame, black coat draping neatly over his shoulders. His gaze stayed fixed on Soren’s back as the trio stepped into the corridor.

There was no mockery in his expression now.

Only calculation.

And when Soren disappeared around the corner, Polystar’s lips tilted ever so slightly upward.

A faint, private smile.

Not wide, but...

Just enough.

The academy corridors carried whispers faster than footsteps.

By the time Soren reached the stairwell, heads were already turning. Doors cracked open. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Some stared openly; others pretended not to, failing miserably.

He walked steadily, leaning lightly on the curved handle of the stick. Cynthia remained at his side like a silent sentinel. Pencil shuffled behind them, his movements careful, protective in a way he did not even realize.

They emerged into the open path leading to the arena grounds.

The wind was mild today, winter seemed to have given a temporary cease fire—carrying the faint metallic scent that always lingered near the battle platforms. Students were gathered along the stone walkways, clustered in small groups.

Eyes followed them.

Some curious.

Some amused.

Some disappointed.

Soren noticed that last one.

He scanned the stands as they entered the arena proper. The structure arched high overhead, tiers of seating rising in layered crescents. It was not empty — but it was far from packed.

For a fight that had supposedly stirred the academy’s appetite, the attendance felt thin.

Polystar had said there would be an audience.

There were people here.

Just not enough. Not like his fight with Goldsworth.

Strange.

Soren did not slow. If this was meant to be spectacle, the spectators would come. If it was meant to be something else—

He would find out soon enough.

He and Cynthia advanced toward the central platform, boots echoing faintly against the stone. Pencil hesitated at the edge of the lower stands, then awkwardly patted Soren’s arm twice as he peeled away.

"N-not too hard, okay?" he muttered, half to Soren, half to himself, before scurrying toward a seat near the middle rows. He sat stiffly, fingers gripping his knees, eyes already locked onto the platform.

Soren mounted the steps.

The arena floor stretched wide and pale beneath him, etched faintly with the academy’s insignia.

She was already there.

Sophia stood near the center, her posture was straight, hands resting loosely at her sides. One of her mute brothers stood a step behind her — Jo. His frame was lean, silent as stone, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his brow.

The wind rolled across the platform, catching Sophia’s ponytail and lifting it behind her like a banner.

Her gaze settled on Soren as he approached.

"You are early," she said evenly.

A faint pause.

"Good."