From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 37: Rising Flame

The name burned in Leon’s skull.

Princess’s guard.

Not a noble brat. Not a power-hungry heir with something to prove. This was different. Royal guard initiates didn’t challenge others lightly—and certainly not first years. Which meant it wasn’t about pride. It was a message.

He trained harder.

By dusk, his palms were torn. Every grip on the blade left blood on the hilt. But he didn’t stop. Every breath he took was slower now. Sharper. He no longer thought about pain. Only precision.

By the third day, even Roth stopped joking.

"You’re going to have to kill this one," Roth said quietly as they walked past the Southern courtyard. "Or he’ll try to do it first."

Leon didn’t respond. Just kept walking.

The night before the duel, he cleaned his gear in silence. Every stitch of his coat checked. Every edge of his blade polished. He didn’t believe in luck—but he believed in preparation.

Fena showed up just before lights out. Tossed something small at him.

He caught it mid-air.

"Chalk powder," she said. "For grip."

Leon held her gaze. Nodded once.

"You’re not fighting for survival anymore," she muttered. "You’re fighting because they’re scared of you."

"I know."

"And you like that?"

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know.

The platform was set before dawn.

The Princess’s guard was already waiting.

Tall. Armoured. Precise in posture. His blade rested against his shoulder like it had been born there. Dark hair tied back. No insignia, but no one needed one. Everyone knew.

Leon stepped up in silence.

The official raised a hand.

"No rules of form. No limit on strikes. Win is by yield or incapacitation."

The guard nodded once.

Leon met his stance.

Then the signal rang.

They moved.

Leon didn’t have the speed advantage. Or the reach. But he had pressure. The kind that cracked through timing and broke through form.

He feinted high. Spun low. The guard didn’t flinch—parried with a flick of his blade and drove Leon back three steps with a single advance.

Steel clanged.

Boots slid.

A kick swept for Leon’s ankle—he leapt, twisted, and countered with a downward slash.

The guard ducked.

But Leon had learned.

He didn’t retreat. He advanced.

One step inside the guard’s range. Then elbow. Then knee. Then blade to shoulder.

The edge nicked cloth. Drew blood.

The guard didn’t pause.

He surged forward with a headbutt.

Leon staggered.

His vision flickered—but he didn’t drop.

He spun and went low.

His blade met flesh again. This time, the thigh.

Another step. Another breath.

They clashed again.

And again.

Until both were bleeding. Both heaving.

Until the duel wasn’t a contest of strength.

It was one of will.

Leon lunged forward with the last of his momentum.

Drove his shoulder into the guard’s chest.

They fell together.

Dust rose.

Only one stood up.

Leon.

Blood down his brow. Split lip. Torn coat.

The guard stayed down.

The platform fell into silence.

Then a murmur.

Then, finally, one voice—clear.

"Victory—Leon Thorne."

He didn’t linger.

No celebration. No nod to the crowd. Just steps, slow and steady, down the stone stairs and out of the arena. Roth joined him halfway down the path.

"You’re bleeding all over the floor."

Leon grunted. "Not the first time."

"You should see the medics."

Leon shook his head. "Later."

Roth didn’t argue. Just walked beside him until they reached the dorms. When they split at the door, Roth paused.

"You’re going to get offers now."

Leon turned. "What kind?"

"The kind that come with badges, favours, secret handshakes. Houses that want to say they backed you before you made rank."

Leon gave a tired smirk. "They’re late."

Leon lay awake that night.

The ceiling above him blurred with every blink. His ribs screamed. His legs barely moved without twitching. But his thoughts stayed sharp.

They had sent a message.

He’d sent one back.

By morning, the academy buzzed. The duel spread faster than fire. Even the instructors looked at him longer now. Elric didn’t speak. Just nodded when Leon passed. That was enough.

Fena dropped another parcel on his bench during breakfast.

"Eat this one. Don’t argue."

Leon didn’t.

Outside, the challenge board stayed empty for the first time in weeks.

But Leon still trained.

Not because someone might come.

Because he would be ready when they did.

He worked through lunch. Shadow drills under the East colonnade. Sweat soaked into the bandages across his chest. His form wasn’t perfect—but it was persistent. Every strike was a question. Every step an answer.

Riva found him there. "They’re talking about a sponsor. Real one this time. House Veltier."

Leon didn’t stop. "What do they want?"

"You. On their colours. Trials start next moon."

Leon slashed air. "Not interested."

Riva raised a brow. "They’re not offering. They’re picking."

He froze. Then lowered his blade. "Then they’ll pick someone else."

She didn’t argue. Just left a sealed envelope on the stone bench and walked away.

He didn’t open it.

Instead, he walked to the edge of the training field, knelt, and pressed his fingers into the soil. It was cold. Still.

But it reminded him of home.

He stayed there until the sky went gold.

And when he rose, he looked back at the yard—his yard—and knew that whatever came next, he wouldn’t be standing alone.

The moment he reentered the dorms, a shadow peeled off the wall beside the stairwell.

Marcus Delmont.

Not in uniform. Not flanked by followers. Just him.

Leon didn’t stop walking. "Not the time."

"I’m not here to fight."

Leon halted, and turned slowly.

Marcus stepped forward. A cut still healing over his cheekbone.

"I watched the duel."

Leon didn’t answer.

"You fought like your life depended on it. Like every second was the last one you’d get."

He said it without mockery.

Leon kept his tone flat. "That’s because it might’ve been."

A nod. Then silence.

Marcus exhaled. "You’re not what I thought."

"You’re exactly what I did."

For a breath, Marcus didn’t move. Then he chuckled. Bitter, not cruel.

"We’ll see, Thorne. The real games start next season."

And he walked off, hands in his pockets.

Leon didn’t watch him go.

He just looked down at his bruised fists.

Then turned, climbed the stairs, and didn’t stop until he reached the rooftop.

The sky stretched out—open and endless.

He wasn’t sure what the next fight would be.

But he knew he’d already started it.