As the attendant guided him away from the garden, Rodrigo's mind spinned from his conversation with Avange. Glowing red eyes, whispered fear, a Reborn blade tied to his very being.
His thoughts were abruptly shattered by a wave of noise rolling down the corridor. Cheers, excited shouts, a distinct ripple of fanfare that seemed out of place within the Guildhall's usually composed atmosphere.
Did Master Juno return? Or perhaps some high ranking official was making an appearance? The attendant leading him paused.
Rodrigo turned, curiosity piqued despite himself.
Monti Fortuno.
He was sauntering down the street like he owned it, and he was circled by a small group of admirers who hung on his every word. He was dressed still the same, with the deep green coat embroidered with silver thread, his dark hair perfectly styled, and his hand resting casually on the intricate silver hilt of the rapier at his hip.
The blade itself caught the light in a way that spoke of potent, refined Essence. He flashed a practiced, charming smile at a cluster of Initiates who were amazed.
He was Blissford's golden boy, indeed.
Rodrigo felt a dislike for him already. It was a familiar hate to the type of effortless privilege Monti represented. He remembered officers back home, holding medals earned in offices far from the front lines, where they were commanding respect they hadn't truly bled for.
Monti had that same air, though Rodrigo sensed a controlled power that couldn't be ignored.
He slipped on the Essence-reading glasses Eclipse had provided. They settled onto the bridge of his nose, the world momentarily overlayed with faint auras.
The attendant beside him registered a decent 1500 Candellas. The fawning Initiates varied, mostly in the low hundreds. Then the lenses focused on Monti.
Scanning... Monti Fortuno! Scanning…
3,500 Candellas! Air Element. Class 3!
It was significantly more than Rodrigo's own base reading, which still hovered around the seven or eight hundred mark after his training session. Yet Monti was Class 3, while Rodrigo, with his small base but sky high flare potential, was Class 4.
The numbers didn't really align logically. Did the classification system factor in potential? Control? Or was it, like everything else here felt like, influenced by politics? Or maybe that recruiter had made a mistake with his token.
Just as he was about to turn away, Monti's gaze locked onto him. The charming smile shifted. He turned his course slightly, separating from his admirers and strolling directly towards Rodrigo, his steps light and fluid, embodying the Air Essence he wielded.
He stopped a few steps away, close enough for Rodrigo to see the faint runes etched along his rapier's guard. Monti's eyes flicked dismissively towards the glasses on Rodrigo's face.
"Token boy," Monti began, his tone filled with condescension. "It's nice seeing you playing with toys. Didn't expect a Class 4 prodigy to need assistance gauging the room." He smirked, so irritating. "Or maybe you're trying to see the gap between us? Let me save you the effort. I'm simply better. Faster, more refined. It's a matter of breeding, you understand? In this world, it's quality over… clumsy potential."
Rodrigo met his gaze evenly, refusing to take the bait. He slid the glasses off, tucking them into his pocket. "If you say so," he replied, his voice flat. He was more irritated by the delay and the unwanted attention than the insults themselves.
This felt like petty schoolyard trash-talk.
Monti looked slightly taken aback by his carelessness. His smirk faltered for a split second before returning, wider this time. He clearly expected a fighting answer, or a challenge. Seeing that he wouldn't get one from Rodrigo easily, he opted for another shot, loud enough for the nearby Initiates to hear clearly.
"Well would you look at this! Blissford's mysterious Class 4, apparently scared of a mere Class 3! Maybe those rumors of your… explosive evaluation were too much? Or maybe you simply lack the nerve for a real confrontation?" He laughed, a sharp, dismissive sound, and a few of his sycophants echoed it nervously.
Rodrigo didn't even turn back. He simply continued walking towards the evaluation chamber, leaving Monti standing there, momentarily wrong footed.
Let the peacock preen.
He had more important things to worry about, like surviving whatever Juno had planned next.
The evaluation chamber door slid open silently at his approach. The room looked pristine, as he expected. But what he didn't expect was no sign of the scorch marks left by his earlier flare. Master Juno stood near the center, conversing quietly with Instructor Amelia and two other instructors that Rodrigo didn't recognize.
Scattered around the room were around two dozen other Initiates, a mix of classes judging by their attire and the faint Essence signatures Rodrigo could now sense even without the glasses.
Whispers circulated, heads turned as Rodrigo entered. He ignored them, finding a spot near the wall.
Master Juno clapped his hands once, and the sound echoed in the chamber, which instantly silenced the chatter. All eyes turned to him.
"Initiates," Juno began, his voice calm but carrying undeniable authority. "As many of you are aware, tonight marks the commencement of a cherished Blissford tradition: The Essential Spars Festival."
A murmur of excitement went through the assembled students.
"This annual event," Juno continued, pacing slowly, "is both a celebration and a demonstration. Over this whole evening, Initiates from all Classes will engage in controlled spars, showcasing the refinement of Essence and the diversity of elements nurtured within these walls. Spars will proceed in ascending order, beginning with Class 1 tonight and culminating with our highest Classes on the final night."
He paused, letting the information sink in. "These spars will be held in the Grand Arena and are open to the public. It is a spectacle, yes, but more importantly, it is a measure. A measure of your progress, your control, your potential under pressure." He gestured vaguely. "Furthermore, great performances often attract attention. Sponsorship tokens from noble houses, mercantile guilds, even representatives from allied academies are frequently awarded to those who distinguish themselves."
The mention of sponsorships caused another ripple of excitement. Rodrigo remained impassive. These sponsorships, public spectacles? For him, it sounded like more politics and more pressure.
"Pairings are determined by instructor evaluation and, occasionally, by lot," Juno explained. "Instructors, present the roster for this evening's Class 3 and Class 4 preliminary bouts."
Instructor Amelia stepped forward, and names and pairings began to appear on a projected display on the wall. Lower ranked Initiates, unfamiliar names. He couldn't find his name.
But finally, near the end of the list…
"And concluding the preliminary Class 4 exhibition," Juno stated, his gaze flicking briefly towards Rodrigo, "Initiate Rodrigo Mundragon will spar against Initiate Monti Fortuno of Class 3."
Silence. Then, a wave of murmurs swept the room, much louder this time. Heads swiveled between Rodrigo and Monti.
A Class 4, even a controversial one, pitted against a highly regarded, powerful Class 3? And not just any Class 3, but Monti Fortuno? It was clearly designed as a highlight match, a test.
Across the room, Monti's eyes widened fractionally, before a slow, predatory smirk spread across his face. He looked like a cat who'd just been handed a plump canary.
Several students nearby shot Rodrigo, mixing curiosity, pity, and a strange anticipation. They remembered the rumors, the near destruction of this very room. Was he stable? Could he control that power? Or would he just… explode again?
As Juno dismissed the group, outlining the preparation schedule for the evening, Monti made his way through the dispersing crowd directly towards Rodrigo. He stopped inches away, the earlier mockery replaced by an almost chilling certainty.
"Just so we're clear, token boy," Monti said, his voice low and confident. "That little flare display? Won't happen again. I won't let it. You won't win against me tonight." He didn't say it cruelly, or even angrily. He stated it as an undeniable fact.
Rodrigo simply held his gaze for a beat, then gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. He offered no words, no counter threat. He turned and walked away, leaving Monti smirking at his back.
Let him have his confidence.
Rodrigo had faced worse than arrogant boys with fast blades. 'Let the machete speak for me,' he thought. He felt the weight of his machete, and it gave him some solid reassurance.
But this time, he will guide its voice.
He found his way back to the furnished room assigned to him in the Initiate Quarters. As he pushed the door open, he saw Avange sitting on the edge of the narrow cot, looking up expectantly.
He must have been waiting.
"Got in trouble?" Avange asked.
Rodrigo began methodically checking the straps holding his machete sheath to his back harness. "There's a festival tonight. Public spars." He paused, meeting Avange's eyes in the room's dim light. "They've put me up against Fortuno."
Avange raised an eyebrow, processing this. "Who's that? The fuckin' peacock from the hallway?" He paused. "Class 3 versus Class 4... They're putting you on display, aren't they? Testing you after that evaluation."
"It seems like it," Rodrigo confirmed, tightening a final strap. His focus narrowed, the noise of Blissford fading into the background. Avange's worried face, the whispers of the instructors? None of it mattered now.
It was only the fight ahead. He needed control.