Becoming the Wind
Chapter 24 - 23 Combat Start

Chapter 24: Chapter 23 Combat Start

The very second the match was officially announced, silence fell over the entire arena.

The participants merely stared at one another—some anxious, some calculating, others pretending to fix shoe laces that had never once come undone.

"Hey, Azha," whispered a small elven girl with short blonde hair and golden-brown eyes that gleamed like honey under the sun. She was the only daughter of a minor viscount from the northern region. "Didn’t you say you were aiming for second place earlier?"

Azha, a boy from Count Drahven’s household, turned slowly. Cold sweat began to bead down his temple despite the arena’s cool air.

"Ehem... of course I’ll step up," he said, puffing out his chest. "When... the time is right."

"What time? Next year?" she teased, making several nearby participants chuckle.

"Why don’t you go first, then?" Azha snapped back.

"You were the one shouting about ’shaking the stage,’ weren’t you?"

"Uh, that was... rhetorical!" he replied quickly.

And so the nonsense continued. The other candidates began verbally pushing each other.

"If you’re so confident, why don’t you go?"

"Because I’m a gentleman. Ladies first."

"Then don’t complain if your opponent’s a girl."

"...That’s not gentlemanly, that’s a trap!"

In the audience stands, no one was surprised by this scene. It was practically tradition for the participants to hesitate on the first move.

An old man snoozed on a makeshift mattress he’d brought himself. Next to him, a man shaved his beard using a pocket mirror pinned to the railing.

Not far off, a group of students organized a betting pool more complex than any math exam. Meanwhile, one professor was being chased by a determined student.

"Professor! You haven’t graded my essay since last month!"

"I’m on vacation! Leave me be!"

In the commentator’s booth beneath the stage—encased in clear glass panels—a laid-back voice echoed, mouth half-full of fried wild grass.

"As we can all see, our brave participants are engaging in a deep, strategic discussion... or something like that!"

He swung a leg onto the table and added, "Ah, this ancient ritual always touches the heart."

Floating just behind Sylphia, Reyhan smirked.

’Father, can I go now?’ Sylphia asked silently.

"Not yet, sweetheart," Reyhan replied, unusually serious.

’Okay, Father.’

’If you go now, you won’t have that "main character" entrance moment,’ Reyhan mused.

[Host is beyond help.]

’Can you stop reading my mind for once?’

[Sorry, default system setting.]

’Fine, whatever...’

On the other end of the stage, Drevan—clearly ambitious—was growing restless. He fidgeted, glanced left and right, and began to rise.

But before he could stand fully, a slim figure stepped into the center of the arena.

Golden blonde hair. Deep, steady eyes.

Yurelia Vellmarin.

With a single breath, she drew her sword.

Silence swept through the arena.

Sylphia gave a faint smile, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Reyhan, now floating lazily with his hands behind his head, raised an eyebrow.

"Merchant’s daughter, huh... that’s a dangerous level of bold."

In the commentator booth, the host had already finished his snack and leaned into his enchanted microphone.

"Unexpected! The first to step forward is Yurelia Vellmarin! Daughter of—uh—Count Alev Vellmarin! Who will she choose for her first opponent?"

The crowd erupted in cheers. Even the sleeping old man blinked once before snoring again.

All attention turned to the girl in the center.

From the western tribune, Prince Caelsen turned slightly toward Count Alev seated nearby.

"Who would’ve thought your daughter would take the first move, Lord Alev," he said with a thin smile. "And I hear she’s already reached Stage Eight. Impressive."

Whether it was praise or challenge cloaked in civility was hard to tell.

Alev Vellmarin bowed slightly. "Your Highness flatters her. She is, of course, nothing compared to the gifted Prince Daniel."

Yet when his gaze returned to the arena, Alev smiled faintly—not out of arrogance, but with a quiet, hopeful pride.

Yurelia stood tall, her blade raised shoulder-high. She turned slowly, scanning the participants seated at the southern edge. Her black eyes followed the tip of her sword like the hand of a clock searching for its hour.

One by one, participants averted their gaze or tried to look confident. Some even thought she looked like an easy opponent.

Until her gaze stopped.

Azha.

The same Azha who had spoken so boldly earlier now froze in place. A subtle smile curved Yurelia’s lips. It was gentle... but from another angle, it looked like an executioner’s smile.

"I choose you," she said softly.

The crowd chuckled and murmured.

Azha blinked. "Huh?!"

He stood up, feigning annoyance.

"Why me? Is it because I’m handsome? Or did you fall in love at first sight?" he said half-jokingly, though inwardly, he was celebrating.

’Yes! Thank the spirits she chose me... That’s one win in the bag. Now I just need to pick someone weak for the next match...’

But the other participants didn’t let it go.

"Woo! Reject her! Be a gentleman!"

"Seriously? A guy fighting a girl?"

"She’s got a profession spirit, dude. Imagine the headlines if you lose!"

Azha looked around nervously, then shrugged and puffed his chest.

"Rejecting a challenge would also be un-gentlemanly," he declared, voice an octave too high.

Some gave him thumbs up. Most were trying not to laugh.

Beside Sylphia, Reyhan raised an eyebrow. "Hmm, this is interesting."

"System," he said mentally. "Analyze combat odds, Yurelia Vellmarin vs Azha Drahven."

[Processing...]

[Gathering parameters: Spirit level, classification, tactics, combat style...]

[Comparative strength calculating...]

[Yurelia Vellmarin Win Rate: 90%]

[Azha Drahven Win Rate: 10%]

Reyhan crossed his arms. "Hah? Ninety percent?"

Sylphia, seated among the participants, kept her eyes on her friend.

’Is that sword... the reason why?’ she wondered.

In the eastern tribune, the professors observed keenly.

"Vellmarin... didn’t she have a Profession Spirit?" Lysandra asked, tapping her chin.

Mirielle Zaynara nodded quickly, eyes gleaming. "Yes. She’s one of the rare users of the Spirit of Balance."

"Spirit of Balance?" muttered Perdo Tyran. "The kind merchants use?"

"Exactly," Sirton added, his gaze sharpening. "Her spirit adjusts roles mid-battle. It may not seem impressive... perhaps that’s why she brought a sword. Still... definitely worth watching."

On the western side, Count Alev leaned back, arms crossed. He said nothing—but a faint smirk formed at the corner of his mouth.

Prince Caelsen cast him a glance. "You’re very calm, Lord Alev. Not worried your daughter might get hurt?"

Alev’s smile deepened slightly. "I’m more worried... she might go too far."

Azha strode into the arena with exaggerated flair—wide steps, chin high.

He opened his mouth, ready to deliver the usual NPC-grade speech.

"Well then, lady of House Vellmarin, even though you’re a girl, I—"

Tap.

Yurelia raised one hand. The movement was smooth but firm—telling him to stop.

Azha froze, mouth half-open.

"You should save your words... for after you win," she said calmly, her voice echoing across the arena.

She turned to the referee—an old man from earlier who now stood near the edge of the stage.

"Referee. Let’s begin."

The referee gave a slight nod.

He raised a small wand and traced a circle in the air.

"As per academy regulation—the first match of the Final Examination... begins now!"

Light flashed and shimmered around the arena.

The audience rose to their feet.

Yurelia stepped forward.

The air around her seemed to ripple—like it was holding its breath. Then, from the open palm she raised, a spirit slowly materialized.

A medieval-style balance scale. Smooth black iron, softly glowing. Two chain-linked pans hung from either side, perfectly even. Though only semi-transparent, its presence alone dropped the air temperature slightly.

"Valanther," Yurelia spoke, calm but loud enough for all to hear.

Across the stage, Azha raised his chin and laughed. "Hahaha! So your spirit is... a scale? What are you gonna do, weigh my defeat?"

But before he could finish—

Swippp—!

A sudden blur.

Yurelia was already in front of him.

Lightning-fast.

Her sword moved like a flash of moonlight—leaving only a faint slash on Azha’s left cheek.

So quick the air itself lagged behind, creating a soft tearing sound like silk being ripped.

Azha froze.

Eyes wide.

Hand still raised mid-point—frozen in time.

A single drop of blood slid down his cheek.

Yurelia stood close—barely a meter away. Her blade wasn’t aimed at his heart or throat. It hung low at her side, relaxed, almost careless.

Left foot forward, knees bent. Her head dipped slightly—but her eyes, sharp and cold, locked directly onto his.

Her voice came out even and quiet—but firm enough to chill the spine.

"Now... shut up, and try to keep up."

Silence.

The professors’ eyes widened. Several scribbled notes furiously. Even Rosalia Larnia, head of the council who rarely showed emotion, looked intrigued.

Perdo Tyran’s falcon stopped eating its peanuts and perched in total stillness.

At the back of the arena, Reyhan rubbed his temples and chuckled.

"Merchant’s daughter, huh? More like a future court judge."

Sylphia smiled softly—half proud, half anxious.