"Noooooo!!"
The commander, who had been sitting with an arrogant smirk just moments ago, now wore a face consumed by dread, shock, and fear.
"Run away, Darmacus!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice trembling with panic.
Everyone present, Salsa's commander, the crowd, the senior instructors, all knew what was coming.
They knew what that attack meant.
Heaven's Dissonance.
The signature move of Blackthrones.
A faint smirk crept across Steve's face as a thin horizontal line appeared across Darmacus's chest, a line that seemed to cut through the very fabric of reality itself.
"Hope you've learned something, junior," Steve said coldly.
No one moved.
Not Darmacus, not the crowd. Time seemed to freeze. And then—
CRACK!
The line erupted with devastating force, sending Darmacus hurtling backward like a ragdoll.
His body smashed into the protective barrier around the arena. But the sheer energy of the attack shattered even that, and Darmacus's limp form flew past the broken barrier, straight toward his squad's commander, before finally slamming into the farthest wall of the stadium.
The impact was thunderous.
All eyes locked onto Darmacus. Blood flowed freely from his battered body, staining his once-luxurious armor. Yet, despite the brutality, a faint breath escaped his lips.
He was alive.
The Sun's Shield, a divine gift he was born with, had activated at the last possible moment, saving his life. But now, even that shield was shattered, revealing his bloodied chest beneath.
The arena was silent.
Absolute silent.
The loud, chattering crowd from earlier had fallen into a state of stunned disbelief. They had come to witness the fall of the arrogant heir of Blackthorne, but what unfolded before their very eyes was the exact opposite.
"It only took one attack to do this to Darmacus?"
Someone finally whispered, breaking the suffocating silence.
Most were still in denial, struggling to process what they had just seen. Finally, the referee, still visibly shaken, stepped forward.
"The…" he began, his voice faltering. He glanced at Steve, standing tall and calm in the center of the devastation, before gathering himself.
"The Gentle Sword, Commander of the Hounds, Steve Blackthorne… is the winner!"
Before the stunned eyes of the crowd, Steve stood tall, arms wide open, his smirk as sharp as ever.
"AaaaaaaaaaaHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
The roar of triumph exploded from his squad, the Hounds, as they erupted in cheers. Their celebration was deafening, their synchronized stomps of boots, swords, and spears against the ground echoing through the arena.
It was their way of honoring their commander, a respect ceremony. The entire stadium began to tremble, the vibrations mimicking a small earthquake.
In stark contrast to his squad's wild energy, Steve's gaze moved silently through the crowd.
His eyes stopped on one individual, a strikingly beautiful woman whose face was visibly twisted in irritation, her clenched fists trembling as though she was moments away from throwing something.
Natasha Melheaven.
She wasn't just upset over Salsa's loss. No, it was Steve's victory that infuriated her.
Steve's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he raised his hand and pointed directly at her. The crowd, still buzzing with excitement, followed his gesture, turning their eyes toward Natasha.
Her frown deepened, her confusion apparent as she stared back at him.
And then, with everyone's attention locked on them, Steve bowed slightly.
"I dedicate my victory to you, my lady," he said with a voice loud enough for all to hear.
It was clear to everyone— He was blatantly mocking her in public.
"Bastard!" Natasha muttered under her breath, her irritation boiling over. She snapped her fingers at the mages of her squad, signaling them to surround her. "Let's go," she ordered, storming off with her group.
A loud, hearty chuckle broke the tension, drawing all eyes to its source.
Edward Hemsworth.
The tall figure stepped forward from his seat, walking a few steps closer to the arena. "Congratulations, brother," he said with a smirk. "I thoroughly enjoyed the show."
Steve gave him a small nod in acknowledgment, but his focus soon shifted to the senior professors and the Vice Headmaster, all of whom stood with serious gazes fixed on him.
Finally, the Vice Headmaster spoke, his tone sharp and commanding. "Come to my office later."
"Yes, Sir," Steve replied firmly before turning back again to face the crowd.
By now, many of the high-ranking squads had already left in irritatiion, leaving behind mostly new recruits and unaligned spectators. And this was exactly what Steve had been waiting for.
His smirk widened as his gaze swept across the remaining crowd. This was his moment, the perfect time to capitalise on his performance and scout for talent.
"I see a lot of fresh faces here," he said, his voice echoing across the arena.
As his words landed, Sasha, Vice commander of the squad, raised her hand, signaling the Hounds to quiet down.
And soon enough, the deafening cheers instantly faded to silence.
Steve began to pace around the arena, his confident steps drawing every eye. "There were so many interesting things happening today," he continued, his voice steady. "Yet, you all stayed here, watching. For a mere qualifiers?"
He paused, letting his words sink in as his piercing gaze moved across the audience.
"Why?"
He waited, letting the silence stretch for moments. His sharp eyes scanned the audience again, reading their stunned expressions. No one spoke, just as he had expected.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"Come on, we all know why you were here. You were here for me. To watch me fail," he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge that cut through the heavy air.
"You thought you already knew the outcome, didn't you? But sike, here you are, witnessing a miracle instead. No one expected this. No one thought it could happen. And yet, here I stand, the youngest Elite."
The crowd remained silent, transfixed. No one dared to interrupt, their eyes glued to him as he continued.
"And as someone who gave you this miracle, I can reassure you that, miracles don't come to those who hope for them. They don't come to those who pray for them. And they certainly don't come to those who need them. Miracles manifest only before discipline, before order. And the Hounds... are the order."
He paused briefly, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Hounds is the squad of miracles. The squad of ambition. The squad of order. Tomorrow, at the Squad Selection Ceremony, the Hounds will open its ranks, not to those with just talent, but to those who follow order, to those who are ambitious."
As he finished, a single cheer broke out from the crowd. Then another. And another. Like a chain reaction, the entire stadium erupted into a thunderous roar.
The once silent and tense atmosphere turned electric as the crowd cheered and roared with newfound energy.
For many of the newcomers, though they new nothing about inside working of academy but they have their own biases about Hounds.
But after witnessing Steve's earlier performance and now his speech had lit a fire within them. They felt excitement coursing through their veins, their blood pumping with motivation.
For reasons they couldn't fully explain, the idea of joining the Hounds now felt exhilarating, almost inevitable.
Steve's smirk widened.
His plan had worked perfectly.
In truth, the match itself had meant little to Steve. It was this moment, the speech, the carefully staged performance, that held true significance.
He had prepared meticulously, crafting his edgy and motivational speech by drawing inspiration from the motivational edits he used to watch back on Earth. He had even stationed a few of his squad members in the crowd to initiate the cheers at the right time.
Every part of this event was planned, rehearsed, and executed to perfection. And for good reason.
While the fight had secured his position among the Seven Great Squads, Steve knew that wasn't enough. Facing chosen children of fate and countless rivals, he needed more than just skill, he needed influence.
And today's stage was the perfect opportunity to introduce the new Steve Blackthorne.
As his smirk deepened, a pair of solemn eyes from the far side of the crowd locked onto him.