{}---『RUNEHEART』---{}

◇ Name: Rosalin Varion

◇ Age: 16

◇ Spellcore: Tier III

[Mana Resonance: (10/1000)]

==[General Attributes]==

Strength: C

Agility: C+

Endurance: C

Vitality: C

Perception: C

==[Mage Attributes]==

Mana Control: D-

Casting Speed: D-

Magic Power: D-

Mana Sensitivity: D-

Mana Essence: [1500/1500]

==[Innate Blessings]

==

- [Blessing of War God’s Incarnation]

==[Magic Affinity]==

- [Fire]

- [Light]

Rosalin Varion’s character sheet still floated in front of him.

‘Hmm, strength, agility, endurance… everything about her is rated at the upper end of the first-year spectrum, and not simply from training alone. Her Spellcore have matured into Tier 3 already. That alone put her ahead of ninety percent of the academy’s first-years.’

She was what the Academy would call a “combat archetype,” but what Ruvian would more honestly call a monster dressed in discipline.

However, what truly drew his attention wasn’t the raw stats. It was the blessing etched into her very name.

[Blessing of War God’s Incarnation]

That kind of blessing wasn’t something you stumbled into. A monster, in the most knightly sense of the word.

It made sense, of course. She was the daughter of the Knight of Varion. The heir not only to noble blood, but to expectation itself.

That kind of upbringing didn’t allow for shortcuts or sentimentality. Every scar was earned. Every muscle tempered. Every moment on the battlefield, a prayer answered through the blade.

Ruvian’s gaze moved from her glowing sheet to the three Class E volunteers now standing opposite her. Their names – Garen, Mikael, and Linnea, rested in his mind without weight.

However, they were less a scripture and more of a footnote compared to her. Their profiles, summoned through his [Character Sheets] skill, yielded only the basics.

Their mana capacity barely exceeded his own. Their cores were late Tier 1 at best, with no notable blessings.

Ruvian exhaled silently, gaze sharpening as he watched the four figures spread out across the training ring.

‘This match is already decided.’

Rosalin unsheathed the academy’s longsword with fluid grace. She held it in one hand, the tip angled just low enough not to intimidate, and just high enough to remind them of who they were facing. There was no mockery in her posture, only focus.

Delila’s voice rang through the hall, clear and ceremonial.

“Begin.”

What followed wasn’t a charge. The three scholars from Class E moved forward in what could generously be called a formation – Garen at the front with a training blade clutched in both hands.

Mikael flanking to the right, muttering a water incantation under his breath, and Linnea at the rear, already channeling her spell into a basic wind projectile.

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Rosalin didn’t move and let them come.

Garen swung first, the blade slicing diagonally, hoping perhaps to force a reaction. Rosalin stepped aside with just a shift of weight.

Behind him, Mikael’s palm ignited with a thick burst of water mana, shaped into a concentrated jet that screamed toward her side.

She lifted her blade, not to block it, but to redirect its path mid-air. It hissed past her and splashed harmlessly against the enchanted floor.

Linnea’s wind spell fired a breath later but it was too soon. The projectile veered, wobbling in flight, and dispersed before it even touched her. The casting was rushed and the aim was poor.

Ruvian narrowed his eyes, tracking every motion.

‘Rosalin could end this at any moment if she wanted to… in fact, she could probably do it blindfolded.’

A single spell chain, a dash forward, three strikes. The difference in ability was chasmic.

But instead of crushing them with that gap, she gave them the one thing that all early fighters needed most: a chance to see themselves fail with dignity.

The three scholars regrouped, panting lightly. A minute would pass before their spells were ready again and a minute was a long time in a duel.

Ruvian caught the faint shift of Rosalin’s stance, the smallest change in grip. And in that moment, he understood.

‘Oh, has she finally decided to attack?’

Then, Rosalin moved, there was no weighty footfall to signal her advance, only the sound of a single foot gliding against the training floor. And just like that, she closed the gap.

‘She’s fast…’ Ruvian admitted, surprised as well.

Garen barely saw her coming. His stance, meant to be solid and braced, had been thrown off by a single breath of hesitation. Her blade met his ribs, not with an edge, but with the flat, and tapped him squarely.

He stumbled, grunted, then went down to one knee. The force was so strong that it gave him difficulty to breathe. The duel had started only moments ago, and yet the floor was already calling his name.

Mikael reacted fast, perhaps the fastest of the three, but not fast enough. He had managed to raise his mana, the words of his water spell already half-shaped, lips moving in a rhythm born of desperation more than mastery.

Rosalin turned her body with perfect balance and stepped across the line of his spell before it fully left his hand.

Her sword dipped low, its hilt clipping Mikael’s wrist with just enough force to make him flinch and drop the casting mid-flow.

The water sputtered, lost cohesion, and fell to the floor in a harmless splash.

Mikael stepped back, then caught himself. His fists clenched, but the second he looked into her golden-amber eyes – he exhaled and dropped his arms.

There was no need to fight a battle he had already lost.

Only Linnea was left, she stood behind them, still gripping her staff, knuckles pale beneath her gloves. Her wind spell crackled faintly at the tip, ready to fire.

Her eyes darted between her fallen teammates and the red-haired girl who now approached with unhurried steps.

Rosalin didn’t raise her blade, only simply walked forward, steady and upright. Linnea didn’t cast her spell, she couldn’t and she didn’t dare. The spell faltered and she stepped back without realizing it.

And that was the end of it.

Rosalin lowered her sword completely, the tip resting against the floor with a faint metallic note. Her expression neither carries triumph or pride, but a soft look of acknowledgment.

“There is no shame in this defeat. You all did well,” she said softly.

Linnea, eyes wide, bowed her head. That was all she could do.

Silence followed, then, the crowd erupted.

The applause came in waves. Class A students clapped first, but soon Class E followed. Even the most jaded of them could not deny what they had just witnessed.

In the stands, Delila’s arms were crossed neatly in front of her, her lips drawn into a polite smile. But the muscles along her jaw told a different story.

Her gaze flicked toward Rosalin, then to the three from Class E, now seated off the platform, heads low but eyes open. They had been spared humiliation.

‘That wasn’t part of the plan. Why is she holding back?! Ugh!’ Delila growled in her thoughts.

She had hoped for something cleaner. A crushing defeat that could be cited in faculty memos. Something that would let her slash points from Class E’s score without question and quietly bolster her own top scholars in the report that followed.

But this became an exhibition of skill instead of dominance. The spectators were too impressed, too moved, so there would be no morale collapse from Class E from this fight.

Ruvian stood with arms loosely folded. His eyes were fixed on Delila, he caught the slight falter in her fabricated expression.

He exhaled quietly but satisfied.

‘So, her first card had been played and even that one had slipped through her fingers. Good. One down. Eight matches to go.’

As the applause slowly faded into murmurs, Rosalin Varion stepped down from the dueling stage.

She did not bask in the crowd’s approval nor acknowledge the ripple of admiration in the eyes of those she passed.

Her expression, still calm and composed, remained untouched by pride. Then, for a brief moment, her gaze caught on someone standing near the edge of the ring.

Calyra.

Rosalin’s golden-amber eyes lingered a bit longer than needed on her. She held her chin just a degree higher, the faintest tension rising beneath the collarbone, invisible to most—though not to Ruvian, who watched from afar. Thɪs chapter is updated by NoveI(F)ire.net

‘Rosalin still has her eyes on her. That's a positive thing to know. I’m glad.’

If Rosalin had been forged through expectation and discipline, then, Calyra was carved from potential that was caged.

She was already known by some across the academy as the youngest strongest mage of her generation.

Rosalin turned away without a word and stepped into the line of Class A scholars who stood at ease near the platform’s edge.

She hoped that one day, she would get the chance to test the so-called youngest strongest mage in her generation with her own blade.

'Their fight happened quite late in the story, actually… but I guess she didn't have to wait any longer. That day will come sooner than she thought. I can rearrange their fight earlier. It's good for both development as well, cause I need them to start hitting the work and be motivated to get stronger.’

Ruvian softly grinned with a nod of approval.

‘Anyway, it's time for me to discuss a few things with my teammates first and learn a bit about their stats and fighting experience.’

Then, Ruvian walked towards the two of them who stood among the sea of Class E scholars, still watching the stage.

PP= 860

ME= 180