Brad the Baron: Rewrite of Villain

The horns sounded again—sharper, urgent. Not a call to listen. A call to fight.

The arena floor trembled. A pulse of mana raced beneath the stone, and hidden compartments sprang open. Barrier walls—translucent and rune‑etched—rose in blades of light, carving the stadium into twenty‑four isolated dueling zones

Ah, right. Multi-match structure. The Academy loves its efficiency.

From the stands, spectators would be able to see everything. But down here, the fighters would be completely immersed in their own match—no distractions, no excuses.

An announcer's voice echoed over the field.

"Participants for Match Group A, report to your designated rings. First round begins in ten minutes."

I exhaled, eyes scanning the crystal banners. Mine glowed Arena 7—my lucky number, I hoped it stayed that way.

I made my way across the training ground, footsteps echoing against the shifting stone. Around me, others were doing the same—some confident, some trying hard not to look terrified.

Alric DuVaine was already waiting near my platform.

Polished spear on his back, smug grin on his face.

The translucent wall beside us flickered, signaling the start of entry.

I stepped inside my arena.

The walls sealed behind me.

The sound of the crowd faded into a low, distant hum.

Alric rolled his shoulders as he stepped into the ring, spear already in hand. His gait was wide, deliberate—meant to intimidate. Too bad the only thing it screamed was overcompensation.

He stopped a few paces from me, twirling the spear once before pointing its tip lazily in my direction.

"Hope you said your goodbyes, Valemont," he smirked. "Because I'm not just beating you today—I'm making an example."

Oh, here we go.

"You're the first piece," he went on. "Then I'll crush that mutt Ashborne. Maybe cripple him while I'm at it—teach him where he belongs."

His grin widened, like he thought he was delivering a grand villain monologue.

I tilted my head and let a slow, exaggerated sigh escape.

"Amazing," I said, clapping once, slowly. "Truly inspiring. You got played by Elric two weeks ago—humiliated so thoroughly the echoes are still laughing—and now you're planning to cripple people?"

I raised an eyebrow, voice smooth and amused.

"That's a bold strategy for someone who couldn't even land a bruise."

His smirk twitched. Just a little.

But before he could summon whatever noble tantrum he'd been preparing—

A chime sounded.

The arena's mana crystals flashed blue.

"Match start."

The air snapped. The barrier shimmered with protective wards.

Alric surged forward, spear already in motion.

And just like that—

The first duel began.

Alric charged, spear leading the way like he thought the match was already over.

His movement was quick—unnaturally so. The faint ripple around his limbs told the story.

He's circulating mana for speed—an agility-focused method. Prioritizing bursts and pivots.

His spear cut a shallow arc through the air—fast, clean, aimed at my ribs.

I didn't parry.

I stepped back

The blade missed by inches.

Too wide.

Too fast to control.

He pivoted, spinning the spear overhead in a theatrical arc, then drove it down toward my neck.

I ducked and countered with a crouching stab aimed at his chin. He recoiled, using his mana‑enhanced reflexes to deflect.

Before he could reset, I swept a kick into his knee—still low, still crouched.

He faltered, but swung upward, spear tip streaking toward my forehead, fueled by precision and the last of his mana..

His spear tore through the air like a bolt, narrow and deadly.

Fast. Clean. No wasted movement. If he started with this, it might've changed things.

But I was ready.

I met his thrust head‑on. My blade, held flat and angled outward, caught his spearhead.

Steel sang as his momentum carried the spear past my shoulder. I twisted my wrist.

Then I lunged—shoulder dipping, blade flashing—

My sword sliced past his defense, point pressing against his throat.

A thin line of blood welled where steel met skin.

Alric froze.

Not because he wanted to.

Because if he twitched, he would lose his neck.

"I yield," he whispered, voice raw with pain.

I held the position for a heartbeat.

Then I stepped back, sheathing my sword as the barrier walls dissolved.

The arena echoed with murmurs—held breaths, uncertain cheers.

This wasn't a match.

This was a message.