**Chapter 3: The Fallen Pride**
As the previous period concluded, the students moved to their next class, but the atmosphere was tense. Whether it was because of Gray's overwhelming display of power or the anxiety of what lay ahead, everyone wore the exact expression Gray had hoped for: fear and awe. The sight fueled his excitement, setting his heart racing in a way it hadn't in either of his lives.
“You have amazing combat power in magic,” Alicia said, catching up to him. Her eyes locked on his, awaiting a response while maintaining a polite demeanor.
“Ah, Alicia, was it? No, it’s not like that. I just know how to show off,” Gray replied, his voice steady, despite his nerves. She was strikingly beautiful—more than any girl he had ever spoken to in both of his lives—yet his face remained expressionless.
“Then, why didn’t you use your power when they were bullying you, mocking you?” Alicia's tone shifted, now firm and demanding an honest answer.
“I was just boosting their egos,” Gray responded, his voice carrying a weight that flustered her for a moment, though she hid it well.
“Is that so? I’ll be watching your duel. Don’t disappoint me, Gray Redmoon.” She turned and walked ahead without waiting for a reply.
Gray grinned slightly, watching her retreating figure. “How cute. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a show,” he said, loud enough for her to hear. She kept walking, but her embarrassed face betrayed her.
They arrived at the training grounds, where his opponent, Ambrose Stewart, the Duke’s eldest son, was already waiting. Ambrose stood tall with a long sword in hand, his scarred forehead and grim expression aimed squarely at Gray. Olivia stood beside him, casting sidelong glances, her eyes daring Gray to react. The two shared a kiss, hoping to provoke some emotion. But to their surprise, Gray simply made a mock flying kiss gesture, his face blank.
“So, you finally showed up. I thought you'd run away after all that’s happened to you. But don’t worry, I’ll put you out of your misery. Just try not to move too much—I’d hate to cut you more than necessary,” Ambrose growled, eyes narrowing as he waited for a reaction.
Gray’s face remained unchanged. “I see. So I guess your father failed to raise you, huh? Tell me, what punishment might help your underdeveloped brain grow to at least the size of a walnut?”
Ambrose's face contorted in rage, but the sharp insult earned a few muffled laughs from the crowd. Their amusement was short-lived as Ambrose silenced them with a cold glare.
“You damn fool! Get on the stage! Let’s see if your sword can teach me about respect,” Ambrose spat, his fury barely contained. He ripped off his shirt, exposing his muscular chest.
Gray smiled—a small, dangerous smile. “Sure thing, my little puppy. My sword will educate you on respect.” He retrieved a sword from the weapons rack and stepped onto the stage. Memories from his past life flooded in, particularly of a time in high school when he had sent a delinquent to the hospital after a brutal fight, a fight that cost him his family and landed him in jail.
The instructors, Thomson and Andre, signaled the beginning of the duel. Ambrose made the first move, casting a speed spell to enhance his agility. His blade shot forward, aimed at Gray’s heart. But at the last moment, Gray sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the strike.
“Is that all you’ve got, monkey?” Gray taunted, his voice mocking.
Ambrose, thinking it a fluke, swung again, this time aiming for Gray’s head. Again, Gray dodged, effortlessly moving out of the way. Ambrose couldn’t believe it—how was this idiot, this mockery of a prince, evading his every attack?
Little did Ambrose know, Gray—or rather, Izanagi—was no ordinary person. He was a master swordsman, an eight-time gold medalist from his past life’s national tournaments in Japan. Swordplay was second nature to him.
After ten minutes of relentless, unsuccessful attacks, Gray grew bored. With a single, precise strike, Gray shattered Ambrose’s sword, breaking it in two. Then, with a swift motion, he knocked Ambrose unconscious with a strike to the head. Gray stepped off the stage, expressionless, having claimed an overwhelming victory. The crowd stood in stunned silence.
“This is cheating! There’s no way that fool Gray could have beaten Ambrose-sama!” came a voice from the crowd—one of Ambrose’s sycophants, Adolf Vincent, son of a viscount.
Gray’s eyes narrowed as an idea formed. Walking toward Adolf, he stopped right in front of him before, without warning, delivering a powerful slap that sent him sprawling to the ground. “Who are you calling a fool?” Gray asked, his voice calm, yet deadly. Another slap followed. “Tell me, who am I?”
Adolf, his face red and swollen, stammered, “You’re... you’re the son of the Emperor, Gray Redmoon.”
“And you?” Another slap.
“I’m... I’m the son of a viscount.”
“And what’s your mistake?”
“I—I called you—” Another slap.
“Exactly. Don’t make the same mistake again,” Gray said, turning and walking away without another word.
The students and instructors were left speechless. Even the instructors knew that Adolf had crossed a line by insulting the royal family, and they turned a blind eye to Gray’s actions.
From that day on, one thing was clear: Gray was no longer the boy they once knew. He had become something far more dangerous, something they could not afford to ignore.
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