Reborn Financier-Chapter 45: Unexpected Outcome

The morning sun had already risen high above the Academy’s stone towers, its golden light washing over the expansive training fields where the first round of one-on-one combat duels were already underway. The arena vibrated with eager chatter, ringing steel, and the occasional flash of magic.

Number 654 was not yet seen.

"Contestant number 654, Kaidën Valtorin," the announcer called again, his voice echoing over the field through a magical amplifier. "Please report to Duel Platform 3 immediately."

The crowd glanced around, muttering in wonder. On the platform, a broad-shouldered young man was tapping his foot impatiently. His name was Varric Slade—solid as a wall, with a spiked hammer over his shoulder and a scowl etched on his face. He had been waiting for over twenty minutes.

One of the judges—a level 7 martial arts expert with deep-set eyes and a stern expression—sighed and leaned forward.

"This is the third call. Where is this boy?"

"Probably chickened out," Varric grunted, spitting to the side. "Saw my name and ran off with his tail tucked in."

The judge raised his hand and prepared to mark the result when—

***********************************************

Meanwhile, across campus...

Kaidën stirred in bed. His hair was a mess. His breathing was slow. Birds chirped outside the window as a soft breeze blew into his room, gently rustling the curtain.

He stretched, rolled onto his side, and slowly blinked up at the ceiling.

"What’s the time?" he mumbled.

Then—his eyes widened.

He sat up in bed as if he had been struck by lightning, tossing aside the lightweight covering and crawling to the side of the bed. His gaze darted to the wall clock.

9:42 AM.

His match was at 9:00 AM sharp.

"Oh," he muttered. "Crap."

In a flash, he changed into his training gear, strapped on his dull iron daggers, and leapt out of the dorm window—landing gracefully three floors down without even bending his knees.

He raced to the arena, slashing across pathways and jumping over fences, but as he arrived at the main grounds, a loud, shrill announcement pierced the air:

> "Contestant Kaidën Valtorin—DISQUALIFIED from his first match. Automatic loss due to failure to appear."

The crowd groaned. Some laughed. Others looked confused.

Kaidën skidded to a stop just outside the Iron gates of the field. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. His expression didn’t change by much, but there was a definite tch of annoyance in the way he breathed out.

He moved to the judges’ table calmly, with students murmuring about him.

"Isn’t that him? The missing contestant?"

"He really showed up after being disqualified?"

"Did he oversleep? Seriously?"

At the top of the arena stands, the head judge narrowed his eyes.

"You must be Kaidën Valtorin."

"Yes, sir," Kaidën responded dully. "Sorry. I overslept.".

One of the younger professors derided. "Overslept? On the most important exam of your whole life?"

One of them slouched forward, clearly annoyed. "Think this is funny? You’ve already blown one of your five chances."

Kaidën shrugged. "I know."

"Then hear this," the older judge snarled, reading down the record. "One loss. You now require at least two wins in order to stay in the academy. Three wins at a minimum if you’re going to even reach C-class."

Kaidën gave a faint nod. "Understood."

The old man regarded him with a long, suspicious stare before waving him off. "You’re excused for the time being. Get ready for your next match."

***********************************************

Back in the staging grounds

Kaidën walked silently past groups of students. Some snickered. Some glared. Others whispered and stared like he was an idiot. A few A-class hopefuls from the martial arts department smirked with open disdain.

"Guess he’s just another dropout."

"His opponent waited thirty minutes for nothing. What a loser."

But Kaidën didn’t seem to hear them—or maybe he just didn’t care.

He found a quiet stone bench at the far end of the staging grounds and sat down.

He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, and exhaled.

"I didn’t plan to win everything... but this just made things harder than I wanted."

His voice was quiet, lost in the wind.

He glanced at his dagger and twirled it between his fingers.

Then, with an indifferent tone, he muttered:

"Well... looks like I can’t sleep through the next one."

***********************************************

The sun hung high, casting shadows across the wide dueling platform. The crowd was buzzing with excitement as several matches had already ended in flashes of brilliance. Out of the 1200 students who advanced, twenty had already distinguished themselves—ending matches in mere breaths. Among them was Meng Ji, whose elegance and precision had set a standard few dared to challenge. With two clean victories and flawless execution, even the judges had begun whispering her place in A-class was all but secured.

But now... the atmosphere shifted.

A voice echoed from the elevated judge’s platform.

"Next match! Contestant 654... Kaidën Valtorin, versus Contestant 030... Prince Garon of the Iron Fist Empire. Platform 3!"

The crowd buzzed instantly. Whispers turned into full conversations.

"Isn’t that the boy who missed his first match?" "He’s facing that Garon?" "Poor kid... he’s gonna get wrecked."

As Kaidën stepped onto the stage, the murmurs grew louder. He was calm, expression unreadable behind his blindfold, walking at an unhurried pace, iron daggers resting lazily at his hips. His presence didn’t scream power—it whispered mystery. But to the crowd, he looked like a fool about to face a hurricane.

And then his opponent entered.

Prince Garon.

The cheers were deafening.

The sixth prince of the Iron Fist Empire, with arms like carved stone and shoulders that towered over most grown men. His sleeveless combat gi bore his nation’s emblem, and his fists—tightly wrapped in reinforced leather—seemed to radiate raw, explosive strength. Rumors had already placed him as an A-class, despite this being only his second match. His earlier fight ended before anyone could blink—his opponent knocked clean off the platform and sent flying into a tree.

As Garon stepped onto the stage, he cracked his knuckles and gave Kaidën a curious look.

"A blindfolded kid with iron daggers... You sure you’re in the right place?"

Kaidën tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.

Garon frowned, then sighed.

"Look, I respect guts, but this isn’t a place for the weak. Quit now. Walk away. I don’t like breaking people who don’t deserve it."

Still, Kaidën remained silent, his hands resting loosely by his sides.

"...Tch. I like you, kid. Shame it won’t matter."

Without warning, Garon exploded forward.

His fist slammed into the ground where Kaidën had stood a moment before, creating a crater of shattered stone and dust. The shockwave hit the crowd like a punch of air.

Kaidën sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the impact—but his expression didn’t change. He kept his stance passive, waiting.

"He’s fast. Strong too. Definitely not holding back."

Garon grinned, impressed his target was still standing.

"Not bad. But let’s see how long you can keep dancing."

The prince surged forward again, launching a flurry of rapid, brutal punches. Kaidën twisted, dipped, and weaved through them, his movements precise and economic—still not striking back. His feet moved like a whisper, barely audible as he glided across the stone.

The crowd was silent now, holding their breath.

Then, Kaidën took a hit. Deliberately.

Garon’s fist slammed into his shoulder, knocking him back a few meters. Kaidën hit the ground and rolled, dust rising around him. A shallow cut opened on his cheek, and a bit of blood trickled down.

The judges leaned forward as he going to stop the match. One of them whispered:

"Wait..."

It was the headmaster, the martial master. The one who has been quiet since the beginning of the one on one matches, he smiled, watching the match more intensely than ever.

Garon, sensing a shift, frowned.

"You’re weird, kid. But now you’re bleeding. Time to end this."

With a roar, he gathered mana into his fist—Aura Fist: Iron King Blow—a technique known for its concussive power. He charged like a cannonball.

Kaidën’s foot twisted.

He ducked, pivoted, and slammed his foot into the prince’s side—not with power, but with precision.

The prince stumbled. His forward momentum betrayed him.

"Now."

Kaidën leapt upward and spun mid-air, kicking Garon square in the chest with both feet.

BOOM.

The prince staggered. His feet scrambled.

And then—he fell off the platform.

A brief silence.

Then—

> "Contestant Garon disqualified for leaving the ring in match, Kaidën Valtorin is the winner!"

The crowd exploded in noise.

Some gasped. Others yelled in disbelief.

"No way! That was pure luck!" "He actually beat Prince Garon?" "Did you see that kick? It looked like desperation!"

The judges murmured among themselves, conflicted.

"It looked like an accident. But his timing was perfect..."

And as for the headmaster, he just smiled saying, "looks like this year is going to be fun"

Kaidën stood still, breathing lightly. He wiped the blood from his cheek, then gave the prince a shallow bow before walking off the platform with a faint limp.

As he walked back, he thought:

"That’s two matches done. One loss, one win. I’ll have to fake more injuries next time. Can’t have anyone suspecting too much."

Prince Garon sat on the ground outside the ring, staring after him. Then he laughed.

"You sly bastard. You actually pulled it off... I’ll remember your name, Kaidën Valtorin."

To be continued...