Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 266: Qualifying Round

Eleanor was already familiar with the sensation of entering these space capsules. After her first experience during the initiation ceremony, she had used them again in the Tower of Legends, in Professor Jiro’s simulated classes in Vanaheim, and during several sessions within the Chamber of Unbecoming.

She lay down inside the capsule with practised ease. The lid sealed shut, enclosing her in soft darkness.

When the void receded, she found herself standing in a small, enclosed chamber lined with racks of weapons. Blades of all kinds gleamed under a white light... swords, spears, axes, hammers... some she recognised, others entirely new.

"Welcome to the Grand Championship, Match Eleven. Cadet 10156659, please select any weapon of your choice. All weapons are of earth grade. Your opponent will receive the same," came the neutral, mechanical voice.

Eleanor had yet to settle on a preferred weapon. Instructor Arrichion had introduced her to swords, sabres, spears, and hammers, but none had felt natural in her hands. Eventually, they had agreed to let her fight unarmed... particularly since she wouldn’t be allowed to carry a weapon in Vanaheim anyway.

"I won’t be bringing any weapon into the fight," she said simply.

"Acknowledged. You may proceed to the arena," the voice replied. A doorway slid open to her right.

Eleanor stepped through and found herself standing in the middle of a circular mini stadium. Rows of empty seats curved around her like silent sentinels. At the centre stood a raised fighting platform, a ring of white stone resembling an old wrestling stage.

She advanced calmly toward it and climbed up. The faint hum of the simulation filled the air. Beyond the dome’s crystalline vault stretched a cold, unreal sky.

A door opposite her slid open, and another cadet entered... tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a long sword. She recognised his face from classes but had never spoken to him.

"Igor Semenov."

The name surfaced from her memory along with its associations. The Semenov family, ancient noble vampires of Yakutsk, ruled the great port on the Lena River. Since the establishment of the Supernatural Council, vampires and werewolves had been forced to abandon their ancestral feud and cooperate... at least on the surface. Yet some clans still clung to their old prejudices, and the Semenovs were among them.

Igor, eldest grandson and heir apparent to his family patriarch, was a proud symbol of that old blood. To him, the modern world’s ideals of equality were an insult to legacy. He tolerated the werewolves of the academy only because the world demanded it. In his mind, they remained beasts pretending to be civilised.

him, she could only have achieved through luck or manipulation. She

arena... no crowds, no factions, just the whisper of simulated wind through unseen corridors and the pale light refracting from the

ring, landing with feline grace. His resolve was simple and absolute...

with hostility; Eleanor’s, in contrast, remained

countdown echoed in their

10... 9... 8...

3... 2... 1... Go!

signal

slicing through the air toward Eleanor’s chest, neck, and thigh. The air around them crystallised briefly, leaving silver

not meet force

of each shard, the subtle wobble in their spin, the pulse of power that propelled

her arm with cold. Frost shimmered briefly across her skin before her body’s innate

advantage. With a curt gesture, a translucent Ice Shield materialised before his left arm, its surface rippling with blue light. Then, without pause, he began to launch volleys of

into slow-motion clarity. She could read the faint tension in Igor’s shoulder before

of instinct and discipline, never lingering in one place for more than a heartbeat. Every movement was an answer: a parry here, a deflection there, a low slide beneath a whistling shard. Her defence

his attacks were structured, almost elegant. She could end the match with a single lightning

Igor’s voice rang

in seconds. Eleanor felt the chill seep into her bones, her joints stiffening, her muscles slowing under the oppressive

but lethal. Her movements, once effortless, now carried the weight of resistance. She managed

in her fatigues, the wound instantly crystallising around the edges. Pain flared, sharp

Muscles tensed and thickened beneath her skin; her eyes burned with an emerald

no

at the sight. Predictable, he thought. He had expected her to rely on her transformation to resist the cold. To him, it was confirmation that

his arm again, summoning another storm of Ice

move to evade.