F-Rank Soul Eater-Chapter 146: Understanding Gone Wrong

The sound of impact echoed long after Goldsworth’s body stopped sliding.

For a heartbeat—

Nothing happened.

There were no cheers.

No mockery.

And no commentary from the people.

Just stunned silence.

Then the arena erupted — but it was not in praise, but confusion.

"What just happened?"

"Did he break through the strings?"

"That’s impossible—Goldsworth’s defense hasn’t failed once since he resumed!"

"How did the Clown do that?"

"He was half-dead a second ago!"

"How did he find a weakness in that defence?"

Cadets leaned over the railings. Some stood on their seats. Others stared at the projection screens as if waiting for a replay to correct reality.

Even the sponsor feed that was usually a roaring flood of comments and point transfers — froze.

The scrolling text halted mid-line.

There were no emotes.

No taunts from Goldsworth’s supporters or others on his side.

No doubt, there were all shocked.

All that remained was a blinking cursor.

And then—

[Madam Wawa: Splendid! That’s spirit! Break him properly, Soren! 10 Points transferred!]

A cascade of bright red digits flashed under her name.

But aside from her?

Silence.

On the platform, Goldsworth pushed himself up on shaking arms.

Blood dripped from his lip.

It was just a punch, but his perfect composure was gone.

He stared at Soren as if looking at something unnatural.

Then again, it was. This academy had a long history, and many people had fought gauntlet battles.

But in those battles, never had an F-rank stood against an A-rank and survived.

Even a C or B rank would be scared shirtless. Unless they had some form of secret advantage like using Blackfield or the like, most would lose.

It was not only normal, it was expected.

"This... this is impossible," Goldsworth breathed.

His voice cracked.

"I am A–Rank. I... I have trained since childhood. I was raised to command power."

His fingers trembled as he wiped the blood from his mouth — only for more to replace it.

"I am noble blood," he spat. "You are beneath me. Trash. You don’t get to touch me."

Soren tilted his head slightly.

For someone who had just forced his way through a supposedly impenetrable defense, he looked oddly calm.

"I see," he said quietly.

Goldsworth’s eyes flared with a mix of desperation and fury.

"You don’t understand what you’re facing!"

Soren took a slow step forward.

"No," Goldsworth’s corrected fiercely, shaking his head. As if his eyes and his mind were not in sync on their definition of reality.

"I see... very clearly." He stated.

Soren stopped just in front of him.

"Hmm..." his gaze was focused, "You just haven’t understood what’s happening yet.

Thats my fault..."

Goldsworth tried to gather his golden threads again — but they flickered unevenly, responding to his rising panic.

"Don’t worry," Soren added softly.

"I’ll remind you."

He moved.

Not a dash this time.

He leaped.

He closed the distance and drove his fist down.

Once.

The crack of knuckles against bone echoed across the arena.

Goldsworth’s head snapped sideways.

Twice.

Blood sprayed across the platform.

Three times.

Goldsworth’s head bounced against the ground.

The golden threads attempted to flare — but each strike Soren’s fist disrupted their rhythm.

That should have been enough.

But no... it wasn’t. Not to Soren.

He didn’t stop.

He kept going.

Another punch.

And another.

And another.

Each blow was clean.

Measured.

Deliberate.

There was no screaming.

No wild rage.

No manic grin.

Just impact.

Again.

Again.

Again.

As if forcing a lesson Goldsworth’s reffused to learn directly into the skull with continuous beating.

Goldsworth’s face began to swell. The sharp aristocratic features distorted under bruises and blood. His once-pristine aura flickered in weak, broken pulses.

In the stands... the horror spread.

And the whispers began.

"Stop—"

"That’s enough!"

"Is he trying to kill him?"

Soren’s fist was slick with blood now — some of it Goldsworth’s, some reopened from his own wounds.

From a distance, it didn’t look like hatred.

This much about Soren was clear.

It looked like instruction.

Like he was engraving a lesson into the noble’s bones.

A lesson a man would never understand unless it was hammered in.

Goldsworth’s struggled weakened.

The platform was stained red.

And still—

Soren raised his fist again.

"ENOUGH!"

The shout cut through the arena like a blade.

Instructor Eagle-Wing shot to his feet in the faculty section, soul energy flaring instinctively.

"That is enough! The match is over! Soren..." he gritted his teeth has won!"

The declaration thundered through the sound system.

Only then—

Only then—

Did Soren’s fist stop mid-air.

He remained there for a moment, breathing heavily.

Then slowly, he lowered his arm.

Silence swallowed the arena once more.

Soren raised his eyes yo Eagle-wing eyebrows.

The instructor had acted upon jis own authority.

According to the rules of gauntlet battles, if the opponent did not give up, the battle was allowed to continue.

Of course, this had led to yhe deaths of many cadets over the years, but it also built others, established, and cemented hierarchy and respect.

Meaning that by right, Soren could continue punching Goldsworth.

Even if Instructor Eagle-wing eyebrows had interrupted his lesson, Soren could keep going.

If Soren had been in the same situation, he doubted the instructor or any instructor for that matter would have stepped in.

But because it was a Goldsworth.

Soren remained kneeling over him for a moment longer.

Goldsworth was barely recognizable.

The aristocratic sharpness of his face had collapsed into swelling and ruin. One cheek was already turning a violent shade of purple. His lips were split in two places, blood pooling at the corners before dripping down his jaw and onto the platform in thick, dark drops. One eye was swollen nearly shut; the other flickered weakly under a curtain of red.

His golden threads. Those pristine, radiant things—hung in uneven strands around him.

Some were snapped.

Some flickered weakly like dying filaments. But most were gone.

To Soren, the air smelled metallic.

Blood.

Sweat.

His fist trembled more than ever from damage.

His knuckles were torn open. Skin peeled back in places. Blood—his and Goldsworth’s—coated his hand in a slick, sticky layer. He couldn’t even feel his fingers properly anymore.

They were numb.

Heavy.

Like they belonged to someone else.

A dull ache pulsed up his forearm into his elbow with every heartbeat.

Still, he looked down.

Soren’s gaze was steady.

"Do you understand now?" He asked quietly.

They was still no angering his expression, and no mockery.

Just clarity.

Goldsworth didn’t answer.

Soren watched him a second longer, then slowly rose to his feet.

The movement sent a violent protest through his chest. His ribs screamed. His vision flickered white.

He staggered once, but caught himself.

Then staggered again.

The world tilted slightly. Tiredness was creeping in bad.

Cynthia had already stood up from her seat, ready to help.

With all the blood loss Soren had sustained, only his insane endurance from his countless battles was keeping him standing.

Behind him, the crowd continued to watch in horrified silence.

Then—

Goldsworth’s one functioning eye snapped open.

Through swelling. Through blood.

It focused.

Not on the crowd.

Not on the instructors.

On Soren.

And something old, beneath the boy’s pride stirred awake.

A Memory.

A vast hangar bathed in gold light.

Soul Mechas stood like titans in slumber—gleaming armored giants connected to thick conduits of red and gold energy.

Little Goldsworth stood at attention, spine straight, hands behind his back.

His father loomed before him. He was tall, immaculate, and even though his gaze was covered by the sun, Goldsworth knew his father looked at him with expectation.

"You know why we are the greatest," his father said.

His voice echoed in the chamber.

Goldsworth did not hesitate. "Because our bloodline has conjured shades enough to resonate only our will to them."

His father nodded once.

"Not just resonance."

He stepped aside, revealing the largest mecha in the hangar—a golden construct crowned with a halo-like array of rotating sigils.

"We dominate because our will bends soul energy itself. We do not submit to it, son. It submits to us... our noble blood."

Little Goldsworth’s eyes shone.

His father approached him then.

In his hands was a small golden box—intricately carved with the family sigil.

He held it out.

"You have proven worthy," his father said. "This is our inheritance. Passed from father to son. From star to star."

Goldsworth accepted it reverently.

When he opened the lid—

A soft chirp sounded.

Inside, resting on crimson velvet, was a little bird.

A little bird that would forever always rest on Goldsworth’s shoulder.

"This," his father said, "is the Shade of our family ancestor. When the time comes, it will answer only you."

—

Reality snapped back.

Goldsworth’s swollen eye sharpened with manic clarity.

He stared at Soren’s back.

Blood dripped from his chin.

His fingers dug into the platform.

"I..."

His voice cracked, then hardened.

"I am the star in the sky!"

The scream tore from his throat.

And something answered.

A violent wave of red soul energy erupted outward.

It wasn’t like before.

It wasn’t radiant.

It wasn’t structured.

It moved like liquid.

Like blood torn from an artery.

Careful observation, and one would see that it resembled the red bloody lines on the edge of the swords of Red sword inquisitors.

The wave slammed into Soren’s back before he could fully turn.

The impact blasted him across the platform, his body skidding violently as the red energy splashed and flowed over the ground like a living tide.

Gasps ripped through the arena.

The red energy did not shimmer like normal aura.

It flowed.

Thick.

Viscous.

Veins of it crawled across Goldsworth’s body, seeping from his chest, coiling around his arms.

His golden threads were consumed.

Dyed crimson.

His swollen face twisted into something feral.

Soren pushed himself up weakly—

And then his eyes ignited.

A deep, unnatural glow.

Chronovore hissed... no. It screamed.

And from Soren’s chest—

Somethings tore free.

Two shapes burst outward in streaks of light.

One elongated and fluid, shifting colors rapidly—its body refracting like glass under sunlight.

A chameleon-like entity.

The other compact, armored, segmented—mandibles clicking as it expanded.

An ant.

But colossal.

They shot into the sky above the arena.

And grew.

And grew.

The Rat’s body stretched across the air like a living mirage, scales shimmering through impossible spectrums.

The ant’s armored limbs cracked the sound barrier as it enlarged, its shadow swallowing sections of the arena..

The audience screamed.

Instructors surged to their feet.

Above the blood-soaked platform, two monstrous Shades took form.

And below them—

Goldsworth stood drenched in liquid red power originating from the bird on his shoulder.

Cynthia moved...

(Author’s note: I made this Chapter so long in hopes that you guys understand what is happening. Please tell me you do.)