The Académie d'Acier hummed with a refined tension that Ethan hadn't felt in the back alleys of New York. There, the tension was raw, immediate, a beast ready to pounce. Here, it was a meticulously cultivated predator, sleek and poised, waiting for the opportune moment. He felt it in the sidelong glances, the hushed whispers, the barely concealed sneers directed his way. He was an anomaly, a stain on the pristine white canvas of their privileged world.

His initial days had been a silent gauntlet. He endured the deliberately obtuse instructions, the misplaced equipment, the casual dismissals from practice bouts. He simply absorbed it all, channeling the negativity into sharpening his focus, refining his technique. Marcus had drilled into him the importance of observation, of understanding an opponent's weakness before engaging. He was learning to read the room, to anticipate the subtle shifts in power and perception.

The instructors, elegant and detached, observed his progress with a clinical curiosity. They acknowledged his raw talent, the undeniable power he brought to the parry and riposte. But they also saw the street fighter in him, the untamed energy that didn't quite conform to the Academy’s rigid traditions. They were waiting, he knew, to see if he could be molded, or if he would shatter under the pressure.

Then came Jean-Luc Dubois.

Jean-Luc was everything Ethan wasn’t: polished, confident, and impeccably connected. He moved with the effortless grace of someone born into privilege, his sabre a seemingly natural extension of his arm. He was the Academy's golden boy, favored by instructors and idolized by the younger students. And, as Ethan would soon discover, he was also Victor Sinclair's nephew.

Ethan had noticed Jean-Luc’s disdain from the moment he’d walked through the Academy gates. It wasn't just the casual dismissals or the patronizing smiles. There was a possessive glint in Jean-Luc's eyes, a sense of entitlement that Ethan found deeply unsettling. It was as if Ethan's very presence threatened Jean-Luc's carefully constructed world.

The challenge came during a free practice session. Ethan was working on his footwork, meticulously practicing the advance-lunge, the foundation of any effective attack. The rhythmic tap of his shoes against the polished floor was the only sound in the salle d'armes, a stark contrast to the murmur of conversation elsewhere in the Academy.

"Sterling," Jean-Luc's voice cut through the silence, laced with a deliberate condescension. Ethan stopped, turning to face him. Jean-Luc stood lounging against a practice dummy, his sabre dangling carelessly from his gloved hand. A small group of students had gathered behind him, their faces a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

"I've been watching you," Jean-Luc continued, his eyes narrowed. "You seem to think you belong here. That you're worthy of sharing the same air as us."

Ethan remained silent, his expression neutral. He refused to give Jean-Luc the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Well, I'm here to tell you that you're wrong," Jean-Luc said, stepping away from the dummy. He drew his sabre, the polished steel gleaming under the salle's bright lights. "This Academy has standards. And you, Sterling, don't meet them. You're a roughneck, a street urchin who somehow stumbled his way in here."

"Is there a point to this, Dubois?" Ethan asked, his voice calm and measured. He knew what was coming.

Jean-Luc's smile widened, a cruel, predatory expression. "The point is, you need to learn your place. And I'm going to teach it to you. A little *trial by steel*, shall we say? A friendly demonstration of the Académie d'Acier's standards."

The crowd behind Jean-Luc murmured its approval. Ethan recognized some of them – the students who had made his first few days so difficult. This was a setup, a carefully orchestrated humiliation.

"And if I refuse?" Ethan asked, knowing full well that he couldn't. Refusal would be seen as weakness, a confirmation of their prejudices.

Jean-Luc shrugged, his eyes glinting. "Then I'll simply assume you acknowledge your inferiority. But trust me, Sterling, that will only make things worse in the long run."

Ethan sighed inwardly. He'd hoped to avoid this, to focus on his training. But he also knew that he couldn't back down. He had to stand his ground, to prove that he belonged here. And maybe, just maybe, to send a message to Victor Sinclair through his pampered nephew.

He walked towards the equipment rack and picked out a sabre, the familiar weight grounding him. He tested the blade, feeling its balance and flexibility. It wasn't his favored weapon, but it would do.

"Very well, Dubois," he said, his voice hardening. "Let's see what you've got."

A small space was cleared in the center of the salle, the other students forming a circle around them. The air crackled with anticipation. Jean-Luc took his position, his sabre held in a classic en garde stance, his eyes focused and intense. Ethan mirrored his stance, his body coiled and ready to spring. He tried to emulate the controlled calm Marcus had taught him, but underneath, the familiar surge of adrenaline was beginning to build.

"First to five touches, is that acceptable?" Jean-Luc asked, his voice dripping with false politeness.

"Acceptable," Ethan replied.

The fight began.

Jean-Luc launched the first attack, a lightning-fast series of cuts designed to overwhelm Ethan with speed and precision. Ethan parried each blow, his blade a blur of silver, deflecting the attacks with practiced ease. He could feel Jean-Luc's frustration growing with each blocked attack.

Jean-Luc was fast, Ethan had to give him that. He had clearly spent years honing his technique at the Academy. But his attacks were predictable, reliant on textbook movements and established patterns. He lacked the improvisational spark, the gritty adaptability that Ethan had learned in the back alleys of New York.

Ethan continued to defend, allowing Jean-Luc to expend his energy, to reveal his weaknesses. He observed Jean-Luc's footwork, his breathing, the subtle shifts in his body language. He was looking for an opening, a vulnerability that he could exploit.

He found it in Jean-Luc's overconfidence.

After a particularly aggressive flurry of attacks, Jean-Luc left his guard slightly open, a momentary lapse in concentration. It was a tiny opening, barely perceptible, but Ethan saw it. He seized the opportunity, launching a rapid counter-attack, his blade a blur of motion.

He feinted high, drawing Jean-Luc's parry, then quickly dropped his point, targeting the exposed wrist. The steel made contact with a sharp, ringing sound.

"Touché!" a voice called out from the crowd.

The score was 1-0 to Ethan.

Jean-Luc’s face flushed crimson with anger. He hadn't expected Ethan to score so quickly, so decisively. He renewed his attack with even greater ferocity, his movements becoming more reckless and uncontrolled.

Ethan continued to parry and riposte, deflecting Jean-Luc's attacks with ease. He was toying with him now, allowing him to believe he had a chance, then swiftly disabusing him of the notion.

He scored again, then again, then again. Each touch was a precise, controlled strike, targeting Jean-Luc's weaknesses, exploiting his vulnerabilities.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as Ethan methodically dismantled Jean-Luc's defenses. The golden boy of the Académie d'Acier was being humiliated by the street urchin, the outsider, the nobody.

Finally, with the score at 4-0, Ethan decided to end it. He baited Jean-Luc into another reckless attack, then executed a perfect counter-riposte, his blade finding its mark on Jean-Luc's chest.

"Touché!" the voice called out again, this time with an undertone of awe.

The final score: 5-0. Ethan Sterling had defeated Jean-Luc Dubois in a clean sweep.

The salle d'armes was silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of Jean-Luc, who stood motionless, his face a mask of disbelief and fury.

Ethan lowered his sabre, his expression calm and composed. He had proven his point. He belonged here.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the other students began to applaud. It was a hesitant, subdued applause, but it was applause nonetheless. They had witnessed something extraordinary, something that challenged their preconceived notions and prejudices.

Ethan glanced at Jean-Luc, who was staring at him with undisguised hatred. Ethan felt a twinge of satisfaction, but also a sense of unease. He knew that this victory wouldn't be without consequences. He had made an enemy, and a powerful one at that. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that Victor Sinclair wouldn't take this slight lightly.

But for now, he had earned their respect. He had passed his trial by steel. And in the process, he had taken the first step towards fulfilling his vow of vengeance. The steel had whispered, and he had listened. His requiem was just beginning.