The applause was polite but enthusiastic. Eliza walked off stage, catching Ray’s eye and giving him a quick, sharp nod.

Your turn.

“Initiate Ray Croft. Undeclared Scholar.”

The announcement caused a ripple of murmurs through the hall.

“The Heretic. The Prodigy. The boy with the golden hair.”

Ray walked onto the stage. He looked small behind the massive podium, his hands barely gripping the edges. He waited for the whispers to die down, his expression calm, detached, and utterly focused.

He activated Concurrent Partial Immersion.

The Eccentric Scholar flooded his mind with data, structuring his arguments into a fortress of logic. The Charismatic Conman took control of his posture and voice, turning his nervousness into a captivating intensity.

“My thesis,”

Ray began, his voice amplified by the hall’s acoustics,

“is titled: ‘The Inefficiency of Biological Mana: A Case for Runic Substitution and Arcane Engineering.’”

Up in the VIP box, Caleb Zipkin flinched.

His eyes snapped open under his hat. The lethargy vanished. He stared down at the small figure on the stage, a cold knot forming in his stomach.

It’s the Third Way,

Caleb thought, his breath hitching.

The kid is trying to argue for the Third Way. The same path that burned me out.

He pulled his hat down tighter, feigning sleep, but his hands gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white. He listened, a silent prayer running through his mind:

Don’t do it, kid. Don’t chase the ghost.

On stage, Ray continued, unaware of his tutor’s distress.

“The current paradigm of magic relies entirely on ‘Affinity,’”

Ray argued, his voice gaining strength.

“We treat magic as a birthright, a genetic lottery. If you have a large Mana pool, you are powerful. If you do not, you are weak.”

He paused, looking out at the sea of faces, the arrogant nobles, the powerful mages.

“This is inefficient,”

Ray declared.

“It limits the kingdom’s potential to a lucky few. My research proposes a shift. By utilizing pre-charged runic arrays and mechanical tools, not talent, we can democratize power. A fire burns regardless of who lit the match. A spell should function regardless of who holds the trigger.”

He held up his left hand, displaying the ‘Theorist’s Glove.’ The silver wiring glinted, and the mirror shard in the palm caught the light.

“This is not a crutch,”

Ray lied, the Charismatic Conman selling the ‘Engineer’s Narrative’ with conviction.

“This is the future. A device that allows a mage with minimal affinity to channel power through structure, rather than brute force. It is Engineering applied to the Arcane.”

The hall was silent. The traditionalist masters in the front row looked horrified. This was heresy against the very concept of Magic.

Master Lorian stood up. He didn’t look angry; he looked fascinated.

“You argue that the mage is irrelevant,”

Lorian challenged.

“That magic can be reduced to a mechanism. But magic requires will. It requires a soul. Where is the art in your machine, Initiate Croft?”

Ray met the Registrar’s gaze. He remembered the riddle of the stones. He remembered the logic that had won him his place.

“The art, Master Lorian,”

Ray replied softly,

“is not in the fuel. It is in the design. A master architect does not need to be a bricklayer to build a cathedral. He only needs to understand how the stones hold together.”

Lorian stared at him for a long, heavy moment. The tension in the room was palpable.

Then, the old master sat down, picking up his quill.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Your logic is flawless, Initiate Croft,”

Lorian said, his voice echoing in the quiet hall.

“Your research is impeccable. I award you a Perfect Score.”

A collective gasp went through the students.

“However,”

Lorian added, looking Ray in the eye,

“your philosophy is cold. You describe a world without wonder. I hope, for your sake, you never succeed in building it.”

Ray bowed deeply.

“Thank you, Master.”

He walked off the stage, his heart pounding. He had done it. He had planted the seed. Now, when he used his gadgets and tricks in the duel, they wouldn’t see a boy using Aether; they would see an Engineer using his machines.

Up in the box, Caleb Zipkin let out a long, shaky breath. He watched the boy leave the stage, a mix of pride and profound sadness in his eyes.

“He’s wrong,”

Caleb whispered to no one.

“But he sells it better than I ever did.”

If Eliza’s defense was a duel and Ray’s was a manifesto, Darian Varrus’s turn at the podium was a slow, agonizing suffocation.

“Initiate Varrus,”

Master Lorian had announced, his voice dry.

“Topic: ‘The Obsolescence of Static Defense in the Age of Battle Magic.’”

Darian had marched up to the podium with the swagger of a conqueror, slamming a thick, beautifully bound manuscript onto the wood. For the first five minutes, he simply read from the pages. The prose was elegant, the arguments complex and well-cited, far too complex for a boy who spent his library time sleeping or bullying first-years. It was painfully obvious to everyone in the room, especially the Gritty Detective in Ray’s mind, that Darian hadn’t written a word of it.

Then came the questions.

“You argue on page ten,”

a senior faculty member from the College of Valor interrupted,

“that the ‘mana-to-kinetic ratio’ of a shield wall renders it inefficient against 3rd-Circle bombardment. Can you explain the formula you used to reach that conclusion?”

Darian froze. The swagger evaporated instantly, replaced by the deer-in-headlights look of a student realizing his money couldn’t buy answers.

“I… well,”

Darian stammered, sweat instantly beading on his forehead. He shuffled his papers frantically.

“It’s… a standard ratio. Everyone knows it. My father’s commanders… they say shields are useless against fireballs.”

“That is an anecdote, Initiate, not a formula,”

The senior faculty member replied coldly.

“Do you understand the mathematics in your own thesis?”

Darian turned a deep, blotchy red. He spent the next ten minutes sweating, stuttering, and deflecting, falling back on his family’s military history rather than the academic theory he was supposed to be defending.

In the end, he passed, barely. It was a ‘Pass with Reservations,’ likely granted only to avoid a political incident with his powerful father. He practically fled the stage, his humiliation radiating off him like heat.

The transition from the Grand Lecture Hall to the Arena was a shift from a library to a slaughterhouse. The air, previously thick with ink and nervous sweat, was now heavy with the smell of ozone, trampled sand, and the metallic tang of blood.

Ray sat in the spectator stands, sandwiched between Rina and Cassian. To his left, Eliza sat with her parents, Lord Vailes and Lady Esha Vance, who looked at the violent spectacle below with the detached, evaluating gaze of investors watching a high-risk asset performance.

“It’s a bloodbath,”

Cassian muttered, looking at the updated roster on his medallion.

“Almost fifty percent of the initiates washed out during the Thesis defense. Fifty percent! The faculty isn’t pulling any punches this year.”

“Good,”

Eliza said sharply, though her eyes remained fixed on the arena floor.

“If you can’t defend an argument, you have no business trying to defend a kingdom.”

Ray stayed silent, his eyes scanning the arena. It was a massive, circular pit of packed earth, surrounded by rising tiers of stone benches. In the center, the next match was being announced.

“Initiate Darian Varrus. Martial Duel.”

The heavy iron gates groaned open. Darian strode out, and Ray noted the tension in his shoulders. Darian looked rattled. His face was flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat that hadn’t come from exertion.

Veteran: “He barely survived the Thesis. He’s angry, scared, and looking to hit something to prove he’s still a man. Dangerous combination. Sloppy.”

Darian was clad in a suit of plate armor that was worth more than most villages. It was polished to a mirror sheen, etched with gold filigree, and practically humming with active enchantments. In his hand, he dragged a massive, two-handed training mace, a brutal, inelegant weapon designed for crushing, not fencing.

His opponent waited in the center of the ring. It was a standard academy instructor, a 1st Rank Bronze Aegis. The instructor wore simple, functional chainmail and held a sword and shield. He looked bored.

“Begin!”

The proctor shouted.

Darian didn’t salute. He roared, a sound of pure, frustrated rage, and charged. It was a bull rush, devoid of technique or grace. He simply lowered his shoulder and ran.

The instructor stepped aside with a sigh, his movement economical. As Darian lumbered past, the instructor snapped his sword out, delivering a textbook strike to Darian’s exposed flank.

CLANG.

The sound of steel on steel rang out, but Darian didn’t stumble. A rune engraved on his expensive breastplate flared with a harsh, white light. The kinetic force of the blow was absorbed instantly, dissipated by the armor’s enchantment.

Darian spun around, swinging the mace in a wide, clumsy arc. The instructor ducked easily, stepping into Darian’s guard to deliver a shield bash to the chest.

THUD.

Again, the armor flared. Darian barely rocked back. He grunted, ignoring the impact that should have winded him, and brought the mace down in a vertical smash.

The instructor caught the blow on his shield, but the sheer weight of the weapon, combined with the magical enhancement of Darian’s gauntlets, buckled the soldier’s knees. The shield groaned under the strain.

Veteran: “He’s fighting like a rich drunk. No discipline. No footwork. He’s just trusting his gear to eat his mistakes. If you stripped that armor off him, he’d fold in ten seconds.”

Beside Ray, Rina flinched as Darian landed another brutal, ringing blow. She gripped her skirt, her eyes wide. The violence was raw and loud, a far cry from the silent, controlled movements they practiced in the suite.

Ray sensed her distress. He didn’t turn his head. Instead, he reached out with his mind, activating the Resonant Link.

Don’t look at the violence, Rina. Look at the feet.

He let the World-Weary Healer’s ‘Calming Presence’ skill flow through the link, a cool stream of water to wash away her anxiety.

Rina blinked, her posture straightening slightly as his voice echoed in her mind. She focused on the arena floor. Ray with his Fulcrum Principle activated gave Rina a lesson.

See how he steps? He overextends on every downswing. He puts all his weight on his front foot and leaves his back open. He thinks he’s powerful, but he’s unbalanced. That is where you would put the knife. Right behind the knee.

Rina watched. She saw Darian swing, the heavy mace carrying him forward. For a split second, his leg was exposed, his balance compromised. In the past, she would have only seen a terrifying boy with a weapon. Now, through Ray’s guidance, she saw a target. She saw the opening.

She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. The fear in her eyes was replaced by a cold, analytical focus. She was learning.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep