Down in the arena, as the fight of Darian and the instructor continued not with a skillful maneuver, but with attrition. The instructor, realizing he couldn’t hurt Darian through the magically reinforced plate without using lethal force, eventually mistimed a block. Darian’s mace clipped the instructor’s shoulder, sending the man sprawling into the dirt.

“I Yield!”

The proctor shouted, before Darian could deliver a second blow.

“Winner: Initiate Varrus.”

Darian raised his mace, roaring to the crowd, basking in the applause of his sycophants. He looked powerful. He looked invincible.

“Money well spent,”

Vailes Vance murmured from the row below, his voice dry.

“Though I’d demand a refund on the fencing lessons. The boy moves like a cart with a broken wheel.”

Cassian checked his medallion.

“That’s the end of the Martial block. They’re moving to the Magical Duels now.”

The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, magically amplified.

“Next match. Magical Duel. Initiate Ray Croft.”

The murmur in the crowd shifted instantly. The boredom vanished, replaced by a ripple of intense, hungry curiosity.

“The Heretic. The Engineer. The boy who tricked the masters.”

Ray stood up. He smoothed his tunic, checking the straps of the Theorist’s Glove on his left hand. The crystal embedded in the palm pulsed with a steady, chaotic light, his alibi, ready for the stage.

He handed his outer robe to Rina. She took it, her hands steady, her eyes clear.

“Good luck, young master,”

she whispered.

“Luck is a variable,”

Ray replied, a small smile touching his lips.

“I prefer preparation.”

He walked down the stone steps toward the arena floor, alone. Sergeant Svane was gone, fighting his own battle in the upper tiers. This fight was Ray’s alone. He stepped out into the sunlight, the roar of the crowd washing over him, and prepared to show them exactly what an ‘Engineer’ could do.

The announcer’s voice boomed, magically amplified to reach the highest tiers of the arena.

“Next match. Magical Duel. Initiate Ray Croft versus Proctor Jarin.”

The heavy iron gate ground open. Ray stepped out onto the sand, the sudden roar of the crowd washing over him like a physical wave. He felt small in the center of the vast pit, surrounded by thousands of judging eyes.

He didn’t look up at the stands. He focused on his opponent.

Proctor Jarin was a staff mage of the College of Arcanum, a 2nd-Circle combat specialist who looked like he would rather be anywhere else. He stood with a loose, arrogant posture, leaning on a metal-shod quarterstaff, his robes immaculate. He looked at Ray, at the small stature, the lack of a wand, the strange leather glove, and smirked.

“Standard rules, Initiate,”

Jarin called out, not bothering to raise his voice, knowing the acoustics would carry it.

“Yield or incapacitation. Try not to hurt yourself with that… toy.”

Ray looked down at his left hand. He conspicuously tightened the straps of the Theorist’s Glove. He channeled a tiny thread of Aether into the key, and the crystal on the back of the hand pulsed with a steady, rhythmic light, illuminating the intricate and completely fake silver wiring.

A murmur went through the crowd. They had seen wands, staves, and orbs. They had never seen an Initiate bring a piece of machinery to a duel.

“Ready,”

Ray said softly.

“Begin!”

Jarin moved with lazy competence. He waved a hand.

“Armatura.”

A shimmering field of force of Mage Armor, coated his body. He didn’t attack immediately; he waited, expecting the child to flail.

Ray didn’t cast. He ran.

He sprinted to the right, flanking the Proctor. Jarin sighed, raising his staff to track the boy.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Ray’s hand dipped into his pouch. He didn’t throw a spell; he threw a ceramic sphere.

CRACK-HISS.

A Smoke Pellet shattered against the ground between them. A dense, billowing cloud of grey fog erupted instantly, swallowing Ray and obscuring Jarin’s vision.

The crowd gasped. Jarin frowned, lowering his staff slightly, peering into the haze.

Inside the smoke, Ray moved. He activated Aether-Infusion, not for a projectile, but for sound. He clapped his hands together, the Theorist’s Glove amplifying the somatic component.

“Fragor!”

BOOM.

A Thunderclap exploded within the smoke cloud. Infused with Ray’s potent Aether, the sound was not a mere crack; it was a cannon blast. The shockwave rippled the smoke, and the noise was deafening, echoing off the arena walls.

Jarin flinched, his hands flying to his ears, his orientation shattered by the acoustic assault.

Detective: “He’s disoriented. He’ll try to clear the field. Watch for the wind.”

Ray’s new innate skill, Spell-Breaker’s Rhythm, flared in his mind. Ray activated the Gritty Detective’s ‘Observation’ skill as he watched the Proctor’s silhouette through the thinning smoke. He saw the man’s chest expand, his arm draw back to cast 2nd-Circle spell Gust of Wind.

Ray saw the tempo of the spell. He knew exactly when the Proctor would be committed to the gesture, unable to react.

Now.

Ray didn’t throw a spell. He reached into his pouch and scattered a handful of Geometric Caltrops in a low, wide arc across the floor, right where the Proctor would step if he moved forward.

“Ventus!”

Jarin shouted, thrusting his staff forward.

A gale of wind roared from the staff, tearing the smoke away in shreds. The air cleared instantly.

Jarin stepped forward, triumph on his face, ready to blast the exposed boy.

CRUNCH.

His boot came down hard on a four-pronged metal caltrop.

The spike punched through the sole of his boot. Jarin’s eyes went wide. His concentration shattered. The spell he was preparing died on his lips as a gasp of pain replaced the incantation.

Ray was already moving. He closed the distance in a blur. He lunged, his left hand in a grabbing motion, the silver wiring of the Theorist’s Glove crackling with blue-white arcs of electricity.

“Fulmen!”

He didn’t strike the man. He struck the metal-shod staff with a Shocking Grasp that Jarin was clutching.

ZAP.

The lightning surged through the conductive metal, straight into Jarin’s hands. He convulsed, his muscles locking up. He dropped the staff with a cry of shock, his hands numb and useless.

Before Jarin could recover, Ray was inside his guard.

Ray stopped. He didn’t strike. He simply raised his right hand, fingers snapped, hovering inches from the Proctor’s nose.

A tiny, spinning bead of orange plasma, a standard, Fire Bolt, hummed in the air between them, the heat radiating against the man’s face.

Jarin froze, staring cross-eyed at the flame, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides.

“Yield,”

Ray said, his voice calm, magnifying the silence of the stunned arena.

Jarin swallowed hard. He looked at the glove, at the caltrop under his boot, and finally at the boy who had dismantled him without taking a single hit.

“I… yield,”

Jarin whispered.

“Winner: Initiate Croft!”

The announcer roared.

Ray extinguished the flame with a snap of his fingers. He stepped back, bowed politely to Jarin, and turned to face the crowd.

For a second, there was silence. Then, a murmur began to build, a sound of confusion, respect, and fear. They hadn’t watched a mage duel; they had watched an execution.

[SKILLED APPLICATION DETECTED]

[EVENT: PUAGIC)]

[PERFORMANCE EVALUATION: ADEPT]

[ANALYSIS: Host successfully maintained the ‘Engineer’ persona while neutralizing a superior opponent. The synthesis of alchemical tools, Aether-Infused utility magic (Thunderclap), and tactical awareness (Spell-Breaker’s Rhythm) created a decisive victory without revealing true offensive power. Public narrative secured.]

[MASTERY GAIN: Persona Crafting +15%, Tactical Assessment +10% (CAPSTONE already reached, adding half of mastery gain to the next archetype skill ‘Basic Weapon Proficiency’), Observation +5%, .]

Ray walked toward the exit tunnel, his face impassive, but inside, the Charismatic Conman was taking a bow. The Engineer had arrived.

The silence that followed Ray’s victory was not the respectful silence of a duel well-fought; it was the stunned silence of a magic trick that no one could explain.

Proctor Jarin was helped to his feet by two medics, his hands still twitching from the residual shocks. He looked at Ray, not with anger, but with a profound, bewildered confusion. He had been beaten by a boy who hadn’t cast a single ‘real’ combat spell until the very end, and even then, it was just a threat.

High above, in the velvet-draped Headmaster’s Box, the silence was even heavier.

Headmaster Salome Andrade leaned forward, her knuckles white as she gripped the railing. She had seen Ray’s potential in the Genesis Crystal Chamber, but that had been the raw, overwhelming power of Old Magic flooding a broken vessel.

This was different. This was precision. This was… mechanical.

She turned her sharp gaze to the man slumped in the chair beside her.

“Master Zipkin,”

Andrade said, her voice deceptively mild.

“You signed his sponsorship. You have been overseeing his remedial Mana training.”

She gestured to the arena floor, where Ray was calmly adjusting the straps of his glowing glove.

“Is this the curriculum you have been teaching him? Tactical alchemy? Runic amplification tools? Or did you simply forget to mention that your student has revolutionized combat casting?”

Caleb Zipkin pushed his straw hat up. He was sweating. For the first time in years, he was wide awake and genuinely rattled.

He stared down at Ray. He remembered the glove, the leather scrap with the mirror shard he had mocked.

Vanity and Useless.

He had called it.

But he had just watched Ray use it to amplify a Thunderclap into a sonic grenade and channel a Shocking Grasp through a silver wire like a conduit. The casting was smooth. Too smooth. The Mana flow through the glove had been stable, potent, and immediate.

Does it actually work?

Caleb thought, a spike of professional panic hitting him.

Did the kid actually build a functional Mana-Amplifier in his bedroom? Or… is he just that good at faking it?

If the glove worked, Ray was a genius engineer. If the glove didn’t work, and Ray was just casting those spells with his own power while pretending it was the tool… then Ray was a monster.

Caleb swallowed hard, realizing he had to answer the Headmaster.

“I… encourage independent study,”

Caleb lied, his voice cracking slightly.

“The boy has a theory. I let him test it. I didn’t think he’d… optimize it this quickly.”

“Optimize?”

Master Osmin leaned in, his hawkish eyes narrowed.

“That glove turned a cantrip into a siege weapon. If that device can be reproduced, Master Zipkin, it changes the entire economy of warfare. You’ve been sitting on a goldmine and calling it a nap.”

Caleb pulled his hat back down, hiding his eyes.

“It’s a prototype,”

he muttered, praying Ray wouldn’t blow them both up.

“Very unstable. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep