Master Alvon waved his hand again, dismissing the Duelling Event brackets. They dissolved into motes of light, replaced by a softer, emerald glow.

“Next!”

Alvon announced.

“The Alchemy & Potioneering Event!”

He gestured to the eastern gate.

A group of students walked out, their robes stained with strange reagents. These were the survivors of the ‘Sudden Death Brew-Off’, looking exhausted and smelling faintly of sulfur. Above them, the list of Direct Entries appeared, top students from the minor Colleges of Alchemy, Medicine and Apothecary students who had skipped the culling. The crowd offered polite applause. They respected the potion-makers and healers, but no one was on the edge of their seat.

“Next, the Runic Engineering Event!”

The Artificers marched out. They were a smaller group, many wearing magnifying goggles and carrying heavy tool belts. The crowd scanned the Direct Entry list for Ray Croft, he was also known as an ‘Artificer,’ after all.

But his name wasn’t there.

“Still nothing?”

A student in the front row muttered.

“Maybe he’s skipping the tournament entirely?”

“Next!”

Alvon continued,

“The Beast Taming Event!”

A wild cheer went up from the groups of students from the minor college of Rangers section as students walked out. The smell of musk and wet fur hit the front row. The participants were accompanied by their bond-beasts, wolves, hawks, and one particularly large dire-boar. The smell of musk and wet fur hit the front row.The projection showed the Direct Entries, but again, Ray’s name was absent.

By now, the murmur in the stands had solidified into a consensus.

“It’s official,”

someone shouted.

“The Artificer flaked out!”

“He isn’t in Combat. He isn’t in Artifice. He isn’t in Beast Taming.”

“I told you the pressure got to him! He got one lucky hit on Garrick and decided to retire undefeated rather than get exposed in the ring!”

Master Alvon cleared his throat, the sound amplified like a rockslide.

“And the final category,”

Alvon announced, his voice losing some of its thunderous edge but retaining its authority. The audience took this as a cue to leave or get snacks.

“The Strategic War-Gaming Event!”

The crowd’s interest plummeted. War-Gaming was the domain of the high-born snobs from the College of Statecraft, students who didn’t like to sweat and preferred pushing wooden soldiers around a map. It was seen as the ‘Chess Club’ of the tournament.

The participants that have passed the open culling entered the arena, most of them were nobles, and prominent merchant families, dressed not in combat leathers, but in formal academy dress uniforms, looking bored and superior.

Then the Direct Entry participants’ names flickered into existence.

[Luke Herington – Tier-3 Magistrate, College of Statecraft, Direct Entry]

[Marie Isolde – Tier-2 Iron Key, minor College of Codes and Detection (Statecraft), Direct Entry]

[Eliza Vance – Tier-1 Scribe, College of Statecraft, Direct Entry]

It was a list of noble and merchant scions surnames, exactly as expected.

And then, the last name appeared at the bottom of the list.

[Ray Croft – 1st-Circle Novice, College of Arcanum, Direct Entry]

The arena went dead silent.

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the wind snapping the banners.

Then, the realization hit.

“War-Gaming?”

Someone finally said, their voice cracking with disbelief.

“He entered the nerd bracket?!”

“He’s hiding!”

“The Undeclared Scholar returns!”

Unlawfully taken from NovelBin, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

A voice from the upper decks yelled, reviving Ray’s derogatory nickname from the entrance exam a year ago.

“He’s going back to his roots! He’s too scared to fight, so he’s going to play board games!”

Laughter rippled through the arena. It was a harsh, mocking sound. To the crowd, the narrative was clear: Ray Croft, the people concluded that he realized that he was out of his depth in the Dueling Event. He had retreated to the safety of the library where no one could hit him.

Viktor Garrick stared at the War-Gaming bracket, his face twisting in disgust.

“Pathetic, I thought you had a spine, Croft. Turns out you’re just a paper tiger.”

Viktor muttered, gripping his staff until his knuckles turned white but his voice also oddly sounded relieved. Deep down, a part of him was grateful. He wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of being punched which caused him to curl up last time. He could win the Dueling bracket, restore his honor, and pretend Ray Croft didn’t exist.

Ray stood in the corner with the students, he had set his presence to very minimal using the Stoic Assassin’s Flowing Shadow Technique that no one noticed him. The roar of the crowd washed over him like a physical wave.

He heard the insults.

Coward.Fake.Anomaly.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the cold stone wall. His face was impassive, betraying nothing.

Kaelen Thorne frowned, she scanned the War Gaming bracket again. She knew Ray.

“He isn’t running.”

Kaelen murmured, her voice firm. She knew Ray’s capabilities and his strength. She knew that Ray could have easily swept the 1st Level Group Dueling bracket with minimal effort.

“Ray does not retreat. He repositions.”

Eliza Vance who was fanning herself casually. She had secured a Direct Entry along with Ray ranking 2nd in the Promotion Trials, she had also decided to participate in the War-Gaming Event. Her eyes were locked on the War-Gaming bracket, and a sharp, excited smile cut across her face.

Eliza was a prodigy of the College of Statecraft. War gaming was one of her domains of expertise, a place where she had crushed senior students in the many war gaming duels she had participated in. She had always lamented that her friend Ray’s intellect was wasted on simple brawls. As his friend and the recipient of his teaching, she knew exactly how dangerous his mind was.

“Oh, you absolute madman, you skipped the brawl to play the Great Game?”

Eliza whispered, tapping her fan against her chin. Her eyes gleamed with excitement.

“He’s stepping onto the real board. I’ve been waiting to test your mind against mine, my friend. Can’t wait to duel you!”

“The rosters are set! The participants are chosen!”

Alvon paused, letting the weight of the moment settle.

“The Open Culling was brutal, and our warriors needed time to mend their bones and sharpen their steel. Therefore, the Main Qualifiers will officially commence in five days!”

He slammed his fist against his chestplate in a salute.

“Rest. Recover. And prepare for glory! Dismissed!”

The illusion crystals faded, and the crowd began to disperse, the noise shifting from mockery to the excited chatter of leaving spectators.

High above the dispersing crowd, in the VIP box, Headmaster Andrade sat on her chair thinking.

The door to the box opened, and Master Alvon entered, removing his helmet. He looked a little winded from the exertion of projecting his voice for quite some time, but his expression was darkened by disappointment.

“War-Gaming,”

Alvon grunted, pouring himself a drink.

“I admit, Headmaster… I am deflated. After the reports of what he did to the Garrick boy. I thought we had found a true Vanguard for the Azure Cup.”

Alvon shook his head, looking down at the arena sands.

“He is wasting his momentum. The students are already calling him a coward. He conquers a mage in a spar and then retreats to do war-gaming scenarios? It looks weak.”

Headmaster Andrade didn’t answer immediately. She leaned forward, her chin resting on her knuckles, staring at the fading afterimage of the holographic roster where Ray’s name had been.

“It is… unexpected,” Andrade admitted smoothly.

She knew Ray Croft better than anyone in this room. She knew he wasn’t a coward. She had seen his work in the events of Genesis Crystal Chamber, he had stabilized the Genesis Crystal’s fraying and then he had led them to fight off the corrupted monster that was crushing on them from the Sunken vaults. She also knew he had designed an array, a runic trap complex enough to capture a legendary operative like K.

Ray was a runic prodigy. A trapper. A genius of localized control.

“He excels at binding enemies,”

Andrade murmured, half to herself.

“He excels at complex runic geometries and sudden, overwhelming traps. But War-Gaming? That requires a different kind of mind. It requires managing armies, supply lines, and attrition.”

She picked up the tournament manifest, flipping to the Rewards page. Her eyes lingered on the prize for the War-Gaming Champion.

Access to the Royal Archives. Restricted Maps.

A faint spark of realization lit up her eyes.

“He isn’t hiding, Alvon,”

Andrade said.

“Then what is he doing?”

“He is gathering information,”

she said, tapping the paper.

“He doesn’t want the money or the glory. He wants the Archives. He wants to know the lay of the land.”

She sat back, a look of genuine curiosity crossing her face. There was no malice, only the intrigued look of a teacher watching a favorite student attempt a dangerous new experiment.

“I know he can build a cage to trap a formidable foe,”

Andrade whispered.

“But I do not know if he can lead an army. This will be a fascinating test of his limits.”

“And if he fails?”

Alvon asked.

“The War-Gaming track is dominated by the Statecraft nobles. They have been studying tactics since birth.”

Andrade smiled, a small, confident expression.

“I have learned one thing about Ray Croft, Alvon. He rarely enters a room unless he has already figured out how to own it. Let us see what kind of General he makes.”

In the corner with the students, Ray stood there, his presence almost non-existent, closed his eyes for a moment.

The crowd thought he was hiding. They thought he was scared of Viktor Garrick or the formidable participants from the other colleges.

They didn’t understand.

Ray didn’t need a Master-Class sword; he had his body that was reforged in the Genesis Crystal Chamber. He didn’t need glory; he had the Headmaster’s backing.

What he needed was Data.

He needed the Royal Archives. He needed the Restricted Maps that were the prize for the War-Gaming Champion. With the Argent Hand moving in the shadows and a civil war brewing, knowing the true terrain of Eldoria was worth more than ten thousand dueling victories.

Let them think I’m a coward,

Ray thought, listening to the jeers.

Let them play gladiator for applause.

A year ago, he had been classified as an ‘Anomaly,’ the boy with no mana affinity. A boy who passed the academic category but failed the physical and magic category. They laughed then, too.

But everything had changed.

He wasn’t that dying boy anymore. He has been reborn. And he wasn’t retreating to the War-Gaming track to hide. He was going there to acquire the Kingdom’s secrets right from under their noses.

Ray opened his eyes. They glowed with a faint, amber light in the darkness of the tunnel.

“Fireballs win duels, but logistics win wars.”

Ray whispered to the empty air, echoing his words to Master Elias.

He pushed off the wall and turned, walking deeper into the shadows, away from the sunlight and the glory.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep