Five days is a long time in the mind of a warrior. It is enough time for a bruise to heal, for a muscle to recover, and for an obsession to fester.

In a rented private training hall in the College of Arcanum. Viktor Garrick was not resting. The air in the room was thick with the smell of ozone and pulverized wood. A training dummy, reinforced with ironwood plating, stood at the center of the room.

Viktor planted his boots, grounding himself like a siege engine. He didn’t dance around his target; he locked onto it. He raised his staff high above his head, the air above him warping and bending under the weight of the gathering mana. It looked as if gravity itself was being compressed into a single point.

“Malleus!”

He brought the staff down in a violent, chopping motion and cast the 2nd-Circle Arcane Hammer

BOOM.

The air collapsed. An arcane column of crushing force slammed into the target from above. The training dummy didn’t just break; it was obliterated. The wood was pulverized instantly, sending splinters the size of daggers embedding deep into the stone walls of the chamber.

Viktor didn’t smile at the destruction. He stood amidst the falling sawdust, breathing hard. He stared at the shattered stump, but he didn’t see wood. He visualized a specific face, one that had looked at him with bored eyes.

“Paper tiger…We’ll see who burns when the real fire starts.”

Viktor spat, wiping sweat from his brow.

On the muddy training fields of the College of Valor, Darian Varrus and the Ramsey Brothers were stripping the concept of magic down to its brutal roots. They ran drills shirtless in the rain, carrying logs of heavy timber on their shoulders.

“When magic fails! When mana runs dry! We rely on our body! Our body of steel! Strength is Supreme!”

Darian roared, his muscles gleaming like oiled bronze.

“SIS! SIS!”

The Ramsey brothers chanted, dragging a sled of boulders through the mud.

In the serene gardens of the College of Statecraft, the atmosphere was entirely different.

Elizasat in front of a big table, sipping a cup of chamomile tea. She wasn’t sweating. She wasn’t screaming. Before her lay a complex strategy board game ‘The Generals of Old’ but she was playing both sides.

Her eyes flicked back and forth between the board and a stack of topographic maps. She wasn’t memorizing spells; she was memorizing elevation gradients and river flow rates.

“Standard formation.”

she whispered, moving a cavalry piece.

“Predictable. Boring. Ray won’t do boring.”

She smiled, a sharp, predatory expression over the rim of her teacup.

Meanwhile, in the Spire of Sages, Ray was in his personal training room and he sat in absolute stillness.

There were no physical maps on his desk today. No tools. No weapons. Just Ray, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed. Nox, the void-malkin, was curled up in his lap, purring like a diesel engine.

To an observer, Ray looked like he was sleeping.

But inside his mind, whole cities were burning.

[SYSTEM ALERT]

[TACTICAL REPLICATION PROTOCOL: ACTIVE]

[MODE: STRATEGIC SIMULATION (WAR-GAMING)]

[DATA SOURCE: ROYAL ARCHIVES + HISTORICAL MANIFESTS]

[OPPONENT DESIGNATION: ARCHETYPE-10 (THE CRIMSON WEAVER)]

Ray stood on a mental precipice overlooking a holographic valley. Below him, thousands of spectral soldiers, represented by blue light, were holding a defensive line along a river.

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Opposite him, the enemy army burned with a chaotic, violet flame.

The Crimson Weaver’s Voice boomed from the sky, echoing like a vengeful god.

“Defense? Boring! You fight like an accountant, boy! Where is the flair? Where is the devastating pincer movement? I’m going to crush your supply lines just to hear them scream!”

On the map, the Crimson Weaver’s army surged forward, ignoring the terrain, launching a reckless, high-risk frontal assault that overwhelmed Ray’s flank through sheer, suicidal aggression.

Ray frowned, mentally moving a unit of archers.

“Over-extended. You’ve left your rear guard exposed.”

“Who needs a rear guard when the enemy is already dead? CHARGE!”

The Crimson Weaver’s forces crashed through Ray’s line. It was messy, inefficient, and terrified the simulated army, but it was effective.

[SIMULATION FAILED]

[WINNER: THE CRIMSON WEAVER]

Ray opened his eyes, exhaling a sharp breath. He rubbed his temples.

“Aggressive, he sacrificed forty percent of his own troops just to break the morale of my vanguard. It’s a pyrrhic victory, but a victory nonetheless.”

Ray muttered.

He stroked Nox’s ears, grounding himself.

Three days ago, Ray had asked the System a simple question.

If you can simulate combat, can you simulate a war?

The System had processed the thousands of pages of data Ray had scanned with the help of the Eccentric Scholar’s ‘High-Speed Reading & Memorization’ skill from the academy library and Master Elias’ historical records, terrain maps, unit capabilities, historical outcomes, and repurposed the Tactical Replication Protocol. Instead of simulating a duel, it created a Virtual Tabletop.

But Ray needed opponents. So, the System did the only logical thing, similar to what it did when Ray first used the Tactical Replication Protocol: it digitized his own Archetypes and set them as the enemy commanders.

He had spent the last forty-eight hours losing.

He lost to the Crimson Weaver, who used overwhelming, unpredictable force. He lost to the Grizzled Veteran, who used scorched-earth tactics and attrition to starve Ray out. He lost to the Stoic Assassin, who refused to engage the main army and simply used a decapitation strategy and assassinated Ray’s simulated commanders in the night.

“Again.”

Ray whispered, closing his eyes.

[SYSTEM COMMAND: RESET BOARD]

[OPPONENT DESIGNATION: ARCHETYPE-11 (THE PRIMAL NATURALIST)]

The map reset. This time, it was a dense jungle terrain.

The Primal Naturalist’s Voice cackled in his ear.

“Right then, mate! You bring your metal suits and your fancy formations. Me and the boys are gonna hide in the mud and bleed you dry one leech at a time!”

Ray smiled. This was better than studying. This was evolution.

“They are sharpening their swords outside, Nox.”

Ray murmured, moving a mental battalion of scouts to secure the high ground.

Nox yawned, flashing its white teeth.

“Let them,”

Ray whispered, his mind locking onto the enemy movement.

“We’re playing a different game.”

The day of the Main Qualifiers dawned with a sky the color of polished steel.

The Grand Arena of Solhaven was transformed. The muddy training grounds of the Culling were gone, replaced by pristine white sand. The stands were packed to the rafters, a sea of colored robes representing the different Colleges. The energy was electric, a physical hum that vibrated in the teeth.

A hush fell over the crowd as Headmaster Andrade stepped out from the VIP box. She wore her ceremonial robes of midnight blue, embroidered with constellations that seemed to move.

She didn’t shout. She simply spoke into the amplification crystal, and her voice carried to the furthest rafter seat.

“The upcoming Azure Cup is not a game, it is a statement. For centuries, Solhaven Academy has produced one of the best shields and swords for the kingdom. Today, you get the chance to start that journey of becoming the best the Kingdom of Elodia has to offer.”

Andrade said, her voice cool and sharp.

She looked down at the assembled students.

“Fight with honor. Fight with skill. And above all… win.”

She stepped back. The lights in the arena dimmed. A single, blinding spotlight hit the center of the sands.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! SCHOLARS AND WARRIORS! FACULTY AND STAFF!”

A voice, smooth as velvet and loud as a cannon, erupted from the center of the arena.

Floating down from the sky on a glowing disc of levitation magic was a young man in a tailored, burgundy suit. He had slicked-back blonde hair, a smile that dazzled, and a gold-plated amplification pin on his lapel.

Bruce Doyle. Tier-3 College of Statecraft student. The ‘Academy’s Golden Tongue.’

“It’s Bruce!”

a group of female students in the front row screamed, waving handkerchiefs.

“Oh gods, not the Peacock,”

a male Valor student groaned, rolling his eyes.

“He loves the sound of his own voice more than his mother.”

Bruce landed on the sand with a flourish, spreading his arms wide as if trying to hug the entire audience.

“Welcome to the Main Qualifiers!”

Bruce bellowed, turning to play to the floating scrying wards that was recording.

“Welcome to the forge where legends are hammered! Are you ready to witness… GREATNESS?!”

The crowd roared. Love him or hate him, Bruce knew how to work a room.

“I see the betting pools are closed!”

Bruce shouted, pointing to a group of sweating bookies near the exit.

“I hope you bet wisely, my fellow students! Because today, favorites will fall, and new heroes will rise from the ashes!”

He turned toward the VIP box and offered a deep, theatrical bow to Headmaster Andrade and the visiting faculty.

“The stage is yours, Headmaster. But the commentary… belongs to me!”

The College of Valor section began to stomp their feet in rhythm, a thunderous war-drum beat that shook the seats. The College of Arcanum students pulled out their notebooks, pens hovering, ready to dissect every spell cast. The Statecraft students simply leaned back, watching the politics of the arena unfold.

“We begin with the rising stars! The hungry wolves! The Duelling Event’s 1st Level Group!”

He swept his hand toward the northern part of the arena, where the heavy iron gate began to lift.

“Let the violence… BEGIN!”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep