The roar of the Grand Arena was loud enough to shake the foundations of the capital.

Thousands of spectators were on their feet, their eyes glued to the massive, multi-faceted projection panes floating above the arena. What was supposed to be a straightforward hunt by the College of Statecraft had devolved into a masterclass of psychological terror.

“I DO NOT BELIEVE IT!”

Bruce Doyle’s magically amplified voice boomed across the stadium, buzzing with absolute electricity.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it has only been a little over an hour in real-time, but thanks to the artifact’s Time Dilation, the sun has officially set on the War-Gaming simulation! And what a night it is turning out to be!”

The main projection crystal replayed the highlights of the last twenty real-world minutes, and the crowd reacted with violent enthusiasm.

A massive wave of laughter rippled through the stands as the crystal showed Marie Isolde, deep in swamp muck, triumphantly grabbing a crimson flag only for it to vanish into a rotting, slimy stick.

The laughter instantly turned into a collective gasp of shock as the feed cut to the river delta. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the same nameless, grey-clad foot soldier absorbed an assassination attempt, pinned Arturo Zaveed to the mud, and vaporized him with a point-blank blast of compressed, golden fire.

Then, the boos began. A chorus of jeers and insults rained down from the nobility in the stands as the crystals displayed Luke Herrington, the tournament favorite wheeling his white charger around and abandoning Regius Dinn to save his own skin.

“A complete collapse of the frontline!”

Bruce Doyle shouted over the booing.

“Herrington retreats, leaving Commander Dinn to be absolutely decimated by Eliza Vance’s brilliant ‘Moonbeam’ grid! That brings the Scribe’s kill count to one, and the Artificer’s to two!”

Down beneath the stands, in the VIP Recovery Area known as the ‘Loser’s Box,’ the atmosphere was entirely different.

Gunther Draven roared, burying his steel-gauntleted fist into a stone pillar. The stone cracked, but it did nothing to soothe the burning humiliation in his chest.

“It’s rigged!”

He screamed at the faculty healers hovering nearby.

“He’s an Artificer! He shouldn’t be able to move like that!”

A few feet away, Arturo Zaveed sat on a wooden bench, entirely unresponsive to Draven’s tantrum. The rogue was staring blankly at his own hands, his pupils blown wide. He was physically fine, but his mind was still phantom-feeling the terrifying, blistering heat of Ray’s golden fire inches from his face.

A flash of light deposited a third figure into the room. Regius Dinn materialized, coughing violently, clutching his chest as if he were still suffocating on radiant moonlight. He looked around the Loser’s Box, saw Draven and Zaveed, and slumped against the wall in bewildered defeat.

Back in the commentator’s booth, Bruce Doyle was frantically gesturing to a tactical map of the simulation.

“Look at the board, folks!”

Bruce yelled.

“Herrington has pulled the surviving seven commanders into the Central Ruins! They are turtling! They have a massive numerical advantage, but they are hiding behind stone walls! But here is the fatal flaw in Herrington’s plan!”

Bruce pointed a finger at the audience.

“The War-Gaming rules are simple! The event automatically ends the moment six of the twelve Commanders are eliminated. We are already at three! But surviving the event does not mean you pass! To advance to the next round of the tournament, a Commander MUST possess at least one captured enemy flag! Ray Croft has two! Eliza Vance has secured Regius’s! But the Alliance? They have captured absolutely nothing!”

Back inside the simulation, time stretched differently. The night was deep, humid, and oppressive.

In the dead center of the map, the Central Ruins loomed, a massive, circular stone fortress with a single, narrow entrance and high, defensible walls. Inside the courtyard, torches flickered, casting long, nervous shadows over the remaining hundreds of Alliance troops.

In the center of the camp, a tense war council was underway.

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Luke Herrington stood over a stone table, his hands pressed flat against the rock. Surrounding him were the most vocal of the remaining seven Alliance commanders: Marie Isolde, Neira Megion, Bazba Bordon and the other three commanders.

“This is madness, Herrington!”

Bazba Bordon, a Tier-3 Magistrate from the College of Statecraft, who specialized in heavy infantry, slammed his fist on the table.

“We have almost seven hundred troops left between the seven of us! They have a fraction of that! Why are we hiding in this ruined fortress like frightened animals?”

“Because in the dark, numbers don’t matter,”

Luke snapped back, his aristocratic composure cracking at the edges.

“From the reports I have gotten, Croft isn’t fighting a war; he’s setting traps. And out there, the night belongs to the army that is hidden.”

“So we just wait?”

Neira Megion, a Tier-2 Iron Key from the minor College of Codes and Detection (Statecraft) crossed her arms, her face illuminated by the harsh torchlight.

“We sit here and do nothing while two low-tier students make a mockery of the College of Statecraft?”

“We wait for dawn.”

Luke said firmly, his eyes sweeping over the angry commanders.

“When the sun rises, his illusions will be easier to spot.. We march out in a single, unbreakable formation and crush them under our heels. We don’t play his game. We make him play ours.”

The logic was sound. It was deeply humiliating, but tactically, it made sense. Marie, Neira, Bazba and the other three commanders exchanged reluctant glances, the tension in their shoulders easing just a fraction.

Thwack.

The sound was sharp and sudden.

A black-fletched arrow arced over the high stone walls, dropping perfectly out of the night sky, and buried itself deep into the wood of a nearby supply crate, mere feet from the stone table.

The commanders jumped, drawing their weapons. Guards shouted, raising their shields toward the dark walls, expecting an assault.

But nothing followed. The night remained entirely silent.

Luke cautiously approached the crate. There was no explosive attached to the arrow, no magical rune glowing on the shaft. Instead, tied neatly to the fletching, was a small, folded piece of parchment.

Frowning, Luke untied the letter and unfolded it.

The other commanders watched as Luke’s eyes scanned the text. Whatever was written there, the effect was instantaneous. The confident, authoritative mask Luke had been trying so hard to maintain shattered completely. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale as a ghost in the torchlight.

“What is it? Is it an ultimatum?”

Marie Isolde demanded, her anxiety spiking.

When Luke didn’t answer, his hands trembling slightly, Marie marched forward and snatched the letter right out of his grip.

“Let me see that.”

She hissed. She held it up to the torchlight and read it aloud so Neira, Bazba, and the surrounding officers could hear.

“My Friends of the College of Statecraft,”

Marie read, her voice tight.

“It’s been a fun day. I currently hold two of your flags. Eliza Vance holds another. Since we already have exactly what we need, we’ve decided to scatter our remaining troops into the deep jungle, find a comfortable cave, and get some sleep.”

Marie paused, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Sleep? What is he talking about?”

“Keep reading.”

Luke whispered, his voice hollow.

Marie swallowed hard and continued.

“Do you really think the Academy organizers are going to let the audience sit in the arena and watch us sleep all night? Do you think the nobles and the faculty have the patience to stare at a silent fortress until dawn? There is obviously a hidden time limit to this qualifier. The organizers will sound the horn and call the match the moment the allotted time expires.”

Neira Megion stepped closer, her eyes widening as the realization began to dawn on her.

Marie’s voice began to waver as she read the final paragraph.

“Since neither Eliza nor I need to fight anymore, we are perfectly happy to hide in the shadows and wait out the clock. But remember the rules of the qualifier. To advance to the next round, a Commander must secure an enemy flag. I wish you all the best of luck. It’s a real shame time is running out. Sleep well… From your friendly neighborhood Artificer.”

Marie slowly lowered the parchment.

The silence in the courtyard was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the torches.

The letter acted like a psychological grenade tossed directly into the center of their Alliance.

Ray Croft didn’t know for a fact that there was a time limit. But the logic was absolutely flawless. It was a spectator event. The Academy wouldn’t let it drag on for days in simulated time. The match would end.

And if the match ended while they were sitting safely inside this fortress, every single commander inside the walls would be disqualified for failing to capture a flag.

“That… that is a preposterous bluff!”

Bazba Bordon suddenly barked, a little too loudly, looking around at the others.

“He’s just trying to bait us out! He wants us to stumble around in the dark!”

“Is it a bluff?”

Neira Megion asked softly, her eyes darting to the stone walls that suddenly felt less like a shield and more like a cage.

“What if he’s right? What if the horn blows in ten minutes? We all fail.”

“We stick to the plan! We hold the ruins!”

Luke insisted, trying to reclaim his authority.

“Right. Yes. The ruins.”

Bazba agreed quickly. He wiped sweat from his thick neck. He avoided looking at Luke, Marie, Neira or the other three commanders.

“I… I need to go inspect my perimeter guards. Make sure the heavy infantry is alert.”

Without waiting for permission, Bazba turned and hurriedly walked away, barking orders at his personal troops to form a tight, defensive circle around his team’s flag.

Marie Isolde watched Bazba leave, her grip tightening on her staff. She looked at Neira. Neira looked at Luke. Luke looked at everyone.

The paranoia set in instantly, spreading through the camp like a lethal virus.

If Ray and Eliza were practically invisible in the dark jungle, finding them before the hypothetical clock ran out was impossible. Therefore, the only easy flags left to steal… were the ones right here. Inside the fortress. Belonging to their so-called ‘allies.’

Luke Herrington stared at the black-fletched arrow stuck in the wood.

He realized the terrifying, insurmountable genius of Ray’s move. Ray hadn’t cast a single spell. He hadn’t fired a single shot. With a piece of parchment, he had turned their impenetrable fortress into a slaughterhouse waiting to happen.

If they stayed, they would inevitably turn on each other in a desperate bid to survive the time limit. If they left, they walked blindly into the Artificer’s domain.

Checkmate.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep