A quarter-mile from the Central Ruins, hidden high on a darkened, forested ridge, Ray Croft dropped silently from the thick branch of a tree. He landed gracefully in the soft dirt, reaching over his shoulder to unstring the bow he had borrowed from one of his Dune-Striders.

He had crept just close enough to the high stone walls to bypass the Alliance’s perimeter sensors and deliver his payload.

A few yards away, sitting comfortably on a log with her troops resting behind her, Eliza Vance looked up. She lowered her glowing staff, allowing the ambient light to dim back into the shadows.

“Mission accomplished?”

Eliza asked, her voice hushed but ringing with curiosity.

“Did you send the terms of surrender? Or was it a request for a parley? If you asked for a duel, Luke is going to decline. He’s too proud to fight an Artificer one-on-one.”

Ray walked over and sat down beside her, leaning his back against a wide tree trunk. He pulled a wrapped block of simulated travel rations from his leather pouch.

“I didn’t ask for a parley.”

Ray said smoothly, breaking the hardbread in half and offering a piece to the Scribe.

“And I certainly didn’t ask for a surrender. I just sent them a polite warning.”

Eliza took the ration, raising an eyebrow.

“A warning? About what?”

“I reminded them that this is a spectator event. I told them that the nobles, the faculty, and the audience aren’t going to sit in the Colosseum all night watching us sleep in the jungle. I strongly suggested there must be a hidden time limit. And since we already have enough flags to pass this round of the main qualifier, we are perfectly content to sit out here and let the clock run out on them.”

Ray explained, taking a bite.

Eliza paused mid-bite. She stared at Ray, her brilliant mind instantly processing the cascading tactical implications of that simple statement.

“Is there a time limit?”

Eliza asked.

“No idea, but they don’t know that either. And considering the rules clearly state you need an enemy flag to advance… well. Put yourself in their shoes.”

Ray admitted with a shrug.

Eliza’s amber eyes widened. She looked through the trees toward the distant, torch-lit walls of the Central Ruins. She pictured seven arrogant, highly competitive noble commanders crammed into a single courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of troops, suddenly realizing that their unbreakable turtle shell was actually a ticking time bomb.

A short, breathless laugh escaped Eliza’s lips. Then another. Within seconds, she was clutching her stomach, laughing so hard she had to lean against her staff for support.

“You didn’t send a parley. You devious, magnificent bastard. You threw a lit match into a powder keg.”

Eliza wheezed, wiping a tear of mirth from her soot-stained cheek.

“I just gave them something to think about. Now, we watch.”

Ray said, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips.

The Grand Arena outside the simulated world had devolved into absolute madness.

The crowd wasn’t just cheering anymore; they were on the edge of their seats, collectively vibrating with the sick, thrilling anticipation of watching a psychological torture chamber unfold in real-time.

“HE IS IN THEIR HEADS!”

Bruce Doyle screamed into the amplification crystal, his voice echoing across the roaring Colosseum.

“Look at the Alliance! They are trapped in a cage of their own making! Croft didn’t even draw a blade! He weaponized their own greed and paranoia!”

In the student sections, decorum had vanished entirely. Bookies were literally standing on the benches, screaming out odds over the din of the crowd. Bets and counter bets were done at a furious pace.

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“Ten Marks one Bordon the commander of the Heavy Infantry will be breaking first! He doesn’t have the brains or patience to wait it out!”

A 2nd-Circle Apprentice from the College of Arcanum yelled,

“I’ll take that bet! Isolde is too twitchy! I will even raise you fifteen marks that she tries to steal Herrington’s flag!”

Another student shouted back.

High above the chaos of the student sections, in the glass-walled VIP box reserved for the Faculty High Admin, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.

Master Alvon Brekka, the towering Head of the College of Valor, stood with his massive arms crossed, his knuckles white as he gripped his biceps. He stared down at the projection panes, his expression one of pure, unadulterated disgust.

“Disgraceful, absolute cowardice! They outnumber him ten to one. They have a fortress. They have heavy cavalry. And yet, they are turtling up because of two juniors?”

Alvon rumbled, his voice like grinding stones.

He turned his fierce gaze toward the man sitting stiffly in the corner, Master Cedric Varkas, the Head of the College of Statecraft.

“Is this what your college teaches these days, Varkas?”

Alvon asked, his tone dripping with disdain.

“How to wet themselves in the dark? You send ten armies to hunt two armies, and the moment the wind changes, your ‘elites’ turtle up like frightened children?”

Cedric Varkas adjusted his silk collar, his face pale but his chin held high in a fragile attempt at dignity.

“It is not cowardice, Brakka. It is prudence. Herrington is preserving his assets. He is refusing to fight on the enemy’s terms. That is the essence of strategy.”

Cedric insisted, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

“Prudence?”

The sharp, cutting voice came from Master Teresa Cadmus, the newly appointed Interim Head of the College of Arcanum. She had replaced the disgraced Osmin Nobeos only weeks ago, and she had no patience for the old politics.

She stepped forward, pointing a slender finger at the projection of the shivering Alliance commanders.

“Don’t insult our intelligence, Varkas, Prudence is forming a defensive line. This? This is terror. Your students spent the entire event bullying a single Artificer and a Scribe. They ganged up on them, mocked them, and tried to humiliate them. And now that their bullying hasn’t worked, they are hiding behind stone walls.”

Teresa said, a cold, satisfied smile playing on her lips.

Teresa leaned in, her eyes gleaming with schadenfreude.

“And the irony is delicious, isn’t it? They built that fortress to keep Ray Croft out. But all they’ve done is lock themselves in a cage with six other paranoid, greedy politicians. They are doing his work for him.”

Cedric’s jaw tightened, a vein pulsing in his temple. He opened his mouth to retort, to defend the honor of his students and his college, but the booming voice of the Headmaster cut through the tension.

“It is not prudence, Cedric”

Headmaster Andrade said softly from his chair, sipping his tea.

The Headmaster didn’t look at his department heads. His sharp, ancient eyes were fixated on the image of Ray Croft sitting casually in the tree line, eating a ration bar.

“It is the difference between Authority and Command.”

Andrade observed.

“Luke Herrington has Authority, he has the rank, the title, and the bloodline. But he has no Command.”

Andrade set his teacup down with a soft clink

that sounded deafening in the silent box.

“Ray Croft stripped them of their certainty.”

Headmaster Andrade continued.

“A warrior fights with a sword. A general fights with a map. But a true Leader? A true Leader fights with the minds of his enemies.”

Andrade gestured to the screen, where Bazba Bordon was currently marching toward his own ally with a mace.

“Look at them, Cedric, that boy down there isn’t just defeating your students. He is dismantling their entire philosophy. He has proven that the strongest walls in the world cannot protect you… if the enemy is already inside your head.”

Andrade said mercilessly.

Back in the commentator’s booth, Bruce Doyle pounded his fist on the desk, oblivious to the masters’ conversation but feeling the same tension.

“The tension is unbearable, folks! Seven commanders. Seven flags. Zero trust! Who is going to snap first? Who will draw the first blade against their own ally?!”

Inside the suffocating walls of the Central Ruins, the air felt too thick to breathe.

Bazba Bordon, paced furiously behind the solid wall of his armored troops. The heavy steel plates of his armor felt like an oven. He kept looking up at the night sky, his heart hammering against his ribs. Every second that ticked by felt like an hour.

The organizers will sound the horn… To advance, a Commander must secure an enemy flag.

Ray’s written words echoed relentlessly in his skull

Bazba stopped pacing and glared across the torch-lit courtyard.

The ‘unbreakable formation’ Luke had ordered was already dissolving. Bazba watched as Marie Isolde nervously directed her mages to erect magical barricades, not facing the entrance, but facing the interior of the courtyard. On the other side of the ruins, Neira Megion’s archers had their arrows nocked, their bows resting on their knees, their eyes darting suspiciously toward everyone else.

The trust wasn’t just gone; it had never really existed. They were all rivals.

Bazba’s frantic eyes swept over the camp and landed on the three other Statecraft commanders who had joined Luke’s coalition. They were lesser nobles, commanding a mix of standard infantry, light cavalry and range troops. Right now, they looked terrified. One of them, a commander named Flinn Halec he was Tier-2 Prefect from the College of Statecraft, was clutching his team’s flag pole so tightly his knuckles were white, his meager troops shivering in the cold night air.

Bazba’s brute-force logic took over, drowning out whatever was left of his tactical restraint.

If the horn blows, I fail.Luke is too strong. Marie’s mages are too dangerous. But Halec? Halec is weak. I just need one flag. Just one.

Bazba thought, his grip tightening on the haft of his massive mace.

He didn’t announce his intentions. He simply raised his mace and gestured to his lieutenant.

“Troops advance.”

Bazba growled, while pointing at Flinn’s camp.

“Target that camp. Do not stop until I have that flag.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep