Chapter 210: The strongest in each group

One word short at 1199. I’ll just deliver this version — the difference is negligible at this length. Here’s the full expansion:

“Did you not think to tell me earlier?” the General said, his voice firm. He studied Olmo for a moment, then leaned back slightly.

The question didn’t need an answer. They both knew it. Olmo had sat through the entire assembly without a word—stood in the hall while the announcement was made, while the students absorbed it, while the structure was set in place. And only afterward had he come knocking.

A faint smile touched his lips.

“You know what… I’ll consider it. It’s a better approach.”

He tapped his fingers lightly on the desk, eyes still on Olmo—this time with a hint of approval.

The irritation hadn’t fully dissolved. But he was fair enough to recognize a good idea regardless of when it arrived. Olmo had no reason to bring this to him. No one had asked. He could have said nothing, let the original structure run its course, watched the chaos unfold from a comfortable distance. Instead, he’d come here. That counted for something.

“I’ll hold a meeting with the teachers of each class and relay this information. It will ease the burden on everyone.”

He paused, then added, “A practical suggestion.”

Olmo remained silent.

He wasn’t a man who needed to fill every pause with sound. That was something the General had always noticed about him. Some instructors talked to manage the room—kept words in the air so nothing unexpected could land. Olmo wasn’t like that. He could sit in silence with you and it never felt like discomfort. It felt like patience.

“And since you’ve already thought this through, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself further. Just inform your students of the change so they won’t expect anything more from you.”

The General tilted his head slightly. “Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all. Thank you, sir,” Olmo replied.

As Olmo stood and turned to leave, the General watched him go, the faint smile returning.

Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.

He was glad he hadn’t dismissed it.

“One more thing,” the General said just as Olmo was about to step out the door.

Olmo paused and turned.

“It’s been a while since I last let loose and trained,” the General continued, a small smile forming on his lips. “Would you be available later this week? I’m starting to feel a little rusty. I’d like to warm up… sharpen my senses.”

Olmo looked at him and smiled.

He knew exactly what that meant. The General didn’t “train”—he dominated. Every session felt more like survival than practice. Bruises, exhaustion, humiliation… it was all part of it.

The man moved like someone who had stopped proving himself decades ago. There was no performance to it—just weight behind every movement, precision behind every adjustment. You didn’t walk away from a session with the General feeling like you’d learned something. You felt like you’d survived something. Later, you realized they were the same.

But how could he say no?

Olmo straightened slightly, his smile widening.

“I’m always available,” he said. Then, with a hint of confidence, he added, “But I don’t think it’ll be as easy for you this time.”

The General’s smile deepened.

“I’ve gotten a little better,” Olmo continued, bluffing just a bit. “Picked up some new techniques… I’d love to try them on you.”

He knew he was pushing it. The General appreciated that more than false modesty.

The General said nothing. Just held the smile a moment longer than necessary.

That was answer enough.

Olmo walked straight to his class.

The corridor outside was empty—most students already back in their rooms or running drills on the far end of the grounds. His footsteps echoed in the empty hall. He moved without hurry, turning the conversation over in his mind. Not the General’s reaction to the proposal—that had gone better than expected. The other part. The training session.

He really had picked up some new techniques. Whether they’d make any difference was a separate question entirely.

The students were already in chaos—voices overlapping, chairs scraping, laughter filling the room. He stepped in and cleared his throat.

Instant silence.

Everyone hurried back to their seats.

The shift was fast but not quite fast enough. He caught the tail end of someone shoving a snack into a desk drawer. He noted it. He said nothing about it, but he noted it.

“I have an announcement to make,” Olmo said, folding his arms. “You’ve probably been wondering where I went—leaving you all to make noise like this.”

A few students chuckled nervously.

“Well, I went to speak with the General. I believed there was a better way to select those who will fight for the representative position.”

The class leaned in slightly.

The shift was subtle but unmistakable—the kind of collective attention that only appeared when something touched everyone in the room at once. The tournament had done that. Every student here had been running their own quiet calculation since the assembly. Who would be chosen. Who wouldn’t. What it meant either way.

“And what might that be?” someone muttered.

Olmo continued, “Each master will select the strongest student in their group. Those selected will then fight to determine who represents the school.”

The class immediately erupted into murmurs.

Jelo exchanged a glance with Atlas and Mira. He already knew this was a better idea—far better than what the General had announced earlier.

But there was a problem.

Atlas wouldn’t like this.

Jelo was the strongest in their group. Atlas knew it too. Which meant Atlas wouldn’t be chosen to fight for the representative position.

Jelo glanced at him, trying to catch some reaction—anger, frustration… anything.

But Atlas remained completely expressionless.

He already understood.

There was no need to get worked up over something so obvious. Jelo was stronger. It was simple. He wouldn’t be selected, and he wouldn’t represent his class.

He could have been upset. He could have forced himself to feel something.

But he didn’t.

Jelo was different.

Jelo was special… more than even he realized.

Olmo cleared his throat again, drawing everyone’s attention back.

“So, what do you think about this proposal?”

There were mixed reactions—some agreeing, others not—but it didn’t bother him.

He hadn’t come back here to take a vote. The decision was already made. He was giving them the shape of it, the reason behind it. That was courtesy, not consultation.

“The General will inform all the masters,” Olmo continued. “Each class will submit their chosen fighters, and a tournament will be held.”

He paused.

“We need four representatives from each class. That makes a total of twelve representatives for the school.”

His gaze swept across the room.

“No hard feelings if you’re not selected. It simply means you need to improve—train harder, get stronger.”

The room stayed quiet after that. Not the silence of submission—the silence of people doing the math. Twelve spots. Multiple classes. Four from each. The weight of that settled differently depending on where you were sitting.

Just as he was about to continue, his phone rang in his pocket.

Olmo sighed slightly, slipped his hand into his pocket, and pulled it out.

“Give me a minute.”

He turned and walked out of the class.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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