Chapter 11: Rael Astoria Is Too Observant

The worst part about being observed isn't the looking itself—it's the waiting. 

 Rael Astoria had been watching me for the past ten minutes. 

 Not talking. 

 Not blinking. 

 Just... watching. 

 Like a predator curious about if the rabbit in front of it was actually a disguised tiger. 

 And me? I was the bunny. Who happened to be a time-stopping nuclear warhead wearing school uniform pants two sizes too big. 

 "I'm beginning to think you threw that fight on purpose," Rael replied, plunging his fork into a strangely wavy chunk of meat. 

 I nibbled gently, appearing to ponder his comments. "Or maybe Elara is just that strong." 

 He raised an eyebrow. "She is strong. But I've fought her. She doesn't normally punch somebody hard enough to make them bounce." 

 "That was a very bouncy moment, yes," I remarked, nodding seriously. "My spine is still somewhere on the training ground." 

 He didn't laugh. 

 Instead, he leaned forward. "You placed first on the exam. You blocked Gareth's Flame Fang mid-air. Then you get knocked unconscious by a mana push spell? Something's not adding up." 

 My survival instincts kicked in. They screamed: Deny Everything. Play Dumb. Eat Faster. 

 I shoveled food into my mouth like it was the last meal before execution. "Hrrrm? I know, maybe I peaked early?" 

 Rael looked for another long while, then finally leaned back and groaned. "If you say so." 

 Crisis: barely averted. 

 For now. 

 — 

 After lunch, our class had "Magic Theory," which sounded interesting, but turned out to be ninety minutes of Instructor Bellarius raving about the historical misuse of elemental affinity charts. 

 He was an old elf with a beard longer than his lesson materials, and every time he waved his pointer stick, three individuals in the front row ducked automatically. 

 "...and that, dear students, is why combining wind and fire magic without proper stabilization runes will cause combustion—not flame synergy as that idiot sorcerer Grintax claimed!" 

 I blinked slowly, almost into a food coma. At some point, I had started scribbling a caricature of Gareth Velmore on my notebook, giving him squirrel teeth and writing "Sir Bite-a-Lot" under it. 

 Someone next to me snorted. 

 I glanced to my left. 

 Elara Vaelmont. Deadpan as ever. 

 She was trying very hard not to laugh. 

 She failed. 

 A little chuckle escaped her lips before she covered her mouth with one exquisite palm. "You're insufferable," she murmured. 

 "Thanks," I muttered back. "You hit really hard, by the way." 

 "I know," she answered, totally serious. 

 Well, that was terrifying. 

 — 

 After class, I wanted to slip away before anyone else could talk to me. 

 No such luck. 

 "Mr. Roy!" a voice called. "Please hold a moment!" 

 I turned to find a tall woman in formal robes approaching with the serenity of someone who had important documentation and regret for calling you over. 

 She handed me a sealed packet. "You've been invited to the Advanced Combat Practical, hosted by the Imperial Evaluation Board." 

 I blinked. "I'm sorry—the what now?" 

 "It's a special assessment for students who show exceptional potential. You were advised based on your exam results." 

 Of course I was. 

 Of course. 

 Because being inconspicuous was for peasants. 

 "Do I have to go?" I asked hopefully. 

 She gave me a look that said: You just questioned if gravity is optional. 

 "Attendance is mandatory," she stated. "Congratulations, Mr. Roy." 

 She hurried gone before I could yell "I hate this" at the sky. 

 — 

 The worst part? 

 The "Advanced Combat Practical" wasn't next week. 

 It was tomorrow. 

 Apparently, the Imperial Board functioned on the motto: "Surprise training is the best training." Either that, or they just really liked torturing students. 

 Naturally, I spent the entire evening worried. 

 Which meant I did the logical thing. 

 I halted time. 

 "Okay," I mumbled in the chilly solitude of my dorm room. "This is fine. I have like... ten hours to prepare. If I only replicate a few hundred sparring matches, I can pretend competence." 

 I picked up a training sword from the rack and went to work. 

 And by "got to work," I mean I spent the first hour swinging it around like a fool, periodically banging into furniture and apologizing to frozen time. 

 "Sorry, chair. That was uncalled for." 

 It wasn't elegant. It wasn't efficient. But by the sixth hour, I had figured out a few basic positions and how not to slice my own leg. 

 I even figured out a great spin maneuver. 

 Then promptly tripped and knocked down a bookshelf. 

 Note to self: spinning is banned. 

 By the tenth hour, I was drenched in perspiration, gasping, but I could finally handle my sword without appearing like a baby carrying a broom. 

 I un-stopped time, collapsed onto my bed, and passed off immediately. 

 — 

 The next morning arrived way too quickly. 

 As I lined up with the other students chosen for the evaluation, I realized something horrifying: 

 All the prodigies were here. 

 Rael Astoria. Elara Vaelmont. Gareth Bite-a-Lot. Even a few named extras I somewhat recognized from the novel. 

 A voice boomed over the field. "Welcome, candidates!" 

 A person strode forward—tall, clothed in silver armor, radiating the kind of presence that made your knees want to give out. 

 Imperial Knight Commander Serion Velhart. 

 Otherwise known as "That Guy Who Killed a Dragon Barehanded." 

 I was so screwed. 

 He looked across the gathering and smiled. 

 "Today, we'll see what kind of future monsters the Academy is raising." 

 Everyone straightened up, mana flashing slightly. 

 Me? 

 I was internally screaming. 

 Because the time to pretend was over. 

 And I had no idea how long I could keep misleading folks.