Chapter 12: Pretending to Be Average in Front of a Dragon Slayer

"Begin!" 

 The instruction boomed throughout the open training grounds, and immediately the field was alive. 

 Mana flared. Spells erupted. Swords clashed. 

 I stayed still. 

 Not because I was calm or strategic. I was just trying not to vomit. 

 The Advanced Combat Practical wasn't some glorified sparring session. It was a full-blown live-combat simulation, controlled by one of the most dangerous men in the Empire: Commander Serion Velhart, living legend and dragon-puncher. 

 The evaluation wasn't one-on-one either. 

 It was a battle royale. 

 Students were to be graded based on combat effectiveness, endurance, technique, tactical awareness, and of course, survival. Points were granted for knocking others out or compelling them to yield. 

 I was pretty sure "peeing yourself and playing dead" wasn't worth anything. 

 Rael Astoria was already tearing over the field with his usual cocky expression, kicking someone through a barrier of wind magic like it was a morning jog. 

 Elara was a few meters away, throwing elemental pulses with deadly precision. 

 Me? 

 I crouched behind a rock and tried not to cry. 

 "Okay, Manjil," I muttered, breathing heavily. "You can do this. Just pretend to be normal. Average. Maybe pick off a straggler or two. No fancy time powers. No suspicious dodging. Definitely no mistakenly freezing time in front of Commander Dragon-Fist." 

 A fireball exploded nearby. 

 I shrieked (quite manfully) and ducked. 

 A student lurched out from the smoke, coughing. He looked about as terrified as I felt. Perfect. 

 I charged. 

 He noticed me a second too late. My blade—blunt, training-grade, not actually meant to harm—swung toward him in what could only be described as a flailing panic gesture. 

 I tripped midway. 

 But gravity took over and carried my sword with horrifying speed, landing a clean stroke on the side of his head. 

 He dropped like a sack of confused potatoes. 

 I stood there, astonished. Did… did I just win that? 

 "OUT!" a referee yelled, hauling the wretched person away. 

 I slowly raised a fist in victory. "Tactical stumble," I whispered to myself. "Nailed it." 

 Unfortunately, that modest victory had the unwanted effect of making me look like an active participant in this death match. 

 Which meant other students noticed me. 

 And by "students," I mean Gareth Bite-a-Lot. 

 He was limping somewhat but appeared quite ready to inflict emotional and physical agony. "Roy!" he yelled. "You fluke! You're dead!" 

 I chose to run. 

 He gave chase. 

 Now, I could've halted time. It was right there. Tempting. Sweet. So easy. But no. That would be cheating. And also, I didn't want to accidently tear the fabric of reality again. 

 So I ran like a terrified chicken across a warzone. 

 Sparks flew. Ice shards zipped past. Someone summoned a wolf. I may have yelled again. 

 Eventually, I reached an area of the training ground where fewer pupils were battling. I crouched behind a tree, panting for breath, internally preparing my resignation letter. 

 Then a voice spoke alongside me. 

 "You move well." 

 I nearly bit my tongue. Rael Astoria, the protagonist, was lazily leaning against a tree like this was a picnic. 

 "Is that your strategy?" he questioned. "Wait for the strong ones to knock each other out?" 

 I blinked. "Is it working?" 

 He truly chuckled. "Maybe." 

 That's when another student spotted us. Not just any student. 

 A towering, burly fourth-ranked noble from House Ferandil. He had mana-enhanced gauntlets and a face that suggested he enjoyed striking bricks for fun. 

 "Both of you," he growled, snapping his knuckles. "Let's make this quick." 

 Rael smiled and stepped forward. 

 I did not. 

 Instead, I staggered backward and feigned to trip over a rock, again, because it worked the first time. 

 As Ferandil charged Rael, I figured it was a wonderful moment to discreetly move out of the frame. I backed aside, grabbing a stick to look like I was still involved. 

 My goal? Survival. 

 Unfortunately, Commander Velhart's words reverberated across the field again. "New challenge!" 

 Everyone froze. 

 Except me, because I had just fallen into a bush. 

 "Final phase," the Commander declared. "Team combat." 

 Oh no. 

 "Groupings will be based on previous performance. Top performers—together. Underperformers—you're categorized too." 

 I got a very, very awful feeling about this. 

 Five minutes later, I stood in a newly constituted squad. 

 On my left? Rael Astoria. 

 On my right? Elara Vaelmont. 

 Across from me? Gareth, House Ferandil Gauntlets, and two more powerhouses I hadn't even met yet. 

 I was now on a team with the most dangerous folks in the Academy. 

 Against the second most scary gang. 

 In front of the most terrifying person alive. 

 I raised my hand. "Can I be water boy?" 

 Commander Velhart ignored me. "Begin!" 

 — 

 The rest was anarchy. 

 Rael charged first, clashing blades with Gareth. 

 Elara fired a magical bombardment, and I— 

 —I panicked and halted time. 

 Just for a second. 

 Just enough to place myself behind a tree and pretend I had tactically flanked someone. 

 Unstopped time. 

 Someone turned. "Weren't you over there—?" 

 I screamed and struck them with my stick. 

 They collapsed. 

 Rael, evading a stroke, blinked at me. "Nice move!" 

 I nodded and wheezed. "Yeah. Totally planned." 

 — 

 By the time the match ended, my team had technically won. 

 I had technically taken down two students. 

 And I had obviously lost around five years off my lifespan. 

 Commander Velhart approached as we queued up for feedback. His eyes ran over each of us. Then it stopped on me. 

 I straightened instinctively. 

 He narrowed his eyes. "Manjil Roy." 

 I sought to disappear via sheer willpower. 

 "You move… strangely," he said. "Unorthodox. Yet effective." 

 I nodded slowly. "I practice… a lot?" 

 He hummed. "Good." 

 And then, mercifully, went on. 

 I sagged in relief. 

 But Rael? Rael was still looking at me. 

 With narrowed eyes. 

 And just the faintest touch of a smirk. 

 I was doomed. 

 Absolutely, completely doomed.