Ch 24: Strategy in Ashes

Five days had passed since Martin's last brush with House Vercyne. Varncrest's atmosphere, still charged, had settled into a muted thrum of energy. The crowds that once flooded every walkway to get a glimpse of Fenice Phoenix had thinned. The phenomenon of "fangirl absences" had disrupted so many workshops that even Belisarius, a man famously tolerant of student antics, had issued a temporary ban.

Martin stepped into the courtyard, his expression neutral, coat slung lazily over one shoulder. The air smelled faintly of burned mana—likely residue from Fenice's latest demonstration. The famed swordsman was standing at the fountain's edge, delivering a graceful performance that fused swordplay with traditional verse. He spun between lines of poetry, blade carving through the air in rhythm with each stanza. A crowd circled him in silence, enamored.

Martin didn't pause to watch. He had no time for glorified peacocks.

Ludmila had remained conspicuously absent since their encounter. According to his surveillance pings, she hadn't left the dormitory block she was assigned to. That kind of disappearance could only mean one thing: House Vercyne had quarantined her. She was no longer a tool—they now saw her as a liability. A liability they weren't sure how to handle.

Martin's handbook buzzed.

To: Martin Kaiser

From: Combat Oversight Subdivision

You have been challenged by: Tjeerd Vercyne

Match Type: 1 vs 1 Standardized Duel

Time Limit: 30 Minutes

Do you accept?

A second ping followed almost immediately.

Tjeerd: Hope you don't back out.

Martin looked up slowly. Tjeerd stood across the square, flanked by three Vercyne attendants. They were marked by the obsidian sun—Vercyne's tactical insignia. The attendants looked severe, ceremonial staffs in hand, while Tjeerd glared directly at him, lips curled in contempt.

Martin raised an eyebrow. "So, you're the new dog."

"I am heir to the Vercyne strategic branch," Tjeerd announced coldly. "You've interfered in matters that do not concern you."

"Stop joking," Martin replied. "If you actually read anything about me, you wouldn't be doing something this idiotic."

"We're not afraid of you," Tjeerd sneered.

"You should be," Martin said, voice flat. "Come on, be logical. You don't know anything about me. Your family's operating on old intelligence and bruised pride."

Tjeerd raised his chin. "It doesn't matter. This is our response. Do you accept the challenge?"

Martin sighed. "Do you even want this duel? Or are you just doing what you're told? There's a difference between vengeance and obedience, you know."

Tjeerd's eyes narrowed. "Answer. Already."

Martin rolled his eyes and tapped the glowing ACCEPT icon. A soft ding echoed. Nearby, a supervisor from the Oversight Division looked up, nodded, and began preparing a mid-tier dueling arena with fast-deploy glyphs. The mana columns pulsed to life. The square cleared quickly.

Thirty minutes later.

The arena had been raised between two lecture towers and a prominent mana conduction column. Its shields flickered with overlapping layers of suppression, deflection, and safety overrides—standard fare for duels of this level, but unnecessary in Martin's opinion.

Tjeerd entered first, ceremonial staff in hand. He wore a reinforced robe bearing Vercyne's strategic insignia and a layer of charm-boosting enamel across his shoulders.

Martin followed moments later, hands still in his coat pockets, no visible weapon, no enhancements, no pomp.

Tjeerd's eyes narrowed. "Are you unarmed?"

"Don't mind the small things," Martin said, yawning.

The judge, a tall woman with silver braids and a clockwork clipboard, raised her hand.

"Duel begins on my mark… Begin!"

Tjeerd wasted no time. He opened with a controlled stream of fire mana, condensing it into a lance-like beam. It darted across the arena.

Martin didn't move. His coat flared outward as a high-pressure whirlwind formed around him, dispersing the fire harmlessly.

"Do better," Martin said dryly.

Tjeerd scowled. He slammed his staff into the floor. Lines of ignition glyphs flared to life beneath his feet, rippling outward until the entire arena floor was bathed in elemental flame. Dozens of flame javelins materialized in the air and hurled themselves toward Martin.

Martin barely blinked. The whirlwind around him grew denser, forming an invisible shell that deflected each javelin with contemptuous ease.

"Don't you have something else?" Martin asked. "This is the worst. You're ignoring the nature of my defense. You have no technique, no elemental synergy. Just mana brute-forcing heat. Are you sure you're from the strategy branch?"

"How dare you?!" Tjeerd shouted, hurling another barrage. Each strike was wilder than the last, more erratic.

"Disappointing," Martin murmured, brushing embers off his sleeve. "You're casting raw output like a child having a tantrum."

Tjeerd gritted his teeth. "So what? You think turtling is better?"

"You're right," Martin said softly.

A thin line of mana split the air beside him. A levitating cylinder formed—1.5 meters in length, made of polished obsidian alloy. Six crystal rings circled it, rotating independently. Each ring shimmered with programmed runes.

Tjeerd faltered. "What is that?"

Martin smiled. "Figure it out."

He snapped his fingers.

The cylinder spun violently. The crystal rings locked into configuration with a click, and a pulse of mana built in the air—thick, oppressive, dangerous.

Then it fired.

A highly condensed beam of purified thermal mana erupted from the device, no wider than a spear shaft. It struck the arena floor two meters to Tjeerd's left—but the blast radius was immense. The localized shockwave hurled Tjeerd off his feet. A thermal burst followed, warping the air around him and igniting the hem of his robe. Skin sizzled. The concussion broke ribs, snapped his staff in half, and left the heir of House Vercyne sprawled on the floor, moaning in pain.

The arena's suppression field flared to halt further damage. Emergency healing glyphs activated.

The judge stepped forward. "Victor: Martin Kaiser."

The crowd was silent. Some whispered. Some simply stared.

Martin stepped over the wreckage of fire javelins and paused beside Tjeerd, who struggled to rise.

"Here's some free advice," Martin said, voice low. "Power is cheap. But precision? Precision changes wars."

He turned without looking back.