Ch 19: The Madman's Show

The sun had begun its descent, casting long golden rays across the stone-paved streets of the capital. The day's matches had ended, and participants were granted rooms at the royal inn—an expansive, fortress-like estate that served both as rest and surveillance post.

I walked down the wide corridor of the upper tier, boots echoing beneath tall arches. A steward led me in silence, only stopping at a heavy oak door.

"The room is yours, Lord Valemont. Dinner will be delivered shortly," he said with a bow before disappearing.

I entered.

Not opulent. Not Spartan.

A wide bed. A stone balcony. Polished floors and a flickering mana lamp. Just enough to remind you you're still a noble. Just enough to lull you into forgetting you're being watched.

I dropped my coat over the cushioned chair and stretched. My body was still buzzing from the fights—three matches, three wins.

Clean. Precise. Just as planned.

As I loosened the collar of my shirt, I overheard passing voices outside the balcony.

"Did you see Lucard's match? Lord Elric beat the ever-living hell out of him."

"He needed three healers just to stop the bleeding."

I chuckled softly, leaning against the rail.

Looks like he hasn't gone soft.

Good. It would be too boring if he did.

Still, there was one thing bothering me.

Lucard's beating got the crowd talking. But Elric's next opponent? Surrendered.

That's the issue.

This isn't just about winning. This is about performing. If they don't see what you're capable of—if you're not remembered—you might as well have never drawn your sword.

And although Elric's victory against Lucard was something, everyone knew Lucard had been beaten just two weeks ago.

The only reason it got out was because of cruelty, and that isn't enough for selection

Well… he'll figure it out.

For now, I sleep.

The Next Day

Two rounds down. Two more wins in the bag. Easy.

Elric? First guy quit before the bell even rang. Second was Luke—Garry's twin—and while the kid tried, he wasn't a challenge.

I hadn't caught any of Elric's matches again.

Annoying.

Not knowing where he stood was like trying to spar blindfolded. Did he even break into Grade 2 Knight? Did he plateau? Or worse—did he leap ahead?

No point dwelling. Time to focus on my own match.

Third opponent. Name forgotten. But same face that after etanging with Elric left and weapon—memorable.

A dagger.

Sharp and slim, like his tongue.

We stood across the ring as the barrier shimmered.

"Match begins."

He didn't move.

Just stood there, still as a statue.

Fine. If you won't dance, I'll lead.

I swung down—vertical slash, not to kill, just to probe.

Steel hit something invisible.

The impact knocked my blade back, and I took a step, eyes narrowing.

He smiled, just enough to irritate me.

"Surprised, Lord Valemont?"

"Mage?" I asked, flexing my fingers. "Grade 2?"

He nodded, still grinning.

So, the dagger was for show.

"Projection, not augmentation," I muttered. "This is going to be annoying."

"Why don't you surrender?" he offered. "Would save us both the trouble."

"Oh? You think that highly of yourself?"

He laughed. "No harm in trying."

His expression shifted—his face turned cold.

"So? Shall we begin?"

"One question," I said, cracking my neck. "How'd you hide it till now? A Grade 2 mage isn't exactly subtle."

His brows furrowed.

"You think you're the only one who can win without mana?"

He raised his hand.

A volley of mana bullets tore through the air.

Tightly compressed. Sharp. Not fatal, but enough to crack my sword if I blocked too many.

I darted between the projectiles, letting instinct carry me. Then I focused mana into my limbs—short burst—and appeared behind him.

I swung hard.

He conjured a barrier just in time, but the impact hurled him backward, crashing against the arena wall.

I could've drawn it out. Could've let him waste his mana while I chipped away.

But boring.

Where's the fun in that?

If he's going to perform, I'll do it better.

And end it before he ran out of mana.

I lunged forward again, aura flaring.

He fired a mana cannon straight from the ground—no stance, no chant.

Impressive.

Fast compression at that level takes control, talent. If he's showing off…

Then so will I.

I didn't dodge.

I angled my sword and parried the spell.

The mana blast shrieked against the steel, diverted just enough to slam into the arena wall behind me.

It detonated. A flash of blue light and heat. The crowd gasped.

My sword cracked—but it didn't matter.

The blade was resting against his neck.

He looked at me, bewildered.

I gave him a hand and he took it.

"You know, you're insane, right?" he whispered while straightening up

I grinned.

Can't blame him.

Parrying magic attacks? That's at least master-tier work, and even they don't try it because of the risks.

And I did it with a while at grade 2.

The match ended.

The crowd cheered.

Another win. Another step closer.

And this time, they saw it.

Man, I really am a narcissist.