The institute's corridors were far too quiet as Cassandra and the others made their way back from the battlefield. No one spoke at first. They had left before the cheers for the next match had even begun. Losing badly wasn't the issue — they had lost with a gap that would go down in records.
347 to 51.
The number haunted them.
Inside the Demo Room of Healing and Restoration, the atmosphere was sad. They sat on the edges of the cushioned benches, surrounded by potion racks and low-glowing lanterns, the tools of recovery doing little to help their spirits.
Cassandra stood at the center, arms folded, trying to hold herself together as team captain.
"Alright," she began, forcing brightness into her voice, "we're still in this. The tournament's just begun. We get a second match. We'll make that one count."
Elaine scoffed softly. Evaline glanced at her sister and then at Cassandra.
Evaline muttered, "If we even have a team left by then…"
Cassandra tried not to wince. James slouched against the wall with a bandage over his brow, and spoke up, "That Selka… I didn't even see the spell. I was there one moment and then I was out."
William added, dryly, "And that wasn't even her strongest technique. We're outnumbered. Outranked. We were sent to slaughter."
Serena sat near the wall, knees hugged to her chest, silent since they entered. She hadn't even taken off her gloves. Just listened.
Liam, on the bench by the corner window, leaned forward. "We should still watch the other matches."
That made a few heads turn.
"For what?" Elaine asked, tired. "To see how far behind we are?"
"To gather information," Liam said, calm but firm. "If we win our upcoming home game, and do so by a significant score, these are the teams we will be up against next. Understanding their formation, spells, style… even their captains. We can't win if we don't know what we'll face."
"I'm not watching anything today," William muttered. "I'm going to sleep and pretend this match didn't happen."
There was a beat of silence. Then Evaline chuckled bitterly. "You do that. Meanwhile, they're probably replaying Selka's curse strike on every screen outside."
"Guys," Cassandra tried again, voice cracking slightly, "can we not? Just — one moment …"
But her mask was already crumbling.
Theo, who had been quietly tending to the sprain in his arm, finally stepped forward. "That's enough," he said gently, placing a hand on Cassandra's shoulder.
She didn't stop him. Her breath trembled.
"Everyone, get some rest," Theo said. "Today's over."
The room emptied slowly. One by one they slipped out, leaving Cassandra slumped on the edge of the healer's bed, head bowed.
Outside, the courtyard lanterns had just been lit, soft gold against the evening sky. Liam and Serena walked slowly along the cobbled path, the distant cheers of the arena now faint echoes behind them.
"You alright?" Liam asked.
Serena didn't look at him. "I'm tired. Unlike certain people who didn't even lift a hand today."
Liam chuckled. "Ouch."
They walked in silence for a few paces. The wind rustled through the flower hedges along the path.
Liam stopped in front of her dorm building. "You want to watch the rest of the matches?"
Serena shook her head. "No. I need sleep. And you need to stop pretending this isn't bothering you."
Liam grinned faintly. "Well, maybe it is. But right now, I'm desperate to figure something out. My freedom's on the line."
She frowned. "Freedom?"
Liam tilted his head. "The bet. If we lose, I get engaged. So technically, my entire life is on the table."
Serena's eyes widened slightly — and then her cheeks flushed. She quickly turned toward the dorm steps.
"Goodnight," she said stiffly, hurrying inside.
Liam raised a hand in a lazy wave. "Night?"
He didn't leave.
Instead, Liam wandered to a nearby stone bench, nestled beneath an old willow, its leaves swaying gently. The area was quiet — too quiet. Everyone else was still in the arena. The tournament raged on, but here… it was like a different world.
He stared up at the moon.
"Such an important event," he muttered, "and yet not a single person above Master realm is here."
His voice was low. Just enough to hear himself think.
"The only parents in the stands were barons and minor lords. No high nobles."
The wind blew through the trees again.
"My… Heart Frailty is still safe. That's the only thing that makes sense."
He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment.
"I don't understand anything at all."
It wasn't the loss that unsettled him.
It was the pieces that didn't fit — the feeling that something deeper was at play, and he was walking through fog, just barely able to see the road ahead.
Liam stayed there, listening to the wind, watching shadows shift under the lamplight.
Then, silently, he stood — and walked toward the arena, alone.
The arena was still burning with energy. The crowd still present, murmured with fascination as the final matches of the day unfolded.
On the large floating screen above the dome, match after match was displayed in shifting tiles — each one capturing explosive clashes, clever tactics, and overwhelming displays of power.
"…and that concludes the fourth match with House Yates defeating House Maerwell — final score, 228 to 163. A surprisingly even match until the last five minutes when Yate's spear-wielder, Liora, unveiled her elemental burst…" Elric spoke.
"Honestly? I think Maerwell still played better. They didn't rely on a single overpowered technique. House Yates just gambled and got lucky when it was supposed to be a home advantage," said Myra.
The screen flickered.
Match 5 – House Wilbourn vs House Thorne.
Score: Thorne wins, 285 to 127.
"House Thorne's scout — Sixth Year's Derek — was inhumanly fast. No, no Wilbourn could keep up. Full wipeout before the last of the sands."
"Their rogue unit? That's not a student, that's a saboteur. Who let someone like that compete?"
Liam watched from the northern side, where participants from earlier matches were now allowed to observe in peace. The seating here was far less crowded.
He had taken his place quietly, arms folded, gaze drifting across the battlefield as the fifth match began to load.
The spot next to him creaked lightly. Someone had joined him.
"Prince Liam," a familiar voice said.
Liam turned — and there stood Rion Zervas, still in his match gear, though now with a coat slung over his shoulder. His tone was respectful but relaxed, the faintest smile on his lips.
"I wanted to talk earlier," Rion continued, "but with all the tension in the air… didn't feel right."
Liam regarded him with curiosity. "About what?"
Rion extended a hand. "I just wanted to say — despite the match — I respect what you did. And who you are. No hostility. I'd rather be friends."
Liam looked at the hand for a moment, then clasped it.
"Friends, then," he said.
Liam drifted back to the arena.
Below, two teams began to gather — the sixth match soon to begin.
Liam's gaze drifted back to the dome
Match 6 – House Lyon vs House Fraiser
The crowd's murmurs had barely settled before the dome above shifted once more. Shimmering runes traced a new arena into view — jagged cliffs, layers of packed snow, and a sky so grey it looked like time had stopped. The Tundra.
The terrain was unforgiving — white dunes of snow with deep blue ice veined underneath, and old scars of battle barely visible beneath the frost.
Elric's voice rumbled over :
"We return now to the North — the tundra plains that once belonged to a native house that stood against Ironhelm during the fifteenth king's reign. Many remember King Bryan's campaigns… this very ice cracked under the boots of his war battalion."
Myra chimed in, her voice precise, cutting:
"And now, this territory is the Beckett Duchy. Cold lands with colder loyalties. Let's see how House Fraiser handles a field this ancient and hostile."
Rion stood with his arms crossed, watching the arena with faint amusement. "Rumor is you've got close ties to the Becketts," he said.
Liam said nothing at first. His gaze didn't waver.
Only after a moment did he respond — tone level, unreadable.
"I hope everything goes smoothly."
No smile. No irritation. Just restraint.
Rion picked up on the shift and said nothing more, sensing the boundary.
Elric returned, tone low and analytical:
"Lyon's formation is tight. Three defensive mages were positioned at the rear, encased in thermal wards. House Fraiser looks disoriented — no rhythm to their footing. They're slipping. Literally."
Myra added with a clinical nod:
"They've lost surface control. The spellcasters of Fraiser rely too much on rooted casting — not ideal in terrain that punishes stability. This isn't just a battle. This is an environment meant to erase them."
Rion glanced toward Liam again. "Who do you think wins this one?"
Liam's response was automatic and quiet. "I don't know. First time seeing all this."
"You've never seen combat?" Rion asked, a bit too directly.
Liam turned toward him — sharply.
There was no raised voice, no threat. But the look in his eyes made Rion take a subtle step back.
"Don't you think a first-time friend is asking a few too many questions?"
Rion put up his hands with a crooked smile. "Fair enough."
Myra's voice broke through again:
"And there it is. Fraiser's vanguard has collapsed — their command spell disrupted mid-channel. Lyon seizes the opportunity."
Elric concluded with a slow exhale:
"Final score: 251 to 156. Home advantage is thoroughly used. Lyon stands strong. Fraiser… left to regroup, if they can."
Match 7 – House Serica vs House Owens
Battlefield: Fort Brentford
Advantage Side: Owens
The illusionary terrain shimmered before locking into place — Fort Brentford, a bastion of half-crumbled stone walls and tangled undergrowth. Narrow passageways were carved between collapsed fortifications, thorny groves, and craters from long-lost sieges. Fog rolled across the field like ghosts searching for a home.
Elric, calm and crisp:
"Welcome to Fort Brentford, the very land where the Fifth King, David the Magnificent, turned the tide of the Garrond War using guerrilla tactics — disappearing into shadows, striking with ruthless precision, and melting back into the terrain."
Myra, sharper and assessing:
"Owens chose the battlefield, hoping to revive those very tactics — but Serica's counter-read is brilliant. They're not chasing shadows, they're locking them down. Each ambush met with walls of spells and relentless counters."
Prince Liam leaned slightly forward, studying the formations. Rion stood beside him, casually watching the shifting mages below.
"Prince Liam," Rion said, smirking as he tilted his chin toward a group of older students gathered near the back, huddled and whispering over gleaming coins.
Liam followed his gaze. "What?"
Rion gestured lazily. "They're betting."
"On the match?"
"Obviously. You want in?"
Liam blinked. "That's… allowed?"
"Legal?" Rion shrugged. "Not really. Common? Very."
He grinned. "No one stops it. Betting shows insight — who understands formations, mana flow, and win conditions. Plus, there's profit. You can earn a lot of mithril."
"Mithiril? Here?" Liam asked.
Rion reached into his coat and casually flipped a coin between his fingers — faintly glowing, pale silver with runes etched around the edge.
When the hardest titanium is infused with ambient mana over millennia, you get mithril, which is worth more than gold. The Ascendants use it for real equipment, such as weapons and armor. Unlike copper, silver, and gold, which are for mortals, mithril is the currency of the Ascendants.
Liam examined the coin, intrigued. "I've never held one. I think I've only ever seen it inlaid in some of my ceremonial things — or jewelry."
"You're a prince," Rion smirked. "You don't earn mithiril. You inherit it."
Liam gave a small snort of amusement. "I don't have any on me."
Rion looked briefly surprised. "Oh. My bad."
There was a pause, before Liam added, "How would I earn some?"
"You could barter — a hundred gold for one Grade 1 mithiril coin. But if you want higher-grade stones? You have to exchange upward. No one will sell you a Grade 3 for gold. "
"Sounds… deliberately unfair."
Rion grinned. "It's supposed to be hard."
Back on the field, Myra's voice cut in:
"Final clash underway. Owens has flanked using a dual-shroud strategy, Serica's mage captain couldn't anticipate it."
"Defensive layers stacked thick. The Owens successfully absorbed the fortified guerrilla resistance."
In the gallery, Rion gave a low whistle as the scores flickered in the air.
Owens – 178
Serica – 168
Elric spoke with excitement:
"A narrow win, but a win nonetheless. Owens claims victory on the enemy turf. Remarkable."
Liam noticed Rion straighten slightly, looking more satisfied than the score warranted.
"You won something?"
"Oh, yes," Rion grinned. "Quite a lot."
"What happened?"
"I bet against Serica."
Liam blinked. "Weren't they the champions five years ago?"
"They were. But that was five years ago — and today was their away match. Risky? Yes. But…"
"…High risk, high reward," Liam finished.
Rion held up a small satchel and patted it. "One hundred Grade 3 stones."
Liam stared. "How much is that in —?"
"A lot," Rion answered seriously. "Enough to have a master smith forge an Adept Realm Artifact-grade blade. With leftovers."
As the screens rolled to the next matchups, Elric and Myra continued commentary:
Match 8 – House Creed vs House Parker
Home Ground: Forest of Pines (Chosen by Parker)
Final Score: Parker – 189 | Creed – 179
Myra: "Creed put up a strong front, but Parker's command illusionist fractured their strategy mid-match."
Elric: "A loss for the Titans of four years ago. House Creed will need to regroup fast."
Match 9 – House Blackwood vs House Preston
Home Ground: Sunken Catacombs
Final Score: Blackwood – 207 | Preston – 190
Myra: "Blackwood's surgical offense worked even in enemy terrain. A seventeen-point win away from home."
Elric: "Impressive. Blackwood remains a name to watch. Will the repeat the glory of the past this year?"
Match 10 – House Clayton vs House Reed
Home Ground: Emerald Marshes (Reed's pick)
Final Score: Reed – 201 | Clayton – 198
Elric: "Closest match yet — three points apart. That's a breath's margin."
Myra: "Clayton nearly stole an away win. Nearly."
Match 11 – House Freeborn vs House Spencer
Home Ground: Crater Fields (Spencer's choice)
Final Score: Freeborn – 219 | Spencer – 176
Elric: "Dominance. That's a 43-point margin, away from home."
Myra: "Freeborn didn't just win. They dismantled Spencer's tactics. That's championship-tier material."
The lights dimmed briefly above the Dome of Accord, indicating the final match had concluded for the day.
Rion exhaled deeply, satisfied. "Well, day one ends with more blood spilled than I expected. See you for the away match. Later."
Rion left, Liam's eyes, however, remained locked on the slowly fading terrain illusion above the arena — the Carter Field was dissolving.
Something was still gnawing at him.
Not the losses. Not the scores.
But the sense… that this tournament wasn't what it appeared to be.