More than two weeks had passed since James downloaded the Debate Mastery Package into his brain.
The knowledge had sunk in like slow-drip espresso strong, smooth, and dangerously addictive.
Since then, he'd been walking around campus with a new kind of confidence.
Professors nodded at him.
Classmates watched him like he was a boss character hiding in a hoodie.
And now, finally, the real test was here.
"James! You ready?" Professor Franklin called from the curb outside Midbridge's east campus.
James tightened the straps on his duffel bag and rolled his suitcase toward her. "As ready as someone going into intellectual combat can be."
"Good. Because this isn't just a panel of sleepy professors. You'll be up against Ivy kids who treat rhetorical dominance like a birthright."
"Even better," James said. "I speak fluent ego."
The train ride to D.C. was the easy part.
From there, they hopped a flight across the country, landing in LAX under a bright Californian sun that mocked the sleeplessness of their red-eye.
Hours later, they arrived at the sprawling competition venue a modern university campus nested in downtown Los Angeles.
Palms swayed in the breeze, and everything smelled slightly overpriced organic coffee.
James walked into the main building and registered at the front desk.
"Name?" the staffer asked, not looking up.
"James Rivera. Midbridge University."
She typed quickly. "You're all set. Solo division, correct?"
"Yup. Just me, myself, and my overdeveloped sense of vengeance."
She blinked. "Right. Well... welcome. Orientation starts in 30. Room A104."
James nodded, grabbed his welcome packet, and turned toward the hall.
He didn't get far before hearing the delightful hum of nonsense.
A pair of students in sleek blazers were already engaged in what they clearly believed was sophisticated conversation.
"I just think realism is outdated. Constructivism offers a more nuanced lens on state identity," said the first, twirling a pen like it was a magic wand.
"But that's ignoring neoclassical realism, especially in the context of regional hegemon stability," the second one shot back.
James leaned against the wall, trying not to laugh.
"You're both wrong," a third student chimed in. "The entire debate is obsolete in post-structural critique."
"Post-structural critique?" James muttered under his breath. "That's just saying 'We don't know anything' in academic cosplay."
Another pair walked by, arguing loudly.
"Did you see the Harvard guy's prelim outline? He's starting with Rousseau and ending with intersectional energy policy."
"That's not a debate, that's a book proposal," James said to himself.
He made his way toward Room A104.
Inside, the seating was set up auditorium-style, with name tags laid out.
Mames found his, right next to a seat labeled "Clara Wu - Columbia."
He slid in and got comfortable.
After a few minutes of murmured chatter and pretentious name-dropping, a sharply dressed man in a gray blazer walked onto the podium.
He adjusted the mic.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome to the 34th Annual Interstate Academic Debate Championship. My name is Darren Mitchell, and I'm your competition director. Let's get started with orientation."
The room quieted.
Mitchell clasped his hands. "First, congratulations. You've all been selected to represent your institutions. That alone speaks volumes. But now? Now it's time to prove it."
He stepped forward, speaking clearly.
"This is a solo competition. No teams, no partners, no lifelines. Just you, your brain, and how well you can use it under pressure."
James grinned.
Now we're talking.
"Each round, two participants will go head-to-head. One assigned the 'Pro' side, the other 'Con.' You'll debate a given motion with 15 minutes of prep."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
James whispered to the guy next to him, "Fifteen minutes? That's a nap."
Mitchell continued. "Speeches are as follows: Opening Statements – 5 minutes per speaker. Rebuttal – 3 minutes each. Closing Arguments – 2 minutes. After which, you will be scored by a panel of three judges."
A hand shot up. "Will the topics be distributed ahead of time?"
"No," Mitchell replied. "You'll draw topics randomly each round. This ensures spontaneity and tests your true depth of knowledge."
Someone in the back groaned audibly.
"Another question," a girl asked. "Can we cite sources on the fly?"
"Absolutely. In fact, it's encouraged. But keep them relevant. Quoting Machiavelli to justify cryptocurrency policy won't win you points."
James chuckled. "Unless it's clever."
"The motions will cover geopolitics, economics, sociology, international relations, domestic policy, and cultural theory. Be prepared for both grounded topics and abstract prompts."
James's fingers twitched with anticipation.
This was his domain.
His playground.
Mitchell raised a hand. "Now, scoring. Each judge scores on five metrics: Argument Depth, Clarity, Rhetorical Skill, Rebuttal Strength, and Poise. Each category is worth ten points. The top eight scorers from prelims advance to quarterfinals."
Another student asked, "Are there any style restrictions?"
"No. Debate your way. You want to stand still and speak like a judge? Go ahead. You want to gesture and pace? Be my guest. Just don't mime your opponent getting dunked on. Yes, that happened last year. No, we're not naming names."
The room laughed.
James loved this guy already.
"One last thing," Mitchell said. "Respect your opponent. You can challenge their ideas. You can dismantle their logic. But no ad hominems, no personal jabs, and absolutely no flexing your GPA mid-sentence."
James raised his hand. "What if I flex my student loans instead?"
Mitchell grinned. "Relatable. Proceed."
The session wrapped up, and participants shuffled out.
James stayed back a moment, letting the rest file out.
Professor Franklin found him by the door.
"Thoughts?"
James smirked. "I've seen high school TikToks with more substance than half these guys' takes. This is gonna be fun."
"Don't get cocky. Remember, half these kids were bred for this."
"And I was raised on Reddit debates, Webnovels, and arguing with microwave instructions. I was forged in nonsense. I'm built for this."
Franklin sighed. "God help California."
James stepped out of the room, stretched, and cracked his knuckles.
It had officially begun.
And he couldn't wait to start breaking the curve.