Week Two Evaluation (3)
"Winner, Junon!"
The referee's victory flag snapped through the air, pointing straight at me.
As soon as the match concluded, I offered a brief nod of courtesy, turned on my heel, and walked back to my seat. Now came the feedback.
My Mana Shield was bound to fade away sooner or later. That was precisely why I had decided to run this little experiment: to see how far I could push a fight without ever deploying it.
It doesn't seem impossible after all.
It demanded a heavy expenditure of mana, sure, but my circumstances were entirely different from the past. Back then, I had relied so blindly on my Unique Magic that even with plenty of mana to spare, I hadn't known the first thing about proper manipulation. And once we were tossed onto the battlefield, there was never any time to hit the books.
What about now?
Even if my Mana Shield vanished tomorrow, I had a plan. If an opponent came at me with spellcraft, I could counter it just as I had today. And unlike my previous life, where a plain shield was all I had to my name, I now possessed an offensive weapon: Magic Armament.
Good. This will be more than enough.
All in all, the result was quite satisfying.
"Contender Junon? Aren't you stepping onto the platform?"
"Huh?"
Right, individual matches started with a round-robin league. There were still plenty of bouts left on the schedule. But come to think of it... did I really need to participate in every single one?
"Contender Junon? That hand signal... are you serious?"
"Yes. I forfeit."
Lana and Ethan were already riding high in their own matches, which meant my score as their instructor was already plenty high. Besides, there was no telling what sort of bonus points might pop up tomorrow. If I went out of my way to pile up high marks here, I might end up assigned to the same class as the Tembris crew—and that would be a massive headache.
No thanks. Better to just take an easy forfeit and keep a low profile.
At that moment, however, I had no idea. I didn't realize that doing this would draw far more eyes than winning ever could.
Junon's first duel was over.
Without granting his opponent a sliver of an opening, he had simply closed the distance with measured, steady strides and dismantled him. It had been an utterly flawless triumph.
Watching him walk away, the crowd buzzed with confusion, whispering among themselves. Just what on earth did he do?
Unable to fathom what had just occurred, most spectators blinked in disbelief, rubbing their eyes as if to clear a trick of the light. Some factions went so far as to shout for an inspection, demanding he be searched for illicit items or illegal artifacts.
The chief referee overseeing the ring stepped forward to address the commotion.
"The match was conducted strictly within the rules. No infractions occurred."
A single, crisp declaration from the official put the dispute to rest. Junon's performance had been so clean that not a single flaw could be picked at.
Of course! As if my senior would ever resort to petty tricks!
The corners of Renias's lips curled upward. Even though it wasn't her own victory, she couldn't help hitching her shoulders in proud satisfaction. That was how precious this triumph was to her, and how deeply it delighted her heart.
Why was she so overjoyed? Because as had always been the case, none of Junon's real achievements had ever been made public.
The checkpoint crisis, where lower-ranked students had nearly run amok.
The rescue of his classmates during the end-of-term evaluation.
The clandestine infiltration of Count Coutelli's estate.
None of those incidents had left behind clear physical evidence, nor could they be publicly proven. Yet Renias knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Junon had been at the very heart of all three.
It had always grated on her to see him constantly undervalued. While his reputation had improved slightly of late, the lingering prejudice against him was something she refused to let slide. Every time the waters seemed to calm, some ugly rumor or sour relationship would drag his name through the mud again, clinging to him like a swarm of leeches.
Yet today, the chance had finally arrived—the opportunity to tear every last one of those unfair labels away for good.
Just keep going like this, Senior.
Having been the very first to recognize his true worth, Renias cheered him on with a heart soaring on pure excitement.
Unfortunately, that excitement didn't last.
"...forfeit."
"...Huh?"
Had she misheard?
Did he just say he was forfeiting?
No, that couldn't be right. There was no way.
The match hadn't even begun, so why would he forfeit? He had just started off on such brilliant footing—why would he throw it away with his own hands?
Right. My... my ears are just playing tricks on me.
Renias shook her head firmly, convinced she had heard wrong.
Yet even if her ears had deceived her, her eyes could not.
The upperclassman she had been cheering for with all her heart stood up from his bench, making his intention to forfeit unmistakably clear. The chief and assistant referees exchanged nods, accepted his concession, and marked the victory and defeat counts on the tournament bracket.
"Why? Why would he...?"
She wanted nothing more than to sprint down to the ring and demand an explanation.
"Senior... what are you doing...?"
Unable to comprehend such a baffling choice, Renias shot up from her seat. Then, desperation crept in, driving her to deny the reality before her eyes. Could this be another one of his calculated plans?
"Right. Maybe he's doing this on purpose...?"
He had done something similar before. Back then, Junon had told her that intervening would only get in Uncle Muniherr's way.
Is this... another strategy to avoid revealing his hand?
Yes. That had to be it. He wouldn't do it next time. He was definitely going to step forward and fight in the next round.
Clinging to the belief that some profound rationale must lie behind his withdrawal, Renias waited in a daze for the next matchup to be called.
And yet...
"I forfeit."
"..."
Once again, Junon rose from his seat and raised a casual hand.
From that moment on, time inside the arena seemed to slip by with unnatural speed.
"I forfeit."
"Yes, another forfeit."
"Forfeit—"
"For—"
"..."
Aside from his very first match, he forfeited every single one.
Why... why on earth?
He possessed more than enough skill. It was a stage where that talent could have elevated him into the spotlight for the entire world to see.
Victory. Recognition. Praise. Respect. Awe.
Here at the Faction War, where he could have seized all of those honors, he reached for none of them. Instead, he systematically laid them down, one by one.
"Why would you do that...?"
An indescribable prickle stung the corners of her eyes. Her voice grew thick and damp with unshed tears. An arid, hollow ache, like a sudden drought parching her chest, blossomed within her and radiated through every limb.
His character. His disposition. His capability.
Junon lacked for nothing. He was a person who rightfully deserved every privilege and honor that had been denied to him for so long. All Renias had dreamed of seeing was Junon standing tall, acknowledged and celebrated by all. And now, with that moment just a single step away, watching him cast those rights aside with his own hands multiplied her heartache tenfold.
Watching him turn his back on it all, returning to his seat as if none of it mattered... it was simply too agonizing to bear.
Her hands clenched so tightly that the fabric of her dress bunched into a wrinkled mess, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Unable to watch the rest of the matches unfold, Renias turned and hurried away, abandoning her seat before the event could conclude.
"Dummy... Senior is such a dummy..."
Thoroughly upset, she pressed her trembling lips together into a sharp, tight line. A heavy, suffocating pressure clogged her chest, and an intense thirst suddenly seized her—a desperate urge to wash away this bitter ache.
She fled the arena.
Passing through the waiting lounge, she crossed the main entrance and slipped through the open doors of the adjacent hall, ascending the staircase toward the upper floor.
"Lady Renias? The Faction War isn't over yet, what brings you—"
"Maria. Please wait downstairs for a moment."
"...Understood, my lady. Please call for me if you need anything."
"..."
What she needed right now wasn't company. It was liquor to drown this suffocating thirst.
"Ha, too easy."
The Faction War matches had wrapped up for the day.
Unlike the laughably dull midterm evaluation, a few bastards had actually come at him with real grit this time, but none had proved a match for his crew. Even if the tournament spanned two full days rather than one, an overwhelming disparity in raw power was more than enough to crush the opposition's will to fight. Riding that momentum, Demian had gleefully pulverized every single opponent placed before him in the individual bracket.
Undefeated. The Mirpark faction's victory was virtually carved in stone.
"Still, left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth."
Junon.
He hadn't been able to fight that bastard. Tournament regulations stated that participants registered under a Rhodes School banner could not easily cross brackets to duel Lebrant Academy students due to the perceived gap in standards. As a result, Demian had been matched strictly with the same crowd he'd seen during the midterms, and even on that front, things hadn't gone according to script.
"Who would've guessed both the brats he trained would get knocked out so soon?"
Lana and Ethan had put up a respectable fight, but that was where their run ended. The top seeds from the league rounds advanced straight to the tournament stage, where their weaknesses were quickly mapped out, sending them packing in the round of sixteen and quarterfinals respectively.
"Useless weaklings. How am I supposed to finish my mission if they crash out like that?"
The thought of the earful he was bound to receive from the Mirpark Rhodes School headmaster made his brow furrow in irritation. But the scowl vanished almost as quickly as it had formed.
"Doesn't matter. I'm the main character today anyway."
Demian checked his reflection in a mirror, adjusting his collar. Satisfied with his appearance, he puffed out his chest with smug arrogance and strutted up the stairs.
Though the Faction War was still ongoing, a small social gathering was traditionally held to foster mutual respect and networking among the institutions. After all, what was a party for? At its core, it was an excuse to celebrate and mingle. In a setting like this, striking up conversations and getting close to people was only natural.
Rumor had it that the Gem of Lebrant, Renias, was in attendance tonight.
And now, he had confirmed it with his own eyes.
Oh, oh...!
Her sheer presence was on an entirely different plane. She truly was a woman who shone like a living jewel.
Demian swallowed hard. In the past, he wouldn't have even dared approach her from this distance.
But I'm different now.
He had seized the championship in the individual matches, standing as the undisputed strongest among all contestants registered under a Rhodes School. And didn't women naturally gravitate toward power? Convinced that the empty seat beside Renias was practically made for him, Demian strode forward with heavy, confident steps.
"Tsk. Why are there so many damn people?"
He had closed the distance, but the crowd was thick. Not that it mattered.
"Whoa! What's your problem?!"
"What, punk? Got a complaint?"
"..."
How dare these nobodies block his path to Renias? Demian shoved his way through the cluster of bodies with his forearms, carving out a path by sheer force. The people gathered here were merely other tournament contestants; facing Demian's brutal physical strength, they had no choice but to swallow their grievances and back away in silence.
With a slimy smirk plastered across his face, Demian finally reached the table where Renias sat.
She's even gorgeous up close.
She would make an unmatched bride. Now that he was here, the next step was obvious: establish ownership, stake his claim, and shoo the onlookers away. Still, with so many eyes watching, he couldn't afford to cause an overt scene. A careless blunder could blow this golden opportunity entirely. He needed to stage the interaction with just enough finesse that anyone watching would find it perfectly natural.
Just then, a peculiar scent drifted past his nose.
Sniff, sniff.
Wait... is that alcohol?
It wasn't a puddle of spilled wine nearby. The pungent aroma was rolling off a person sitting right in front of him. And as for who was closest...
"Mmh..."
Having downed an absurd amount of liquor, Renias was softly dozing off, her head nodding gently.
Aha. Is that how it is? This... just made things a whole lot easier.
Demian cleared his throat with an exaggerated cough. Even the strong needed decorum. A man carrying the polish of a gentleman was infinitely more charming than an uncouth brute, after all. If he played his cards right, this breathtaking woman might just open her eyes to his hidden charms before the night was through.
"My, my. Looks like someone needs an escort home. Wouldn't you all agree?"
Silence hung heavy in the air.
His sleazy intentions were transparent to anyone with half a brain, yet not a single soul spoke up. More accurately, none of them dared to interfere. They had just watched Demian shove people aside like ragdolls, and no one had the spine to cross him. If only there were someone present who could reign him in—but unfortunately, the absence of any high-ranking figures only fueled the crowd's passive bystander syndrome.
In a fight, none of them stood a chance.
During today's individual tournament, Demian had pulverized every single opponent with such savage cruelty that several contestants had surrendered on the spot just to save their own skins. Demian never let up until his target hit the dirt, relentlessly beating them until they lost consciousness. The chief referee had been forced to rush into the ring multiple times, shouting at him to pull his punches.
Everyone in this room knew the battered, bloody states in which his opponents had been carried out on stretchers. Preventing that vile hand from tarnishing the academy's idol was an impossible task for them.
None of them could shoulder the retaliation that would follow.
Except...
Clack.
"Where do you think that hand is going?"
"What the—who's the suicidal bastard—"
Someone had stepped forward, treating any threat of retaliation as absolute garbage.
That filth-laden hand was arrested midair, unable to advance an inch closer to Renias.
"Ugh! Let go, you bastard! Let go of me! You wanna die?!"
The power Demian had received from the Holy Emperor was not merely a surge of raw mana; it had also radically reinforced his physical vessel. Under the conviction that no ordinary grip could hold him, Demian braced his muscles, fully expecting to rip his arm free through sheer brute force.
Yet before he could twist, his other arm was seized just as effortlessly. In an instant, both of his arms were wrenched behind his back and locked into an iron pin, rendering his upper torso completely immobile.
He flailed like an upturned beetle for a fraction of a second before being hurled violently backward.
A heavy boot print was planted squarely between his shoulder blades, and Demian went sailing across the room, smashing into a banquet table before tumbling violently across the carpeted floor.
Crash!
The table collapsed under his weight. Platters of food flipped into the air, while glassware and drinks shattered in a cacophony of breaking crystal. Coated in sauces and wine, rolling across the ruined carpet, Demian looked like an absolute wreck.
His vision flushed scarlet with instant fury.
"You son of a bitch... you got a death wish?! You want me to turn you into a bloody pulp?!"
"A guy reaching for a drunk girl's waist seems a lot more desperate for an early grave."
"What...?"
That infuriatingly familiar voice finally registered.
Propping himself up on the stained carpet with one trembling hand, Demian glared with bloodshot eyes at the figure who had just sent him flying.
Beneath the radiant glow of the chandelier, strands of pitch-black hair caught the light.
"Junon...!"
The veins in Demian's neck bulged with murderous rage.
The man he hated more than anyone in the world was looking down at him with cold, impassive eyes.