Second-Week Evaluations (Part 9)
"Ah, Ethan."
Ethan let out a heavy sigh as he watched Lana approach, her left shoulder wrapped tightly in a cast.
"...Did Demian do that to you?"
"Yeah... we collided pretty hard. But, well... the uniform cushioned most of the impact."
"You've got it backward," Ethan retorted. "You took that much damage despite wearing the uniform."
"...Ugh."
No one else truly understood what had transpired out on the field. Only Lana knew the full truth of those moments.
"Anyway," Ethan pressed, leaning in closer, "what on earth was written on that note?"
It was the note Junon had slipped to Ethan, which Ethan had then passed on to Lana. It undoubtedly carried Junon's intentions, holding the reason why both Demian and Junon—who by all rights should have faced severe disciplinary action—were now standing on the arena stage once more.
"Nngh... my head's still spinning, honestly."
"Then just take it slow and tell me from the beginning."
"..."
Lana darted her head left and right, ensuring no eavesdroppers were lurking nearby, before cautiously opening her mouth.
"I... I really was about to surrender. And it's true that Demian grabbed my arm to stop me."
"What?!"
"Ethan, keep your voice down! Shh, shh...!"
Her testimony would have decisively vindicated Junon while exposing Demian for letting malice taint the match. And yet, look at what had actually happened.
"All you had to do was tell the evaluators that," Ethan whispered, his brow furrowing. "Did Teacher tell you to keep quiet?"
"...Yeah."
"Why the hell would he do that?"
"I just told you, that's why my head is spinning! From the note, it was obvious Teacher already knew everything. He just asked me to cooperate so the match could proceed as scheduled. That was it."
"Ha... I don't get him at all."
Her testimony alone was more than enough to seal Demian's punishment. Just as Lana had confessed, Ethan now found himself mired in utter confusion.
Why on earth?
Both shared the exact same question. Why had Junon orchestrated things so Demian could slip past disciplinary action? And why had he inserted himself into an Ace Match that was never part of the plan?
"...Could it be revenge?"
"Revenge?"
"I mean, getting back at him on your behalf. If what you said is true, Demian blatantly crossed the line during your duel. Maybe he couldn't stand seeing such vile behavior go unanswered?"
"Come on, you know Teacher better than that. Whenever someone causes trouble, he usually just brushes it off with that deadpan look of his."
"I know. But Lana... have you ever seen Teacher look like that before?"
"Give me a break. What kind of look could he possibly—"
Prompted by Ethan's words, Lana shifted her gaze toward Junon. He stood utterly motionless. His vision was locked in an unwavering line straight at Demian, who was loosening up across the ring.
Junon—who had always carried himself with an air of lethargic boredom, never showing a shred of ambition—was staring at Demian with eyes fierce enough to bore a hole straight through him.
"Is it just my imagination? Teacher looks... genuinely furious."
"So you see it too, right?"
Only the two of them, having received his personal instruction, could recognize the signs: Junon was truly enraged.
"Looks like the match is starting anyway," Ethan murmured. "Whatever his reasons are... he'll probably show us in the ring."
Lana nodded in silent agreement.
The preparation interval ticked down, and the suspended match finally resumed. With Junon's unexpected entry as the second seed of the Ace Match, everything was set in motion.
Fweeet!
The piercing whistle signaled the opening of the second round.
"Man, even I didn't see this coming. Talk about lucky, huh?"
Demian knew full well that the severity of his penalty would have hinged on Lana's testimony. Escaping scot-free, however, was beyond his wildest expectations. And so he convinced himself of a conclusion that stroked his ego.
"Guess they really don't bother listening to trash, huh? Well, seeing how they're propping me up even in a place like this, I guess it makes sense. Heh."
He believed that because he was stronger than Lana, the strong naturally sided with the strong. And sending a weakling like Junon up onto the stage was simply handing the victor an easy sacrifice. It wasn't luck at all. Everything was flowing according to the order of strength. Demian basked in the supreme conviction that the world was bending around him in accordance with the law of the jungle.
"What're you gonna do? You barged in like a hero, yet the world still took my side. People crave real talent. They're drawn to the strong. That whole 'hard work' crap you used to preach is utterly worthless."
Once, back when they were classmates, he had believed those words—that hard work would yield results.
"In that sense, Junon, I actually have one thing to thank you for. My utterly mediocre self was only reborn after getting expelled from Revrant."
Those days were long dead. Demian no longer cared for the memory of who he had been.
"The very day I was kicked out of Revrant, I seized the chance granted to me. I grabbed hold of that power without letting go."
From the moment he awakened to new strength, the past ceased to matter. Standing at last in the realm of the strong, his perspective had shifted entirely.
"And you know what changed after that? You bastards look like nothing more than ants crawling underfoot! Hard to believe, huh? Pwahaha! You might not believe it, but it's the goddamn truth—because you guys are just pathetic weaklings!"
His vantage point had transformed; the angle at which he looked down upon others was different now. The scenery changed, and the value of every moving thing warped in his eyes. Power had wrought a monumental shift in him.
"The weak get weeded out. Now I finally get what's so damn fun about trampling things weaker than me. This is the ultimate truth! Power is the only unchanging law of this world!"
Flaunting his might, Demian raised a hand and clenched it into a tight fist.
"So being weak is just inevitable. That trash you've been teaching isn't wrong for being weaker than me. It's not a crime! I can understand that much! That's why, Junon, I was gonna be generous and leave you with a nice little lesson on opportunism, you know?"
A smug grin had stretched across his lips until now, fueled by his twisted pride. But suddenly, the boastful smirk vanished, replaced by an ugly scowl.
"Except there's one thing I can't forgive, regardless of strength or opportunities."
Infusing his clenched fist with mana, Demian took a deliberate step toward Junon.
"Lady Renias... she might smile at everyone, but she does not belong with some pathetic weakling. She's a jewel that a piece of trash like you—barking absurd orders and trying to use his own comrades as shields—should never be allowed to touch."
Step by step, he advanced at a creeping pace, slowing until he stopped near the center of the ring.
"And you had the nerve to exploit Lady Renias's kindness for yourself?"
Mana clung stickily over Demian's entire body. Judging by the sheer volume, even an unarmed strike coated in that aura would pack the concussive force of a heavy bludgeon. Dropping into a ready stance, he looked poised to spring at any second.
"That's a sin! It's a goddamn sin, you bastard!"
He surged forward, closing the distance in an instant. Though it was only a handful of strides, the mana fueling his legs propelled him before Junon in the blink of an eye.
"Lady Renias belongs with someone like me, not a nobody like you!"
A heavy, mana-laden punch whistled toward Junon.
Whoosh!
The strike cleaved through empty air. There was no sensation of flesh connecting beneath his knuckles. Instead—
Thwack!
Junon ducked with fluid grace and drove a roundhouse kick straight into Demian's abdomen. Barely managing to concentrate mana into his stomach to blunt the blow, Demian staggered back two paces, his eyes wide with shock.
"What the...?"
Demian couldn't even begin to comprehend what had just happened.
Back at the ruins, Ronelion stared at Denise as she enjoyed a brief tea time, his voice laced with pure astonishment.
"Spell... Break? You mean shattering magic?"
"Exactly. The technique you described broke the magic circle itself, so there's really no other way to explain it."
Ronelion had recounted every detail of what he had witnessed—Junon's movements and the exact flow of his mana. The conclusion derived from that report was this.
"It's a brilliant counter, isn't it? What do you think happens when you force foreign mana into the Alpeid Line, the very core of a formula's activation?"
"...The magic circle collapses," Ronelion murmured. "No matter how firmly the Gammut or Deltis lines hold the framework, or how much the Betrine Line balances firepower and stability."
"On top of that, most humans inject mana from the outside in for the sake of stability when casting. You could call it a brilliant inversion of that very principle. Hence: a clean Spell Break. Simple, isn't it?"
Ronelion still wore a dazed expression, looking as though he couldn't quite accept that such a thing was even feasible.
"Do you not understand the concept of shattering a spell? I thought someone like you would grasp the theory in a heartbeat."
"No, Auntie. I fully understand the theory you just explained."
"Then why the face?"
"...I'm just wondering if that's even humanly possible."
And he had every reason to doubt it. From a common-sense standpoint, who would ever attempt such a tactic, let alone believe it? It was a procedure far more perilous and demanding than Reverse Calculation.
To any caster, constructing a magic circle was the most critical part of the art: circle preparation, mana injection, formula initialization, and spell deployment. Unless casting only the most rudimentary spells, these steps were unavoidable. And the more intricate the magic, the more convoluted the steps became, demanding considerable time.
"I can sympathize with that reaction," Denise mused, "but Junon was already practically complete before I even met him."
"Excuse me?"
"Anti-Cast. You've heard of it, haven't you?"
"If you mean Anti-Cast..."
An ultra-close-range technique that injected mana into an opponent's spell circle to twist and destroy their circuits. Just hearing about its ridiculous execution difficulty had made him wonder what kind of lunatic could have ever conceived it.
"Junon is the one who created it."
"Pardon?!"
Ronelion's jaw dropped.
"Even if our Principality mages try to learn it right now, there's no way they can apply it immediately," Denise continued. "It demands monstrous concentration and an impossibly delicate process. Unless you possess near-flawless mana control, you can't even dream of pulling it off."
Just as she said, it was not something ordinary folk could replicate. The footwork alone was daunting, and anyone trying to force it would only scramble their own mana. Most would throw a tantrum and toss it aside, crying that it was impossible. Anyone who had ever attempted Anti-Cast could foresee that outcome.
And yet, he was the creator?
Wondering if he had misunderstood, Ronelion pressed further.
"...How does it compare to what Uncle Muniherr was developing?"
Disrupting an opponent's mana circuits was a technique effective not only against humans, but demonic beasts as well. Ronelion was aware that Muniherr had been researching a similar concept.
"A comparison... well, I probably shouldn't say this out loud, but even making the comparison is an insult to Junon."
Because that was a style made exclusively for Junon. Charging head-on through brambles and vines without caring in the least about glancing blows. Slipping through attacks with razor-thin margins and executing the optimal counter. It was a combat philosophy diametrically opposed to someone whose unique magic was Mana Shield.
"Well, it's not strictly impossible to counter, but how many third-years do you think could handle it? Even including veteran soldiers, you could count them on one hand."
"...Then Senior Junon is practically the natural predator of heavy-artillery sorcerers."
"You're missing the point, Ronelion. Didn't you hear me earlier? It works on beasts too. And that technique isn't even his only weapon."
"Ah!"
Understanding finally dawned on Ronelion's face.
"Right. He mastered close-quarters martial arts—eliminating his only possible vulnerability."
Only then did Denise take a satisfied sip of her tea, looking thoroughly pleased.
Whoosh!
"Guh?!"
Junon hooked his leg around Demian's arm like a scythe as the boy swung his Magic Armament, utilizing the rotational momentum from his rush to fling him bodily to the side.
Skrrk!
Demian's boots screeched against the arena floor as he skidded to a halt. Though he had been thrown back, he had sustained no real physical injury; wrapping oneself in mana could mitigate almost any blunt trauma. Yet an uneasy sensation gnawed at Demian—the terrifying realization that he was being entirely outmatched.
"What the hell is this guy... what is he...?!"
His attacks simply would not land. No matter how thick he coated his strikes in mana, he couldn't even graze the edge of Junon's collar.
And yet Junon merely continued to advance, his pitch-black eyes fixed unblinkingly on Demian as he closed the distance, step by measured step.