Rivals' Tense Alliance
Even so, group exams were a bit... “...” “...” “...” “...”
The Continental Academy's gardening club subroom. There, four men sat in silence, staring at each other. Their identities were, predictably, from left to right: Kalligo, Flam, Portus, and Rel.
They'd formed an alliance against Abel less than a day ago, only for them to shatter it among themselves. They still saw each other as rivals and competed fiercely, but circumstance had awkwardly thrown them into the same group. That's why they'd gathered here—to discuss the practical exam, at least.
Other students often saw them hanging out together, given their impressive backgrounds. Witnesses even claimed they'd gotten close enough to joke around and laugh. But that was from afar. The truth was only clear up close. And right now was exactly that.
They sat together, but none had any intention of warm conversation. The smiling and chatting they did outside was all for show—to prove they weren't on bad terms. Even those in the most arrogant positions had to act like model students getting along, warning others not to stir up needless trouble. They all knew weird rumors would fly if things got awkward.
Of course, sitting there with seats ready but mouths shut was pretty foolish too. Like it or not, they were a group now, and this was for the exam. Time to get started.
“First off, since we're in the same group, let's share our thoughts on how to approach this.”
Rel spoke up first. No surprise from the prime minister's son—he was used to these situations. Though he claimed zero interest in politics and preferred the life of an ability user.
“What's there to it? We take first place. Done.”
Flam leaned back, propping his head with interlaced fingers, acting like it was no big deal.
Right on cue, as always—like thread following a needle—Portus clicked his tongue and jumped in.
“Pyromaniac, it's not that simple.”
“What're you talking about? What's simpler than this?”
Portus let out a heavy sigh and patted Flam's shoulder. Comfort? Hardly. It was pure teasing—the kind of thing guys do when wondering how to handle their idiot friend.
“What do you take the professors for? Washed-up has-beens? I hope not. Our seniors survived the massive ability user wars that no longer happen. Real deal veterans. I've told you a million times to fix that hotheaded attitude of yours.”
“Who said anything? I just...”
“That's not what Portus means, so calm down, Flam.”
Kalligo tapped the table lightly to continue.
“The professors put the four of us in one group. To other students, that seems blatantly unfair. No matter how you slice it, the heavy hitters are all together.”
“Yeah, there was a ton of talk behind the scenes, even if not outright.”
“But here's what bothers me. Why us four? Group tests usually pit groups against each other, but stacking one group like this?”
Finally sensing something off, Flam furrowed his brow in thought. Portus had caught on earlier and was scanning the others, while Rel focused on Kalligo's next words.
“So my conclusion is this: This practical exam, the first-year group test, ranks groups by scores—but the real competition is against your own teammates.”
“...”
“...”
A sharp, plausible prediction. Highly likely hypothesis.
As soon as Kalligo finished, the four men began quietly sizing each other up. Like the hush before a massive brawl.
Yes. The calm before the storm.
“I agree with Lord Kalligo's prediction. But excessive checking or hostility isn't wise. The professors might have accounted for that in their assignments.”
“I think so too. Internal rivalry or not, it's still a group test. If we go too hard against each other...”
“A clear warning that nothing good comes from it.”
The Continental Academy lived up to its name. The professors too. A reminder they were never to be underestimated.
Age had slowed them, weakened their abilities naturally. They might seem past their prime, but survival meant strength.
Then why couldn't they stop the Supremacists' raids or that not-quite-terror attack from the revivalists?
Just that one head-scratcher kept them from seeming perfect.
* * *
“...That's their prediction, Lord Abel.”
“Sharp deduction.”
After a training session, during a break, Seria delivered astonishing news. The group test pitted groups against each other and teammates internally. That's why they'd bundled them this way—balancing levels, gaps, social status, and prestige!
Suddenly armed with this intel, Abel thanked Seria. She was used to hard labor from childhood, even earned the academy nickname of training demon. Still, he knew blindly charging ahead was inefficient.
It wasn't leaked info—just a reasonable hypothesis from observation and doubt. Easy to accept.
“But Seria, how'd you find out?”
“This? Well...”
Her trailing off told Abel the answer already.
“Did those four come to you personally?”
“Yeah...”
“And maybe they took turns, swearing you to secrecy from the other three? Insisting you credit them?”
“You predicted that too? Spot on.”
Aigoo. These guys. These idiots. How'd they all think so alike?
Even funnier: Each probably thought, 'He'll keep quiet! I'll tell Seria first and score some points!'
“I said it was fine, really? But they practically forced me to listen...”
“Understood. I know you're not the type to fish for info.”
More importantly, if the quartet was right and it turned into teammate rivalry—what format would the test take? How would they rank groups and score individuals?
“Something to worry about?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whatever it is, we'll ace it.”
Seria gave a troubled smile at Irshu and Tarshu's confident cheers. Grateful, sure. But preparation was key with a prediction in hand.
“Maybe since it's four, they split 2v2 for sparring?”
“Hmm. Possible, Seria, but not very. If that's the plan, they'd make groups of two.”
“Ah... true.”
Discussing, Abel recalled his group and the quartet's. Extending to other first-years, he snapped his fingers.
“Lord Abel?”
“Figured something out?”
“Figured something out!”
“Not certain, but yeah.”
Groups of four. Seemed perfect for splitting. But 2v2 needed balance. No group felt balanced that way. 1v1 would be easier to equalize. So not 2v2.
“I'm our close-range. You handle mid-range now, Seria. Irshu and Tarshu, both long-range pros.”
“Right?”
“Yep.”
“Agreed.”
“Kalligo's group too: Rel close, him mid, Flam and Portus long. Others roughly match.”
Seria gasped an ah. She'd caught on.
“No way—three versus one?”
“How effectively the three suppress, how long the one holds. Teams win by teammates covering strengths and weaknesses. Professors' big picture to teach that upfront.”
Why the principal called this academy a mini-society. Ability users rarely acted solo. They meshed for peak efficiency—as one group, one team.
Beating foes needed synergy, born from deep understanding.
“Then the one would be...”
“Me, high odds.”
“So we three duchesses versus you, Lord Abel?”
“Probably.”
Not bad. Close-rangers learn to handle mid/long. Mid/long learn to counter close more effectively.
“Rehearsal time, then?”
“Yep. Rehearsal.”
Suddenly, Irshu and Tarshu dropped weird lines. Abel and Seria paused to listen.
“Irshu, Tarshu, and Seria. Same team.”
“Opposite: Abel solo. Not just exam.”
“Bed too.”
“That's rehearsal.”
“...?”
Misheard? No.
“Take care, Seria.”
“Let's make it work later, all three.”
“W-what are you two saying?!”