Paragon of Skills

chapter 237

Marcel stares at the floating magical letters above the arena, and a slow, vicious smile spreads across his face. He can hardly believe his luck. To get this matchup so early in the end-of-semester tournament is a gift from the heavens. He turns back to Lancelot and Cecilia, his chest puffed out with sheer arrogance.

“Well, well. It seems the universe wants to right a wrong today,” Marcel sneers. “I am going to absolutely destroy him. I'm going to show this entire Academy what a fraud the Leader of Champion really is. He got lucky during our first encounter because I underestimated him. But no more. Today, I'll destroy him.”

Vyrrak ignores Marcel’s boasting, his reptilian eyes scanning the crowded corridors and the packed stands beyond. Cecilia nervously tugs at her sleeve, looking up at the Dragonkin.

“Where is he?” she asks curiously, not crying anymore.

She has a lot of trust in Jacob Cloud--the way he spoke to Baal means, to her, that he must be very strong himself.

Marcel catches the question and scoffs loudly.

“Hiding, obviously! He knows he won't be able to do anything against me. He's just trying to delay the inevitable so he doesn't lose face in front of the whole school.”

Marcel gestures broadly toward the arena.

“He's hiding just like the rest of the so-called Champions. Cowards, all of them! Terrified because the Dark Champions are coming, and they know they're entirely outmatched!”

Not giving Vyrrak or Lancelot a chance to retort, Marcel spins on his heel and strides confidently out of the corridor and into the blinding light of the central arena. The crowd murmurs as he steps onto the dueling grounds. Marcel raises both hands high, soaking in the attention.

“Behold!” he projects his voice with Mana, making it echo across the stadium. “I am about to destroy the false Leader of Champions! Watch closely, for today, a new Leader of Champions will emerge from the rubble of his defeat!”

Having moved to some other empty seats with Lancelot and Cecilia, Vyrrak crosses his arms and frowns down at the empty side of the arena. The referee is already checking his pocket watch.

Is he going to make it in time? Vyrrak wonders, his tail twitching in slight irritation. Is he even here? Or is he waiting until the last possible second to make some sort of dramatic, cool appearance to annoy everyone?

Yet, what happens is that a man who barely anyone noticed removes his large hat and starts walking toward the arena.

Down in the lower rows, seated among the regular students where absolutely no one was paying him any attention, a figure sighs. The man slowly reaches up, grabs the brim of a comically large, wide-brimmed traveler's hat, and pulls it off. He stands up from the wooden bench and begins casually making his way down the stairs toward the arena floor.

As he steps past the boundary runes and onto the stone floor of the arena, he casually undoes the clasp at his neck. He sheds the large, tattered brown cloak that had been hiding his frame, letting it fall onto the ground. Underneath, pinned over his chest, a bright, intricately woven golden emblem catches the sunlight, gleaming for the entire stadium to see.

There's an Infernal servant who's traveled following Queen Matriarch Maelthra and now sits in the normal stands who frowns. He's a big history buff.

“Wait...” he says, making a few people turn as he points at the man walking toward the arena. “That's... that's Baalrek the Mad's insignia!”

Everyone knows of the association between Baalrek the Mad and the Leader of Champions, Jacob Cloud.

Thousands of heads snap toward the casually walking figure, finally recognizing the face beneath the messy hair. Up in the stands, Vyrrak lets out a long, suffering sigh and drags a scaly hand down his face, facepalming hard.

“By the Ancestors,” Vyrrak groans. “Was he just sitting there hiding in the crowd this entire time?”

Marcel watches Jacob approach, his confident sneer firmly in place.

“Cousin,” Marcel calls out, his voice dripping with condescension as he snickers. “I see you finally managed to scrape together enough courage to come down here and receive your beating like a man!”

Jacob doesn't look angry, or intimidated, or even particularly interested. He looks completely calm. He takes another step forward in his standard Academy robes. Then, with a sharp metallic clack, pieces of gleaming Platinum armor snap into existence around his body, materializing from thin air to lock perfectly over his vitals.

Marcel's sneer falters into a momentary frown at the display of high-tier magic, but he quickly recovers.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Nice trick,” Marcel mocks. “But it won't save you. I have become the absolute strongest Shield among the First-years in this Academy! You have no chance of ever even getting close to me, let alone breaking my defenses!”

Jacob doesn't argue and offers Marcel a small, almost pitying smile, before turning his gaze away from his opponent entirely, looking up at the massive crowd filling the stadium seats.

There's something else that caught the Leader of Champions' attention. Well, a bunch of other discussions, to be precise.

“Look at them... only Vyrrak, Filr'etk, and Jacob showed their faces today,” a student shouts. “The rest of the Champions really are cowards! They're terrified of the Dark Champions!”

Hearing this, Jacob suddenly enriches his vocal cords with a massive surge of Mana. He throws his head back and laughs out loud, a deep, resonant sound that booms like thunder across the entire Academy grounds, rattling the very stands.

“Cowards?” Jacob’s magically amplified voice echoes with absolute authority. “Let them hide. Vyrrak and I are more than enough for whatever Dark Champion is foolish enough to step foot in this Academy and face us! Today, we'll show the Academy what the real Generation of Legends is capable of!”

Marcel glares, furious that his moment is being stolen. “Keep bragging, you arrogant fool! You won't even make it past the first round!”

Jacob finally looks back at Marcel, his eyes dropping to the bristly, regrowing hair on the noble's head. “If you want, Marcel, I can shave you again. Honestly, the bald look suited you better.”

Marcel’s face contorts with rage. He laughs, a harsh, almost mad sound. “Shave me? If you can shatter even one of my shields today, I will carve my own scalp off!”

“Your hair is going to be enough,” Jacob says calmly. “In fact, go ahead and use your absolute best shield. I’ll shatter it in one hit. And if I don't, I'll shave my own head right here. What do you say, are you up for the same bet? Or are you afraid of losing?”

“Deal!” Marcel roars, his aura exploding outward. He immediately begins weaving complex magic, summoning his best Skill and placing it in front of himself. The air warps and crystallizes as a massive, heavy, three-layered shield of pure, condensed magical energy forms around him, locking perfectly into place. It’s a flawless fortress—a technique so dense and stable that not even his prodigious older twin brother, Cassian, could break it in a short amount of time.

Jacob looks at the towering, multi-layered bastion of magic. Slowly, he shifts his feet.

Suddenly, a wave of blistering heat washes over the front rows of the crowd. The ambient temperature in the arena spikes dramatically as Jacob pulls his right arm back, assuming a bare-handed punching stance.

Murmurs of utter confusion erupt from the crowd.

“He's unarmed!”

“Has he lost his mind?!”

“How does he even think he can destroy the shield like that?”

Marcel snickers.

Are you truly that stupid?! You're not even going to draw your swords? Come then, fool! Break your hand on my wall! He's so happy that Jacob has apparently lost his mind--wherever he's been spending his time must have truly done his head in. This Skill would give trouble to a Peak Diamond Ranked expert. Rabble like you can do nothing. First, I'll shave your stupid head, second, I'll take yours and your whore mother's scalp!

***

Time seems to slow down. In Jacob's vision, the Grimoire overlays the world in new lights, symbols, a bunch of descriptions that he had never seen before.

Right in the dead center of Marcel's impenetrable, three-layered shield, there's a pulsating red circle, which indicates a catastrophic structural weakness.

Such a flaw wouldn't have even registered to me a few months ago, Jacob thinks.

Absorbing the Star Metal hadn't just changed his physical constitution or bumped up his stats. By permanently altering his talent, the Star Metal had fundamentally shifted the baseline of his existence. It had made him so vastly, overwhelmingly stronger that the Grimoire’s perception of what constituted a “flaw” in an opponent's defense had completely changed.

I am not you, Vyrrak, but look what my body can withstand right now.

Jacob exhales a breath of superheated air.

Thanks for showing me this,

Roaring, crimson flames instantly engulf his drawn-back fist. He steps forward and punches the barrier.

***

Behind the three layers of magic, Marcel smirks. The punch looks entirely mundane. He doesn't feel any overwhelming surge of pressure or world-ending Mana crashing against his walls.

But then... a sound like shattering glass rings out.

Marcel blinks then groans.

For a second, everything seemingly went black.

What the hell? Wait, is that... the sky?

He brings a shaking hand to his face, feeling something warm. When he pulls his fingers away, they are coated in a thick layer of his own blood.

He blinks again.

Slowly, trembling, Marcel pushes himself up into a sitting position.

His ears are ringing continuously. “W—what happened?” Marcel stammers, his voice barely a croak as his eyes dart wildly around the unfamiliar viewpoint beneath the stands.

He touches his face again, noting that something's off.

“My... my eyebrows!” There's a smell of burnt chicken and his eyebrows are gone. Panicking, he brings a hand to his hard-earned regrowing hairline.

It's completely smooth.

“NOOO!”

An Academy official, holding a clipboard and looking mildly annoyed, steps into his blurry field of vision.

“You lost,” the official says dryly. “You either need to go see the Healers in the medical wing or go take a seat in the stands, but you cannot stay down here on the floor.”

Bedazzled and swaying slightly, Marcel looks back toward the distant ring. Up in the stands, completely unharmed and looking utterly bored, is Jacob. He is already standing beside Vyrrak and Lancelot, casually resting a hand on top of that crippled commoner girl’s head, ruffling her hair affectionately while she beams up at him.

Marcel drops his gaze to his own body. His expensive armor is bent and scorched.

“What... happened?” Marcel asks the empty air, completely broken.