Paragon of Skills

Chapter 239

The sky over the Academy is still bruised with the purple and gray hues of false dawn.

Vyrrak goes into the common dorm where most people are still sleeping, and reaches Jacob’s bunk bed. He’s planning to wake the Leader of Champions before the rest of the Citadel stirs.

He turns the corner but the bed is empty.

The sheets perfectly made and untouched.

Frowning, Vyrrak turns back and makes his way outside. The cold morning air of Ytrial makes him flinch for a half a second before his aura warms him up.

He steps into the sprawling training courtyard. There, sitting perfectly still on the dew-covered grass, is Jacob. He has his legs crossed in deep meditation. A strange, hazy steam rises from his skin, and it makes the Dragonkin frown.

As Vyrrak takes a step closer, the pebbles crunching under his weight, the steam instantly dissipates, sucked back into Jacob’s pores.

Jacob opens his eyes, the remnants of a deep glow fade from his pupils.

“What was that?” Vyrrak asks, his draconic eyes narrowing as he studies his friend’s strangely unbothered expression.

Jacob exhales a long breath and slowly stretches his neck. “A Skill,” he replies vaguely, offering nothing more. “How come you’re up so early? Nervous before the trial?”

Vyrrak crosses his arms, his expression growing grim.

“I’m not here because of that,” Vyrrak says, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve got very bad news.”

Jacob’s calm demeanor shifts slightly. He pauses mid-stretch and looks up.

“What is it?”

“Orrivane just sent word,” Vyrrak explains, his jaw tightening. “He received a report from some of his more reliable contacts in the shadows of the Citadel. Apparently, many first-year students have already been turned to the Dark Champions’ side.”

Jacob’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, genuine surprise flashing across his face before his analytical mind takes over.

He nods slowly, piecing the puzzle together. “It makes sense,” he murmurs. “Aside from the two of us, the rest of the Champions are hiding in preparation. We left a vacuum.”

He rubs his chin, thinking out loud. “They’re pushing hard to recruit as many people as possible right now, before the duels even start. If we end up losing the tournament, the resulting blow to our morale would cause a domino effect. Even more students would flock to the Dark Champions’ side out of fear.”

“Not just that,” Jacob adds, his eyes hardening. “The ones they’ve already converted won’t just sit on the sidelines. They’ll actively try to mess with us during the rest of the tournament.”

Vyrrak gives a sharp nod of agreement.

“That’s what I was thinking. Nimirea is too smart to sit idle. She probably figured out that something is going on with the sudden disappearances of so many Champions, and she has moved to exploit this exact opening.”

“She knows me,” Jacob says, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. “Nimirea probably suspects that the other Champions being absent is my doing. And since she can’t get to them, she wants to hurt the Academy and our foundation as much as possible while we are supposedly vulnerable.”

Jacob looks back toward the training grounds, his mind already racing ahead.

“As you said, Vyrrak, she wants a critical mass. She’s building an army of converted students so that when the tournament arrives, she can deal us a definitive death blow from all sides.”

Vyrrak exhales, a puff of smoke leaving his nostrils.

“This complicates everything. It makes things much harder. What are we going to do about it, Jacob? I think we messed up.”

Jacob simply shakes his head. He rises from the grass in one smooth motion and casually dusts the morning dew off his trousers.

“No,” Jacob says, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “All it means is that we must win this next Trial, and we must leave a big impression on everybody. I’ll just have to make sure I win and, well, showboat a bit.”

* * *

Not all students at the Academy are Champions destined for greatness. Not all of them possess world-shattering Rainbow Skills or bloodlines that can crush mountains. Some are incredibly unremarkable. Some are not remarkable at all.

Garros Blackmere falls strictly into the latter category. He is the youngest son of the prestigious Blackmere Family, the elite nobles sworn to protect the Royals of Seredain, the Capital of Light.

Unlike his older brothers, who have been groomed since birth and received private instruction from the absolute best masters their family’s vast wealth could afford, Garros has been left entirely to fend for himself.

To his father, Garros’s talent was simply too low to justify investing any real resources, time, or expectations into him.

Yet, the baseline of the Blackmere blood is nothing to scoff at. His meager talent was still high enough to grant him entry into the Academy and push him to Early Platinum Rank.

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That, unfortunately, is exactly where his combat potential currently flatlines. It is a very, very unremarkable level of power, especially when placed next to the absolute monsters that walk the halls as Champions.

Garros sits huddled on one of the cold stone benches in the massive arena, shivering. He got here hours before the sun fully rose, terrified that if he arrived any later, he’d be pushed to the back or lose his mind entirely in the chaos of the tournament crowds.

He looks down at his hands. By sheer, unadulterated luck, all of his opponents in the previous matches had been surprisingly weak. That fluke of the draw had allowed him to cheese his way through the first phase of the tournament unscathed.

Yet, the dread pooling in his stomach reminds him that luck always runs out. He knows with absolute certainty that he stands no chance in the second phase.

The chilling morning wind of Ytrial bites through his cloak, making him shive againr. Sitting there in the cold, Garros thinks that maybe this was all a massive mistake. Coming to the Academy, trying to prove himself to a family that had already discarded him—it was foolish.

Maybe, as his father had callously suggested years ago, he should have just become a cleric or taken up some quiet, administrative role far away from the battlefield.

Slowly, the arena begins to wake up. Garros watches as the massive gates open and people start to stream in, filling the grandstands, taking seats here and there as the noise of thousands of conversations blends into a low roar.

Through the sea of students, his eyes catch the distinctive figures of two Champions making their way through the grounds: King Vyrrak Skarathys, towering and intimidating, and beside him, Jacob Cloud.

Garros stares at Jacob. He still wonders how on earth Jacob Cloud—a seemingly normal human with no legendary background—was able to showcase such terrifying, overwhelming strength in his duel against Marcel Valemont, shattering the noble's seemingly impenetrable multi-layered magical shield with his bare hands.

Garros knows unequivocally that Jacob is much stronger than he could ever hope to be. Yet, strangely, as someone who knows the bitter taste of weakness, Garros actually feels bad for him.

He watches Jacob and thinks that, deep down, the Fake Champion is probably just like him—a nobody who simply got incredibly, unbelievably lucky somewhere along the line to end up where he is.

But Garros also knows the harsh reality of the world: extreme luck always demands a steep price, and when it turns, it turns devastatingly bad.

Thinking about the inevitable fall that awaits someone relying purely on a random, yet massive stroke of luck, Garros subconsciously looks at the sword at his side.

The noise of the crowd dies instantly as the Headmaster steps to the edge of the VIP box. His voice resonates, magnified by magic, reaching every corner of the stadium.

“The first phase tested your individual capabilities,” the Headmaster announces, his gaze sweeping over the students. “The second phase will test something else entirely.”

He raises a hand, and the arena floor glows with complex runes.

“You will be paired,” he says. “Based on my own pickings, you will form two-man teams. You will then be transported into a parallel dimension, a pocket world teeming with beasts. Your objective is simple: kill as many monsters as possible.”

“The team with the highest secures a little prize,” the Headmaster continues slyly with a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “The people who remain standing at the end and do not give up will pass to the next phase.”

The Headmaster makes a small pause.

“However, there is a catch. Your team score is not the sum of your kills.”

He pauses, letting the words hang in the air.

“It is the product. The score of Fighter A will be multiplied by the score of Fighter B. That will be your total.”

Garros freezes. The math hits him instantly.

If one person kills a hundred monsters and the other kills zero, the total score is zero.

He realizes with a sinking feeling what this means: the final score isn't about carrying a weak teammate. It will be decided by how close in power the two teammates are. A balanced team of average fighters could easily outscore a team with one Champion and one insect.

His heart sinks. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is going to be a massive burden on whomever he is assigned to.

He tries to comfort himself. The Headmaster is fair. He will probably be paired with another unremarkable student, someone exactly around his own pathetic level so they can at least get a non-zero score.

That’s comforting, Garros nods to himself.

The massive crystal display above the arena flickers to life.

“First Pair,” the Headmaster’s voice booms.

[Vyrrak Skarathys] - [The Sacrifice]

Garros blinks. That is... terrifying.

Vyrrak and The Sacrifice. The strongest Dragonkin and the monster who toyed with a Minotaur Prince.

Garros thinks that those are most likely the two strongest people in the entire year. Pairing them together basically guarantees they will take first place.

I really hope I won’t meet them. I suspect students like them might try and go after other students to thin out the competition and have more monsters to kill.

He watches as Vyrrak descends from the stands, heavy and imposing. From the other side, The Sacrifice glides down in his azure robes.

They enter the arena and stand side by side. They do not look at each other. They do not speak. They just radiate a pressure that makes the air shimmer.

The announcements continue, names blurring together in Garros’s anxious mind until the Headmaster’s voice cuts through his panic like a knife.

“Next Pair,” the Headmaster announces.

[Jacob Cloud]

Garros holds his breath.

[Garros Blackmere]

The air is physically knocked out of his lungs.

He stares at the board. He is going to be coupled with none other than the Leader of Champions.

Around him, the arena erupts into confused whispers. Heads swivel, students and nobles alike muttering to each other.

“Garros Blackmere? Who is that?”

“Is he a hidden expert?”

“I’ve never heard of him. Why is he with Jacob Cloud?”

The confusion is palpable. No one knows who he is.

Panic seizes Garros’s mind. His legs tremble. He seriously contemplates just standing up and sprinting for the nearest exit, fleeing the Academy entirely.

But before he can move a muscle, a voice echoes directly inside his mind, crisp and authoritative.

“Get in the arena, Garros Blackmere,” the Headmaster’s voice says, audible to his ear and his ear only. “Don’t make the Leader of Champions wait.”

A grim thought crosses Garros’s mind. Is the Headmaster actively trying to sabotage Jacob Cloud? Is he anchoring him to the weakest student in the year to force a loss?

Thoroughly depressed and resigned to his humiliating fate, Garros slowly stands up.

The sudden movement startles the cluster of students around him, all of whom reel back in surprise, having completely failed to realize they had been sitting right next to the “Garros Blackmere” the entire time.