Paragon of Skills

Chapter 240

Garros places one heavy foot in front of the other, each step feeling like a march toward his own execution. He keeps his head down, shoulders hunched up to his ears as if trying to physically disappear inside his own collar.

He tries desperately not to look at the sea of faces in the stands, but the sheer weight of their gazes presses against his skin.

He navigates the sands of the arena floor, moving toward the isolated figure of Jacob Cloud.

The distance feels infinite.

A heavy, confused silence hangs over the stadium, broken only by ripples of murmurs of concern.

Garros risks a single, terrified glance upward and sees the reflection of his own despair in the faces of the students.

Noone’s cheering.

They look stunned, some even pitying.

It is the look one gives to a lamb thrown into a den of wolves.

The lack of hostility hurts worse than booing would have; at least booing implies you are worth hating.

The logic spirals in Garros’s head, tightening his chest.

The Dark Champions are here, monsters in human skin, and the Academy’s greatest hope—the Leader of Champions—has been shackled to me.

A loss here wouldn't just be embarrassing; it would be a catastrophe for the entire Academy’s morale.

Garros knows the rumors; people say Jacob isn’t that strong, that he’s a “Fake Champion.”

But strangely, that’s exactly why Garros has always quietly rooted for him.

In a world of bloodline monsters and arrogant nobles, the idea that a commoner, a Bastard with no background, could rise to the top was the only thing that made Garros feel like the world wasn't completely rigged.

But now, reality crashes down on that hope.

The Headmaster is a being of supreme logic and strategy.

He wouldn't throw a match—and all the other pairings were roughly at the same level.

If he paired Jacob with Garros—the lowest of the low, the bottom of the barrel—it can only mean one thing.

It’s the damning confirmation of all the rumors.

Jacob’s real talent must be terrible.

He must be just barely scraping by, just like Garros.

He finally reaches the designated spot. He stops, staring at his own boots, waiting for the sigh of disappointment, the scoff, the anger.

“Nice to meet you,” a voice says.

It’s calm. Friendly, even.

Garros flinches. “N-nice to meet you,” he mumbles, the words dying in his throat, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. He can’t lift his eyes. He can’t look at the man whose future he is about to ruin. Alone, Jacob might have had a chance to scrape a passing grade. With Garros as dead weight? They are doomed.

Seconds tick by. Garros braces himself. He waits for the shift in tone, the moment the reality sets in for Jacob.

He expects a clenched fist, a tightened jaw, a whisper of “why me?”

Any other student, any other Champion, would be furious.

They would be demanding a re-draw, screaming at the injustice of being paired with a liability.

Yet the silence from the man beside him isn’t heavy.

It’s strangely... light.

Confusion overrides his terror for a split second. Garros slowly lifts his head, sneaking a glance sideways. Jacob Cloud is looking at him.

And he is smiling.

It’s not a mocking smile, nor a polite, frozen grimace of social obligation. It’s a genuine, relaxed smile.

He doesn’t know, Garros realizes with a jolt of horror. He has absolutely no idea. He thinks I’m a normal student or that I’m talented! He thinks I can fight! Oh no!

Garros swallows the lump in his throat. He has to tell him. It would be cruel to let him find out when a monster is trying to eat them. He turns fully, and for the first time, he really sees Jacob. Up close, the Leader of Champions is taller than he looks from the stands, with a presence that feels weirdly imposing.

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Garros forces himself to meet those calm eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, his voice trembling but distinct. “I’m only at Early Platinum Rank. I... I don’t think we’ll be able to do much together.”

Jacob’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens slightly.

“Oh,” Jacob says lightly. “I think it’s going to be just enough. Levels-wise, I’m only Intermediate Platinum Rank.”

Garros stares at him.

Does he think I’m stupid?

Levels haven't meant anything here.

Everyone saw what Jacob did to Marcel Valemont.

Jacob might be “Intermediate Platinum” on paper, but his fighting power is that of a monster at Late or Peak Diamond Rank.

But that’s the problem.

The other Champions—the even bigger monsters like Vyrrak or the Dark Champions—they aren't just Peak Diamond. By now, they probably have one foot in True Diamond, or are already wielding the full might of True Diamond!

“I can’t fight that well,” Garros insists, desperation creeping into his voice. “I have barely a handful of Skills, my affinities are weak, and...”

He trails off. Jacob isn’t listening to the excuses. He’s just nodding along, looking at the arena gates like he’s waiting for a bus.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jacob interrupts, his voice breezy. “We’ll win.”

Garros blinks. The confidence is delusional. It has to be.

“You think we can actually pass to the next stage?” Garros asks, frowning.

Jacob turns his head, locking eyes with Garros. The playfulness is still there, but there is steel behind it now.

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say pass,” Jacob corrects him. “I said we’ll win.”

* * *

Vyrrak crosses his massive arms, his tail twitching anxiously behind him. His eyes aren't on his opponents, or the crowd. They are fixed on the other side of the arena line-up. He is worried for Jacob.

He glances to his own side.

The Sacrifice stands there, still as a statue, looking perfectly human and perfectly terrifying. They haven't exchanged a single word. They haven't even looked at each other.

But Vyrrak’s draconic instincts are screaming. This man—this “Blood of the Devils”—is a calamity. He might be stronger than Vyrrak himself.

With a partner like this, victory is almost a foregone conclusion. They are two juggernauts.

They will crush anything the dimension throws at them.

But that’s not what gnaws at Vyrrak. He looks back at Jacob. The kid standing next to him is trembling.

Vyrrak has memorized the dossiers of every significant fighter in the first year.

He has never seen this boy before.

A nobody.

A complete unknown.

And by the way he’s standing, he’s terrified.

Vyrrak shifts his gaze to the VIP box, to the impassive figure of the Headmaster. What are you thinking, Grandfather? Vyrrak wonders. Why would you mess with Jacob like this?

The magical amplification booms through the arena again, cutting through Vyrrak’s thoughts. The pairing is finished. The Headmaster steps forward to deliver the verdict of their immediate future.

“You will remain in the pocket dimension for seventy-two hours,” the Headmaster announces. “Your goal is to eliminate as many threats as you can.”

Massive, burning letters manifest in the air above the arena, visible to all.

[Trial Scoring System]

Base Points by Rank:

Platinum Monsters: Early (1), Intermediate (2), Advanced (3), Peak (5)Diamond Monsters: Early (10), Intermediate (20), Advanced (30), Peak (50)True Diamond Monsters: Early (100), Intermediate (200), Advanced (300), Peak (500)Status Multipliers:

Normal Monster: 1 Point (x1)Elite Monster: 50 Points (x50)Boss Monster: 1000 Points (x1000)Vyrrak’s eyes narrow at the numbers. The gap is massive. You could kill an army of normal beasts and still lose to a team that takes down a single Boss.

“If you are knocked unconscious, or sustain injuries from monsters deemed critical by the spells I’ve set up, you will be forcibly ejected and disqualified,” the Headmaster continues. “The monsters can, and will, try to kill you. However...” His voice drops an octave, turning colder than the void. “You are strictly forbidden from killing one another. The penalty is death. And if such a killing is found to be politically motivated, the penalty is war.”

Vyrrak nods solemnly. It is the only rule that keeps the Academy standing.

Without it, the feuds of the Great Races and the noble houses would turn these hallways into a slaughterhouse within a week.

The Academy is a sanctuary of neutrality; if that breaks, the world breaks.

“The dimension you are entering is known as the Forest of Eclipsia,” the Headmaster says, raising his hand. Runes appear on the floor of the arena and start to spin violently. “Begin.”

* * *

The world twists, colors bleeding into a tunnel of light, and then snaps back into focus with jarring suddenness.

The light here is dim, filtered through a canopy of purple and black leaves that seem to drink the sunlight.

Garros stumbles, his boots sinking into soft, mossy earth. He looks around wildly, disoriented, panic already rising in his throat.

“Watch out,” Jacob says.

There is a blur of motion. Jacob steps in front of Garros, his movement casual, almost lazy. A silver flash arcs through the air.

Thud.

Two halves of a massive beast hit the ground on either side of Garros. He stares down, eyes bulging. It is a jaguar, black as a void, its claws still extended.

A floating tag fades into view above the carcass.

[Blackmoon Jaguar - Level 300].

Garros’s breath hitches. An Intermediate Platinum Rank beast. He hadn't even seen it. If Jacob hadn't moved, he would have been dead within a second of arrival.

He looks up from the corpse to Jacob. Floating above Jacob’s head, a number ticks upward.

[Points: 2 - Rank #87]

Jacob flicks the blood off his sword and looks back at Garros with that same calm smile.

“One down,” Jacob says.

Garros looks at the pitiful score—two measly points—then at the forest that is undoubtedly filled with things even worse than the jaguar.

How the hell are we going to win?