Paragon of Skills

Chapter 241

A second Blackmoon Jaguar circles Garros and the black fur looks as if it's swallowing the light around them. It's a mighty, all-encompassing presence in this pocket dimension for Garros, despite the jaguar only being at Intermediate Diamond Rank.

Garros tightens his grip on his sword, his knuckles turning white, but the weapon feels too heavy, too useless in his hands. His legs are trembling so violently he can barely hold a proper stance.

I’m going to die here, he thinks, the terrifying certainty washing over him. I’m not strong enough for this. He barely has a moment to process the thought before the monster's muscles bunch and it launches itself through the air, a blur of fangs and claws aimed straight for his throat.

“Help!” Garros shrieks, his voice cracking as the beast descends upon him. He squeezes his eyes shut, expecting the agonizing tear of claws. “Step right,” Jacob’s voice comes from the sidelines, calm and entirely unbothered. Garros doesn't think; he just throws his weight to the right in a desperate panic. His boots tangle together in the uneven dirt, and he trips, falling hard. The Blackmoon Jaguar thankfully sails past him. The razor-sharp claws nick the fabric of his uniform and miss his skin by a hair.

“Jacob! Do something!” Garros screams, scrambling backward as the jaguar recovers its footing and snarls, whipping around to lunge again.

Jacob remains standing nearby, his arms crossed, watching the scene unfold without lifting a finger.

Forced to survive, Garros wildly rolls away from a crushing paw strike and manages to bring his blade up to parry the next flurry of attacks. The clash of claws against steel sends a jarring shockwave up his arms. The monster’s physical strength is simply overwhelming. Garros starts backpedaling as fast as he can, his boots kicking up dirt, his breathing turning into panicked, shallow gasps as the beast relentlessly presses its advantage.

“Keep your center of gravity low. Use its momentum against it,” Jacob suggests in a conversational tone.

But Garros is deaf to the advice. His heart is hammering in his ears like a war drum, and the sheer terror of the giant, shadowy beast snapping at his face eclipses everything else. He swings his sword blindly, driven by pure instinct and absolute dread.

***

High above the roaring crowds, in the opulent silence of the VIP box, the hooded man sits at the very front edge. He stares into one of the massive, floating mirrors projecting the pocket dimensions for the audience. He watches Jacob standing idly while the terrified student fights for his life.

The Headmaster’s master shakes his head slowly, letting out a disappointed sigh.

“You punished that Jacob Cloud,” he tells the Headmaster, leaning back in his chair. “Putting him with such a burden.”

Queen Matriarch Maelthra watches the mirror with a cold sneer on her elegant face. “Jacob Cloud is an insect anyway,” Maelthra says, her voice dripping with venom. “This spectacle just proves my point. He can’t do anything if there’s not a real Champion beside him to carry his weight. Left with a weakling, his true colors are showing.”

The heavy doors to the VIP box slide open without a sound. Someone walks through, their footsteps completely silent.

“I am sorry for the intrusion,” a soft, resonant voice says.

Maelthra frowns, turning her head. She sees a woman entering. She has striking white hair that falls like spun moonlight and pale, almost translucent white irises. She emits absolutely zero presence; magically, she feels like a ghost. But Queen Matriarch Maelthra’s eyes narrow. She knows exactly who this woman is.

“Stella Aerodromos,” the Headmaster says, adjusting his golden spectacles. For once, the gold-spectacled man genuinely looks surprised. “I didn’t expect someone from Asterion’s tribe to come here. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The woman glides forward, her steps so light she appears to be walking on air itself. She offers a serene smile to the Headmaster.

“The Academy furthers the battle against Asmodeus,” Stella Aerodromos says, her voice carrying a haunting echo. “And the Tribe of Stars, as usual, wishes to observe the future of this war.”

Maelthra’s lip curls. She has always despised the high and mighty Highbloods, with their lofty ideals and untouchable attitudes.

“Blood of Aster, Blood of Monsters,” Maelthra spits, not bothering to hide her disdain. “I always find it fascinating that those who descend from the creation of Asmodeus always talk so grandly about destroying him—yet, you never managed to do that. My people have come closer to ending him than you ever did.”

Stella Aerodromos doesn’t flinch. Her white eyes lock onto the Infernal Queen.

“Among those who managed something like that,” Stella says peacefully, “you would need to count the courageous Baalrek, Queen Maelthra. And from what I hear from my kin, your people are still intent on burying his real history. I suspect that is because he served the Academy, while Infernals have historically kept separate from it. In a way, once you remove Baalrek the Bold from the equation, you might say that in recent times your people have been more aligned with the God of Monsters than we ever did.”

A suffocating tension instantly floods the VIP box. Several Royals and a few Vice Principals balk, their breaths catching in their throats. To accuse the reigning Queen Matriarch of the Infernals of being aligned with Asmodeus is not just an insult—it’s the kind of slight that warrants a brutal, generations-long blood feud.

Maelthra’s aura flares instinctively, the temperature in the room spiking. Yet, she hesitates. Her claws dig into her palms, but she doesn't respond. She knows the reputation of the Tribe of Stars, and she knows the unfathomable strength of the woman standing in front of her. If they clashed here, Maelthra is genuinely not sure she could take her.

The heavy silence is suddenly broken by a raspy, dry cackle. The hooded figure sitting at the front slaps his knee in amusement, the sound startling everyone in the room, and slowly gets to his feet.

Stella Aerodromos turns her head. The moment her white eyes fall upon the hooded figure, her serene demeanor shatters. She immediately bows her head, dropping fluidly to her knees in an expression of absolute reverence.

“Milord,” Stella whispers, her voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t know you were present—”

“No one knows me here, Stella,” the hooded man interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “Please, rise. Let’s not make a scene. We are just here to watch a bunch of youngsters fighting in this tournament. It is a pity, though, that the boy from your tribe isn’t here to showcase his talents.”

Stella rises gracefully and turns her gaze back to the giant mirror reflecting the pocket dimension.

“He has all his faith in that young man there,” Stella Aerodromos says, pointing a slender finger at the glass.

The nobles in the box follow her gaze. For a moment, everyone wonders who she might be talking about.

Is it Vyrrak? The Dragonkin King is Asterion’s peer, a fellow member of the Three Great Races. It would only make sense.

Yet, as they trace the line of her finger, they realize she is pointing directly at the projection of Jacob Cloud.

***

Garros lets out a final, tearing scream and squeezes his eyes shut, crossing his arms over his face as the Blackmoon Jaguar lunges for the killing blow. He waits for the pain, knowing his end is finally here.

Instead, a warm, wet weight splashes violently across his face and chest. He opens his eyes in shock just in time to see the decapitated body of the monster slump into the dirt. Jacob is standing beside him, King Baalrek’s silver sword casually lowered, the blade completely clean.

He's not ready, Jacob thinks.

Garros falls to his hands and knees, wheezing. He breathes harshly, greedily pulling air into his burning lungs. Then, adrenaline and sheer panic override his fear. He scrambles to his feet, his face red underneath the monster's blood.

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“Were you trying to get me killed?!” Garros shouts, waving his arms frantically. He is completely beside himself. “Are you insane?!”

Jacob looks at him, perfectly calm, resting the sword on his shoulder.

“I know you could have killed the monster, Garros,” Jacob says evenly. “I was just trying to direct you so you could do it yourself. We need your points to win.”

“I could have killed it?!” Garros shrieks, his voice echoing in the eerie quiet of the forest. “You must be completely insane! I almost died because of you! It was inches away from my throat!”

Garros steps forward to yell more, but then he suddenly freezes. The anger drains out of him in a single, cold rush as reality catches up. He recoils, stumbling back a step. He has just been screaming at Jacob Cloud. The Leader of Champions. A man who shattered a noble's magical barrier with his bare hands. Someone infinitely stronger than him.

All the fight leaves Garros’s body. He deflates entirely and collapses onto a splintered log that the jaguar had torn up during its charge. He drops his sword into the dirt and buries his face in his hands.

“I know we’re going to lose it all,” Garros mutters, his voice thick with despair. “Because of me. There’s no way for me to amount to anything good. I’m just a burden.”

He braces himself. He expects Jacob to shout at him, to berate him for his cowardice and for his disrespectful outburst. He deserves it.

Instead, there is a soft rustle of fabric. Jacob sits down on the log right beside him. The Leader of Champions exhales a long breath and casually joins his hands, resting them on his knees.

“I don't worry about that. I worry that the Dark Champions are coming,” Jacob reveals in a quiet, low voice.

Garros peeks out from behind his hands.

“I know,” he whispers miserably. “Everyone’s terrified.”

Jacob looks out into the shadowy trees of the pocket dimension.

“They’re not just coming to attack us, Garros. They are going to try and take away as many students as possible. They want to turn them to their side.”

Garros drops his hands completely, his eyes going wide. “Turn them?”

He didn't get an offer. What a fool you are, Nimirea.

“The God of Monsters, Asmodeus, wants to tear all the races apart,” Jacob explains, his tone grave. “He wants to reduce everything to chaos and make this a land of monsters. Ultimately, that is the goal of the Dark Champions as well. They want to recruit from our despair.”

Garros feels his stomach sinking like a stone in a bottomless well. He looks at Jacob, understanding the true weight of this trial. Now that Jacob is stuck with a useless coward like him, they are going to lose. And by making Jacob lose, Garros realizes he might be an active part of why the Academy's morale breaks, why the Dark Champions will triumph.

He is going to be the reason everything falls apart.

But then, a firm, warm hand claps onto his shoulder. Garros flinches, looking up.

“Tell me something about yourself, Garros,” Jacob asks gently.

Garros blinks, thoroughly confused by the sudden shift in topic. Why does Jacob want to talk about him right now? But, given the situation and the fact that Jacob just saved his life, Garros simply nods and agrees.

“I… my family,” Garros starts, his voice hesitant. “The Blackmere Family has always produced incredibly strong warriors. We’ve had several Champions in our history. The last one was my fourth oldest brother. He graduated five years ago and is now in the employ of Seredain, the Capital of Light. They’re sworn to fight against the God of Shadows.”

Garros looks down at his boots.

“In a way, my family is even more powerful than the Royals of Seredain. It’s because the greatest hero in our history, Stark Blackmere, the Hero of Light, wielded a Skill so powerful that it allowed him to kill the God of Shadows and banish him for a long time. He brought one thousand years of prosperity to Seredain, and they didn’t have to deal with the Undead hordes anymore.

“Because of that, because of Stark Blackmere,” Garros explains, his voice growing bitter, “every heir in the family is held to the absolute highest standard. But I… I don’t have any particular talent. I just have a decent sense of how to wield a sword and okay physicality. That’s it. I’ve always struggled compared to the geniuses of my brothers and cousins. Everyone in the Blackmere Family gets ruthlessly compared to Stark Blackmere. The family is just hoping and praying to one day spawn another heir capable of killing the God of Shadows once and for all.”

He kicks at the dirt.

“I’m the youngest of five. Once it was revealed that my Class was common and I had no special talents, they just cast me aside. I was never considered a serious candidate to become a Sword of Seredain—that’s the official title for the ones in my Family who lead the warriors against the Undead.”

Garros swallows the lump in his throat, the shame burning hot in his chest.

“Being this weak… I’ve always been a burden on my entire family. A disappointment. Honestly, sometimes… I wish I was not even alive.”

Jacob listens in silence. Then, to Garros’s absolute shock, Jacob lets out a short laugh and tilts his head back to look at the murky, artificial sky of the dimension.

Garros’s face flashes hot with anger. His sadness instantly morphs into indignation.

“Do you find this funny?!” Garros snaps, glaring at Jacob.

“I do,” Jacob says, still smiling up at the sky. “Because everything was completely stacked against you, apparently. Your family rejected you, you have no resources, and you supposedly want to die. Yet, despite you saying that you want to kill yourself… you’re here.”

Garros frowns deeply, completely lost.

“What do you mean, I’m here?”

Jacob turns his gaze back down to meet Garros’s eyes.

“I mean, you’re here. Entering this Academy is incredibly hard. It takes a terrifying amount of willpower. Especially when you have to do it without resources. Especially without a single person who ever believed in you at any point in your life. Trust me, Garros, I know that feeling very well.”

***

Outside the pocket dimension, the massive mirrors are not just displaying images. For some unexplained reason, the quiet conversation between the two boys is being weirdly broadcasted with crystal-clear audio to the entire arena, without either Jacob or Garros knowing it.

King Skaernex Skarathys is sitting under a disguise spell, away from the VIP box. He has not intention of being held hostage by his father for the duration of the tournament. He’ll keep showing up at the dinners that are being set up by him, but nothing more. He knows that his father loves to joke about him in the presence of others—and being a terrifying King with a reputation to maintain and no way to kill the most terrifying being in existence beside Gods, he has no choice but not to show up today in the VIP box.

Most importantly, he’s very absorbed in what’s happening. From here, the old man’s schemes are even clearer than up there.

Skaernex shifts his gaze away from the mirror and looks around the stands.

He sees many of the visiting royals and high-ranking nobles scoffing at Garros’s confession, rolling their eyes, probably thinking the boy is just a whining burden and a stain on his prestigious family. But the vast majority of the people gathered in the Academy’s stands, contrary to how Skaernex himself would have recruited, are not of noble blood.

His father has always sent his goons—the Vice Principals and everyone below them, with no exception for Rank and position—to recruit in far-off lands, on their travels, scraping the bottom of the barrel to find the greatest hidden talents among peasants and people whose lives amounted to nothing.

Once again, the old bastard might have done it, King Skaernex thinks, looking at Jacob Cloud talking to Garros Blackmere, then looking at the students all around him.

Of all students who are not of noble nor grand blood—the commoners, the bastards, the orphans—are now staring with their eyes fully locked onto the projection of Jacob Cloud and Garros Blackmere.

Skaernex notices that the mirror displaying them has been subtly magnified, slowly growing until it is essentially ten times the size of every other screen in the arena, cloaked with a little illusion spell to alter their perception as to not make it too obvious. It's a spell so powerful, there's probably a handful of people even the VIP box who'll notice.

King Skaernex feels something in his heart when he sees the students’ fists clenched tight in their laps. A few of them have hot tears of frustration pricking their eyes, tears they are completely forgetting to wipe away, so deeply engrossed are they in Garros’s pain and Jacob’s words.

The old bastard is doing it again, Skaernex thinks, shaking his head. What a devious, devious mind.

***

“It was hard!” Garros suddenly bursts out, his voice cracking with pent-up emotion. “I had to fight everything, I had to train until my hands bled just to get here, and—”

“Garros,” Jacob interrupts him, his voice firm but deeply compassionate. “I know. I’m saying that you don’t actually want to kill yourself. If you really did, you would have done it. You’re weak, yes, but so was I. It has been hard at every single step of the way. Surviving has been a titanic effort. And that’s why I want to say that I wish you didn’t have to go through that. I wished that you had had a lighter, happier, easy life. I wished it on myself. And I wish it to everybody who’s had to live a life like ours.”

Garros opens his mouth to argue, to deny it, but no words come out. He closes it, suddenly finding his own lips quivering uncontrollably.

“There’s the God of Monsters out there,” Jacob continues, pointing toward the dark horizon of the forest. “He and his underlings, the Dark Champions, are trying to destroy the world because they are little, little men and women who can’t do what you did. Out there, there are many who would never endure what you endured. You struggled. You came here weak, broken, and rejected, and you didn’t turn into a monster along the way just to claw for more power.”

Jacob gets to his feet, casually dusting the dirt off his clothes.

“I know you can do it, Garros,” Jacob says, his eyes flashing with a cold, hard light. “We’ll win this, me and you. And then, you can stand by and watch while I show those miserable sons of a bitch what it means to be a true Champion.”

“Jacob,” Garros says, his entire body trembling now, not from fear, but from a profound, overwhelming sense of being seen. “I—”

“Garros, I know your secret,” Jacob cuts him off, raising a finger and pointing directly at the unremarkable sword resting at Garros’s side. “I suspect you’re going to be the next Hero of Light, my friend. Since fate had you come by what I strongly suspect is his Rainbow Skill.”