Since the incident in the Labyrinth Training Field, the academy had made a decision to do an alternative event for the Senior's assessment.
The inspection team—Adventurer-Scriptors clad in gray robes—had descended into the depths expecting to prepare the final assessment grounds. Instead, they found only silence. No writhing water-slimes. No trace of mana residue thick enough to track. Not even scattered cores.
Only an empty dome at the heart of the labyrinth.
Elite-level water slimes were not creatures that simply died. They dissolved steel. They regenerated. They overwhelmed teams of five.
Yet they were gone.
And so the academy made a decision. The Senior Assessment would be changed.
A week later, the grand announcement echoed through the whole Scalebound Citadel. The alternative event would be called: The Tournament of Aspirants.
Where parties of Scholars would face one another in the Arena—strategy against strategy, steel against spellcraft.
No more rehearsed monster hunts.
No controlled labyrinth runs.
This time, they would fight each other.
And the prize?
The champion's prize will be the head of the chained chimera.
Not an ordinary beast—but a captured, bound monstrosity, subdued by high-ranking adventurers.
Adventurers sometimes tasked to capture some monsters, magic-beasts, demons, or spirits alive with the use of enchanted chain that debuff and subdue the monster and then sold it for a high price for a free farming to level up easily, where mostly nobles and royalties can only afford it.
A privilege Danir had never known.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
Inside his dimly lit quarters, Danir sat at the edge of his bed, grimoire hovering before him.
"Grimoire… open."
The translucent pages shimmered in pale blue light. He stared at the second magic skill he had unlocked after slaughtering the water slimes.
"Fever-Moist."
"Water-Cannon."
"So I got two water-element spells…" he muttered quietly.
The irony did not escape him.
He had farmed water slimes for levels—and now he wielded their element. But his fingers tightened. The real problem wasn't magic. It was the tournament, because the selfishness and foolishness he did.
"Damn it… I shouldn't have done that." His voice was barely above a whisper.
If the elite slimes had remained, other parties would have struggled. They would have leveled slowly. The gap between him and the others would have stayed manageable.
Now?
Everyone would be forced into direct combat.
"Now we're going to face each other…"
His mind drifted to a single name, Leopoldo.
"I don't know how strong he's become…"
A pause.
"…Wait. Am I scared?"
Silence lingered in the small room.
"I shouldn't be."
But the truth surfaced anyway.
"I'm not scared for myself…" His jaw clenched.
"I'm scared for my party."
The rejects.
An unbalanced group thrown together because no one else wanted them. Unlike the others.
"Damn… I didn't see this coming." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers gripping his hair.
"I shouldn't have done that."
The quarters felt emptier than usual as Ulfzar and Caspi had already graduated. They had joined their elder brothers in the Guildhouse of Blossomdale, stepping confidently into the world as intermediate-rank adventurers.
The Granger name continued to rise as always.
Danir exhaled slowly.
"I forgot… those idiots already graduated."
A faint, bitter smile crossed his face.
"No one left to wait here anymore."
No brothers in the dorms. No footsteps in the corridor that felt familiar. No shadow to compete with—yet no shadow to lean on either.
The silence was heavier now.
Good.
Silence was useful.
Silence was where growth happened.
He stood up. His reflection in the window looked sharper than before—leaner, harder, colder. "I just have to become tougher."
Not stronger.
Tougher.
Strong people shone.
Tough people endured.
And Danir had always been the latter.
The Tournament of Aspirants was coming.
And this time—he would not farm monsters. He would face people.
The academy granted the Scholars the reminder of the semester to prepare.
No formal lectures.
No structured drills.
Only a single directive: To train themselves as their preparation for the upcoming event.
The corridors that once echoed with sessions now rang with steel striking steel. Spell circles flared across courtyards at dawn. Though some didn't trained themselves as they saw themselves high already.
Beyond the outer walls of the academy—past the stone watchtowers and the patrol paths—Danir and his party trained in the clearing he had long claimed as his own.
The grass there was uneven from countless battles. Trees bore scars from blade arcs and spell impacts. It was not beautiful.
It was useful.
"We'll call this the Click-in-bait formation." Danir said, planting his dagger into the soil to mark their front line.
The others watched him carefully.
In this formation, Danir alone would serve as the bait. The one who was placed on the lure.
Behind him, the remaining four would spread in layered depth—two damage dealers at the backline, one tactical support as Merki positioned slightly off-center, and another frontline if the bait click off.
"Merki," Danir said, turning toward him, "you'll act as buffer and backline shield. If they try to dive our rear, you intercept."
Merki nodded, adjusting the strap on his gauntlet.
Their usual formation—two frontliners and three backline supports—had worked in controlled monster hunts.
But this was different.
Human opponents were unpredictable.
Adaptive.
If their usual three-to-two formation failed, the Click-in-bait formation would be their gamble. And it was a dangerous one because it relied entirely on Danir as the bait.
Every day, they trained there. Not just techniques. Not just skills. But to build their chemistry.
They learned the rhythm of each other's breathing. The timing of footwork. The slight tilt of a shoulder before a spell was cast. They sparred until arguments broke out, then sparred again until those arguments turned into understanding.
They mapped their weaknesses openly.
And there were many. They lacked a true supporter—no enchanter to amplify damage, no dedicated healer to restore wounds mid-fight, no priest or cleric to cleanse status effects.
What they did have was a Knight-Paladin.
A hybrid.
Their Paladin possessed the blessings of light, yes—but they were built for melee combat. Close quarters. Smite and shield. Not sustained backline support.
So they gambled.
If they couldn't fill the missing role—they would compensate with structure.
For protecting one, covering gaps, amplifying Danir's spearpoint assault.
It was reckless.
It was desperate.
It was theirs.
After their group training ended each afternoon, when the others returned through the gates before curfew, Danir stayed behind, alone.
The wind moved softly through the trees as he opened his grimoire.
"Fever-Moist."
Mana surged through his veins. A thin layer of steaming condensation began to coat his skin. It started subtle—like morning dew—but quickly intensified. Heat radiated from him in visible waves, the air around his body distorting.
His temperature climbed.
100°F.
102°F.
104°F.
The steam thickened, rolling off his shoulders like ghostly smoke. When frost-element magic brushed against him during testing, it hissed and evaporated instantly.
This was the evolution of the slimes' defensive trait. A body that rejected winter.
But it came at a cost of 5 MP per second. He could feel it draining steadily—like a silent hourglass flipping itself over and over.
"This won't last long in a prolonged fight, but I can still make a use of it." he muttered.
He deactivated it, inhaling sharply as his temperature stabilized.
Then— "Water-Cannon."
He thrust his palm forward.
Mana condensed violently before him, forming a compressed sphere of spinning water. A deep rumbling sound built in the air—like a distant storm preparing to strike.
Then it fired!
A concentrated jet of water exploded forward, tearing through the clearing with a thunderous blast. Leaves ripped from an oak tree's branches, spiraling into the air like green rain. Bark splintered where the impact struck. The recoil forced Danir's boots to dig into the dirt.
He lowered his arm slowly.
"Damage isn't lethal yet…"
But the force—it could stagger. Push back. Break stance. Immobilize.
Against human opponents, that was more valuable than raw destruction.
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
Control! He needed more control.
Days slipped into weeks. The chill of spring faded. Grass grew taller. Flowers blossomed in scattered color across the clearing. Trees regained the leaves that Danir had stripped away in practice.
Summer arrived as the sun burned brighter. The air grew heavy and warm and across the academy grounds, Scholars sharpened themselves like blades awaiting judgment.
The Tournament of Aspirants drew closer.
And somewhere beneath the summer sky—
The rejects were quietly preparing to defy expectation.
On the other scenario, beyond the academy walls—beyond disciplined formations and structured ambition—the world was beginning to fracture.
Across around Aetheria, crime was rising again.
Not the petty sort.
Not desperate theft born of hunger. But was something darker.
A substance known as the Rampaging-Potion had begun circulating through black markets and shadowed alleys. Smuggled in crates disguised as medicinal shipments. Passed through ports under false manifests. Sold in tavern backrooms for coin soaked in blood.
Those who drank it did not simply grow stronger. They lost themselves.
Heretics—bandits, smugglers, fugitives, murderers—were the primary users. Witnesses described men whose veins blackened beneath their skin, whose eyes burned red, whose pain tolerance vanished entirely. They fought like beasts cornered by fire.
The people began calling them Rampagers.
And those who distributed the potion—are the R-P Smugglers.
Entire villages had reported attacks. Merchant caravans were found overturned and soaked in violence. Patrol knights returned with broken shields and haunted expressions.
The newspapers carried the reports relentlessly. By the time the headlines reached the academy gates, fear had already settled into the streets.
One afternoon, while walking through the bustling Citadel Square of Blossomdale, Danir paused near a side-stall vendor selling newspapers.
The paper trembled slightly in his hand as he read.
The royal decree bore the crest of Blossomdale.
The king had issued a high-priority request to all registered adventurers: Immediate suppression of Rampagers. Disruption of smuggling routes.
Capture—if possible—of potion distributors for interrogation.
Or dead.
The demand for adventurers had surged overnight.
"This rampaging-potion is getting out of hand… This is horrible..." Danir murmured, eyes scanning the casualty counts listed in ink.
Civilians injured.
Trade routes destabilized.
Border patrols overwhelmed.
The paper felt heavier than it should have.
Around him, Citadel Square remained lively—vendors shouting prices, children weaving between armored legs, the scent of roasted meat drifting in the air.
But beneath it all—there was tension. Fear hid in hurried conversations.
Guards patrolled in doubled numbers.
Danir folded the paper slowly.
"So this is how the world looks outside training fields…"
He had spent months obsessing over levels, formations, magic output.
But out here—strength wasn't about ranking first in a tournament. It was about preventing villages from burning.
"Well," he thought quietly, slipping the paper back onto the stall, "I guess we Scholars already have our path prepared."
After this semester, graduation would no longer mean simple registration at the guild.
The kingdom needed fighters. Needed suppressors. Needed blades.
Because of the chaos spreading across Aetheria, the path of an adventurer was no longer uncertain. It was inevitable.
Danir exhaled slowly.
The Tournament of Aspirants would decide their standing.
But the world outside?
It was already calling...
Days slipped by like tightening strings before a performance.
Then at last—the banners were raised.
Across the bustling expanse of Citadel Square , crimson-and-gold streamers were hung from lamp posts and archways.
A massive board stood at the center, emblazoned with bold lettering:
"Tournament of Aspirants — Held in the Scalebound Arena. Be There!"
Below it, the brackets were posted.
Two sides.
Left and right.
Three parties per bracket.
The party with the most victories within their bracket would advance as finalist to face the champion from the opposite side.
Danir stood before the board with quiet eyes.
The Rejects—left bracket.
Leopoldo's party—right bracket.
So fate would not allow them to meet early.
Only in the end.
To prevent fatal accidents, the academy had taken precautions befitting its prestige. They invited the esteemed High Cleric, Yolo Buick, to preside over the enchantments.
One by one, participants stepped forward to receive the blessing. A translucent radiance wrapped around each scholar's body like a second skin. Divine-Armor. It shimmered faintly—barely visible, yet firm as tempered steel.
The rules were clear:
Shatter the Divine-Armor to eliminate your opponent. Once shattered, the scholar must immediately withdraw.
Any attempt to cause further harm after the armor breaks would result in instant disqualification—and a mark of failure in the final assessment.
This was competition.
Not slaughter.
The first day of the tournament arrived...
Thousands filled the towering stands of the Scalebound Arena. The stone coliseum trembled with cheers, merchants shouting wagers, banners waving beneath the summer sun.
The air buzzed with anticipation.
The Rejects were called first.
Their opponent: The Noble-Assassins. A flamboyant name for a party composed almost entirely of noble spoiled brats.
They possessed balanced roles but their levels ranged only between 8 and 12.
On paper, sounds respectable. But in practice—unrefined.
Within the Rejects, Poyach stood as the lowest at Level 8. The rest ranged upward—until one anomaly stood out. Level 25, Danir Granger.
From the officiating platform, Mr. Cerulean narrowed his eyes.
"That young Granger is… pretty suspicious."
Level growth at that rate was unheard of among common-born scholars.
But after a moment, he exhaled through his nose.
"Well… he is a Granger."
The prestigious bloodline had produced prodigies before.
Cerulean forced himself to accept it.
He had bracket supervision duties, after all, while the other Scriptors served inside the arena as referees—ready to escort out anyone whose Divine-Armor shattered.
The match began.
The Noble-Assassins charged with elegance—but no unity.
Their formation fractured within seconds.
Danir stepped forward alone as the bait of their Click-in-baitstrategy.
Merki fortified from behind.
Precision spells followed.
Coordinated flanks struck at perfect intervals.
Divine-Armor cracked.
Shattered! One by one.
The Rejects stood unscathed, as the Noble-Assassins left humiliated.
Chemistry defeated ego.
Practice crushed pedigree.
Meanwhile, on the right bracket—the Skull-Raiders entered.
Leopoldo at the helm.
Their presence alone stirred the arena. They did not waste motion. They did not overextend. They overwhelmed. Their first opponent fell swiftly beneath coordinated pressure.
The crowd roared! "Skull-Raiders! Skull-Raiders! Skull-Raiders!"
Wagers shifted. Confidence swelled.
They became the arena's favorite overnight.
Day Two...
The air felt heavier as the Rejects now faced the Midnight-Owls—a party of scholars ranging from Level 13 to 18.
Balanced roles. Impressive magical aptitude.
On paper—dangerous. But arrogance again proved fatal.
They believed their levels alone would secure victory. They underestimated preparation. The battle was longer. More tactical.
The Midnight-Owls attempted layered spell pressure and flank disruption—but Danir's Click-in-baitpivot formation neutralized their rhythm.
Counter-casts intercepted spells. A timed Water-Cannon staggered their frontline long enough for Poyach and Marion to shatter a Divine-Armor with a decisive strike.
Cracks rang through the arena like breaking glass.
Then another.
Then another!
When the dust settled—the Midnight-Owls stood defeated as the ultimate humiliation carved into their pride.
The Rejects now will advanced as finalist.
Yet despite their clean victories—the crowd's applause was thin.
Only a few scattered claps.
Whispers.
Skepticism.
Underdogs remained underdogs.
Across the bracket, the Skull-Raiders faced their second opponent.
This time, their opponent gave them a good fight. Their adversaries fought fiercely. But Leopoldo adapted with terrifying calm.
His party's coordination sharpened mid-battle.
Their Divine-Armor shattering sequence was clinical. And because of that, they advanced again, as the finalist against the underdogs.
The chants returned.
"Skull-Raiders! Skull-Raiders!"
Danir watched from the participant's corridor.
"Hey, Merki. Take a look at that."
Leopoldo's party formation displayed near-perfect balance: Two frontliners—a brawler and a Knight-Paladin.
Backline: mage, cleric, archer.
Levels ranged from 8 to 11.
Lower than expected, but their synergy is dangerous.
"They may not be high-leveled," Danir muttered, eyes narrowing, "but their balance role distribution and chemistry will gives them a the greatest upperhand."
"Brace yourselves. They won't let themselves lose to us."
Finalist bracket posted: Skull-Raiders versus Rejects.
The arena buzzed!
The crowd had already chosen its champion.
On one side—the celebrated Skull-Raiders.
On the other—The Rejects, the underdogs, unfavored, and uncheered.
The third—and final—day of the Tournament of Aspirants arrived beneath a merciless summer sun.
At noon, the stone walls of the Scalebound Arena radiated heat. Thousands filled the stands, their cheers crashing like waves against the arena walls.
But the sound was not divided.
It was unified.
"Skull-Raiders! Skull-Raiders! Skull-Raiders!"
The chant rolled endlessly through the arena.
The favorites had already been crowned by the crowd.
At the center platform stood Helga, her voice amplified through enchanted runes.
"Skull-Raiders versus The Rejects!"
The roar intensified!
She turned to the right corner. "Ready?!" Leopoldo and his team nodded, weapons gleaming beneath sunlight.
She turned to the left. "Ready?!"
Danir glanced once at his team—Merki, Tonio, Poyach, Marion.
No fear.
Only focus.
"Fight!"
The signal rang like a hammer striking steel.
The Rejects moved first.
Danir's voice echoed in their minds—words rehearsed countless times.
"Two backliners, one support, and a reserved bait, maintain pressure. Target theirs. I'll handle the fish. Merki—protect them no matter what."
They didn't expected—both parties adopted the Click-in-bait formation.
Four supporting one. But what followed—was not predicted.
Merki's buffs surged into Danir—strength amplification, minor haste,.
And then—Danir charged.
Not at Leopoldo. But at the Knight-Paladin guarding their backline.
A ripple of confusion crossed the Skull-Raiders' formation.
Leopoldo reacted instantly, intercepting with swift strikes. His movements were sharpened by the Eye of the Monk—his predictive ability that activated when he was the target.
But Danir wasn't targeting him.
That was the flaw.
Danir targeted the other party's Knight-Paladin who's protecting their back line instead of charging to Leopoldo.
Danir was able to evade a few of Leopoldo's attacks until he had his range to the opponent's Knight-Paladin.
He launched his Water-Cannon to Leopoldo to make a little space then Tonio followed to go toe to toe with Leopoldo. Then Danir launched his Water-Cannon again, spreading the water around to his backlinenrs' feet as he launched his Ice Shards Daggers to freeze their feet.
Leopoldo was able to rushed back to Danir after he shattered Tonio's Divine-Armor.
Leopoldo shattered also Danir's Divine-Armor after they head to face to face each other as Danir fought with him to buy his backliners a time to finish the fight.
Danir and Tonio made themselves as the sacrifice to win the fight, making Leopoldo's party immobilized as Merki and the rest took the advantage.
Leopoldo's backliners' Divine-Armor shattered! As well as their Knight-Paladin. Leaving Leopoldo versus three right now.
Merki faced Leopoldo on the front as Poyach, and Marion can free hit at the back. Although Leopoldo had his Eye of the Monk, he didn't see this plan coming.
To expose his flaw, Danir made his research thoroughly before the fight, learning how to defeat their prodigious party.
Leopoldo saw their incoming attacks but it wasn't enough knowing that he was already exhausted facing Danir and Tonio at the beginning of the fight.
Merki, Poyach, and Marion. Together, their attacks shattered Leopoldo's Divine-Armor and the rejects won.
Giving the crowd left in silence for a while.
Cannot believed on what they are watching.
The crowd's favorite lost.
Then the crowd slowly shifted their chant—
"Rejects! Rejects! Rejects..."
Danir's party celebrated as they took their prize. The chained chimera. Killing it gave each of them an additional 10 levels.
Danir turned out to be on becoming a really good young strategist, having the wisdom his father taught him.
Danir stood slightly apart, quiet as always.
Mr. Cerulean approached him. "In a real battlefield," Cerulean said evenly, "sacrificing yourself and your party member on a fifty-fifty gamble is reckless."
A pause.
"But… you executed it perfectly, Granger."
Danir bowed slightly.
Cerulean studied him. "This kid… he resembles his father a little bit."
A flicker of bitterness stirred in his chest. Remembering, Jared Granger—Talented. Popular. Irritatingly charismatic.
Cerulean remembered the academy days long ago—the women who admired Jared, including the one Cerulean himself had never dared to confess to.
"Tch… I always hated that man," he muttered internally.
Yet even in resentment—there was recognition, as strength recognized strength.
The fourth and last semester of Danir in the academy has now ended. Both finalist in the tournament marked as passed in the test as the academy acknowledged their battlefield maturity.
Danir also turned 11 that time without even realizing it. Distracted by the newly obtained milestone.
Leopoldo couldn't face directly to the eyes Danir during the moving up ceremony that time. But Danir just giving him a smile, not to humiliate him but to acknowledge his greatness as his rival.
They both became top of their batch along with Merki that the three of them ended up as Intermediate rankers.
Farewells, as friendships and rivalry in their academy days ended there. However, the days of their life's new chapter has just began...