Chapter 113

"—We've blown well past the halfway mark of the first stage! If Salvator keeps up this momentum, it looks like a comfortable first-place finish!"

The announcer's voice carried across the plains and snagged Verte's attention.

Verte's face twisted.

He fired off a burst of mana to drop a charging beast, then fixed his glare on Salvator's formation.

The massive dragon remains. Near the left shoulder blade.

The scene was pure chaos—swarming beast bodies tangled with flashing steel—but a single mane of deep blue hair stood out with unmistakable clarity.

"……"

Verte checked the research institute's score, still stuck in second, then cut down the beast in front of him and barked.

"Wrap up and prepare to shift formation! Standard offense to special support—now!"

His companions wheeled on him in alarm.

"What? Verte! This is barely the first stage of Round One! There's no need to burn that hard this early."

"He's right. Let's not overdo it. We're just getting started, yeah? We can afford to ease into—"

Verte rounded on them with a look that could have drawn blood.

"How long are you going to keep being this soft and spineless?"

The savage edge in his voice shut every mouth at once. A few twitched their eyebrows in displeasure, but none dared push back further.

Verte crushed the heat boiling in his chest and squeezed his fist until the knuckles went white.

"Once we reach the next zone, we overtake Senit—no. We overtake their ranking. Everyone does their job!"

Verte Fischer.

Heir of the Fischer family—the house that governed the North before the Senits.

Verte's oldest memory began with a voice that sounded slightly different from usual.

His nursemaid—always gentle, always warm—sang him a lullaby on a night when rain hammered down and lightning cracked across the sky without end. That night, her voice trembled in a way he'd never heard before.

"……"

Verte lay cradled in her arms, listening to the sounds bleeding in from outside.

Amid the rolling thunder, strange noises threaded themselves through the gaps. Long and drawn out, then abruptly cut short. Rising high, then plunging without warning. Tangled together, then ripped apart. They were impossible to pin down—like the ghosts from old fairy tales.

"…Nanny, is there a ghost outside?"

The nursemaid's shoulders lurched. She looked between the door and Verte, then pulled the corners of her mouth into a smile and spoke.

"Y-yes. A very scary ghost. It prowls around looking for children who won't go to sleep. If young Master Verte doesn't close his eyes soon, the ghost might come snatch you away."

Verte nodded at her and let his eyelids fall shut.

He didn't want to be taken from his home.

The mood was stiff and a little frightening—but a home where his whole family was together was precious beyond anything.

"—Don't hold me back! I can't bear any more of this humiliation!"

Only—the source of the commotion wasn't a ghost at all.

That the sounds had been his mother's screams as she tried to leave and his father's sobs as he tried to stop her—that was something Verte learned only after some time had passed.

FLASH!

Verte's age had just turned to double digits.

The day he manifested mana for the first time.

His father examined the mana, let out a groan that sounded more like a prayer, and pulled Verte into a fierce embrace.

"…You—you could be our chance. Our hope."

It was the first time Verte had ever been held by his father. The warmth surprised him. He nodded his head slowly.

From that day on, his father began telling him—again and again—about what had happened just before Verte was born.

"—Verte, listen carefully. That vast North once belonged to us. But now it's where the wretches who stole what was ours draw breath."

Verte listened to every word in silence.

How the Restorer Cloelle had established the guardian's duty, and the undeserved disgrace that followed their removal. What the Fischer bloodline meant—how far back it stretched, how noble the name truly was. And in contrast, how base and cunning the usurper Senit's deeds and true nature had proven to be.

"……"

Verte accepted all of it without protest.

Questions surfaced. Doubts tugged at him. Things he wanted to challenge. But he never let any of them leave his mouth.

"If we prove ourselves worthy of reclaiming the North—if we surpass the Senits—then Lord Cloelle will surely set aside his displeasure and look upon us again. As the ones who designed this kingdom from the ruins of an ancient civilization, they understand the value of bloodline better than anyone."

His father, mumbling like a weathered old tree, bore little resemblance to the confident young man in the photograph hanging on the wall behind him. Deep-set wrinkles and dark spots clung to his face like knots in wood.

Verte looked at his father—gaunt frame pressed into the rocking chair—and nodded.

If his own son wouldn't believe him, then who in this world would?

And besides… a man this consumed by old memories, suffering this visibly—he would never lie.

"I'll keep it close, Father."

Several years passed.

Verte completed his studies at the magic research institute through early admission and earned top honors at the awards ceremony. His father was overjoyed. For the first time in years, he came out of seclusion and promised to attend.

SHHHHH—

But the ceremony came and went, and his father never arrived.

Verte stared at the rain driving down in sheets, scowled, then snapped open an umbrella and plunged into the downpour.

Maybe I should retrace his route from the house.

He considered the path, but the deliberation didn't last long.

Thud.

In the distance, a carriage bearing the Cloelle crest was pulling away. On the plaza where a crowd of townspeople had gathered in a murmuring cluster, a faint but familiar voice reached Verte's ears.

"Lord Cloelle—"

Verte let out a breath that was closer to a moan and let the umbrella slip from his fingers.

The murmuring around him faded to nothing.

Only his feet kept moving—stumbling forward as though drawn by an invisible thread toward the center of the plaza.

"Please… just one chance to make amends… one chance…"

Verte looked down at his father, prostrate on the ground where the Cloelle carriage had stood, mumbling the same words over and over without end.

Whether it was rain or his own blood running cold down his body, he couldn't tell.

Verte stood frozen in place, eyes drained of all color, and whispered.

"…Senit. If only you'd never existed."

---

GRRRRR—

At some point, the number of beasts on the plains had dwindled to a quarter of what it had been at the start.

Mikhail felled the last raptor near the left shoulder blade, then scanned the area to assess the situation.

Most participants seemed to have decided to save their push for the next stage, content to drop beasts at a moderate pace. Their attacks lacked the edge from before.

KA-THOOM! BOOM!

One group, however, was the exception.

Mikhail turned toward the source of the thundering impacts—a single contingent that showed no sign of slowing.

BA-BA-BA-FLASH!

Verte Fischer, riding the support spells his teammates layered onto him, was closing the point gap at alarming speed. A single sweeping gesture of his hand spawned six or seven mana spheres that launched in rapid succession.

SKREEE!

Mini raptors and wyverns charging at Verte crumpled one after another in quick repetition.

SHRIEK! SHRIIEEK!

It was an absolute blitz. A relentless advance driven by one person's sheer dominance.

"Now this is getting interesting! The magic research institute is right on Salvator's heels! At this rate, a hundred-point lead becomes eighty—and then sixty! The gap is shrinking fast!"

Mikhail let the announcer's excited voice fade behind him and pulled his gaze from Verte—who was monopolizing his entire team's reserves—to look ahead.

If the original storyline held, the first stage of Round One ended with Salvator's victory. He intended to steer this one to the same result.

I don't have Verte's direct support network or the mana reserves to dump into an all-out assault. But…

Mikhail narrowed his eyes at the remaining beasts.

The mini raptors and wyverns spread across the field. Their designs were modeled on reptiles, which meant that even in the lore, they shared the traits of cold-blooded creatures.

That's the angle I'll use this time.

Mikhail rummaged through his supplies and pulled out the hardening agent he'd been issued. He sprayed it onto his shoes.

Tssszt.

The formula etched into the shoe's surface flared once on contact, then set harder and sturdier—boosting durability well beyond its original threshold.

Mikhail raised his eyes forward and shouted at his teammates, still reeling at Verte's advance.

"Snap out of it! You're going to let them overtake us?"

"…!"

The group flinched and looked at him. Lloyd was the first to respond, catching on instantly with a mischievous grin.

"Not a chance. Not when we've got the North's own legitimate heir on our team."

Ethan echoed the sentiment with a quiet laugh.

Mikhail swept his gaze over the group, then crouched low and pressed his fingertips to the formula inscribed on his shoes.

"Everyone, get into position. Prepare to unload everything you've got—one last push."

Crackle.

Mana laced with the electrical trait [Surge] flowed from Mikhail's fingertips and seeped into the lightweight mobility formula on his shoes.

His weight pitched forward as his body turned feather-light.

Mikhail gripped his staff and launched himself ahead.

TAP!

"Oh! One member of Salvator just broke into a dead sprint toward the beasts! Is this an unplanned move? At this rate, he could be swarmed and put in serious danger!"

CRRRRACKLE!

Beneath the announcer's worried voice, a ring of jagged ice crystallized at the tip of Mikhail's staff—spiked in every direction.

Mikhail seized the biting cold and dove straight into the mass of beasts.

GRRRRRRR—!

Raptors and wyverns that had been lunging at him recoiled from the vicious chill and scattered in the opposite direction.

Mikhail tore through the narrow gaps between them, herding the beasts as he ran.

As their flight paths funneled toward Salvator's formation, the points began climbing fast.

[460pt]

[550pt]

[630pt]

The announcer's delighted laughter and the buzzing murmur from behind drove themselves into Mikhail's ears.

He eased his speed and glanced back over his shoulder.

"……"

Verte was glaring at him with an expression caught halfway between disbelief and fury.

Mikhail held that stare without flinching—then stuck out his tongue.