Chapter 116

A final strike flew toward the earthworm—weakened to the point of collapse by the magic tools, swaying limp as a scarecrow.

THUD!

The last earthworm crumpled, and every stage of Round One came to an end.

FLASH!

[Quest: [Main] Complete the Campaign — Round 1 — Achieved]

• Completion Reward: Shop Currency +3

Mikhail stared at the message. Judging by the rate his points were accumulating, by the time the second main storyline wrapped up and he set foot into the third, he'd be able to obtain the second fragment of the Unique Talent Awakening Stone.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

"……"

Satisfying.

Watching everything flow according to plan, under his control.

FLASH.

Mikhail pulled his gaze from the empty air where the message had vanished and swept it across Ethan's group.

They were trading encouragement and throwing themselves into preparations for the coming rounds. Only Lloyd had broken away—drifting from one end of the formation to the other, quietly sizing up the situation with sidelong glances.

It could have been a scene pulled straight from the original story and laid out before him.

"—Ah, ahem. Can everyone hear me?"

A voice cut across the air.

But this time, the tone didn't belong to the usual announcer—it was Guild Master Germain Lowell.

"Your efforts have brought Round One to a safe and successful close. I couldn't be more pleased. Allow me to express my gratitude for the spirited participation and fair competition you've shown throughout. I hope to see more of the same going forward."

Germain paused to catch his breath, then continued.

"The site for Round Two—the Ruins of the Adversaries—lies a short distance from the plains. Special transport is being prepared to take you there as we speak. Please stand by while our ever-capable commentary team fills the gap with some intermission interviews. Ha ha ha!"

Germain's hearty laughter gave way to the announcer, who picked up in the same bright tone as before and read out each faction's score and standing.

[1. Central Magic Research Institute — 1,010pt]

[2. Salvator Academy — 870pt]

[3. Allied Knight Order — 860pt]

Salvator's decision to hold back during the previous stage had dropped them to second. The gap with third place had narrowed to almost nothing.

But it wasn't worth worrying about.

If the main storyline held, the current deficit could be made up in the rounds ahead.

What concerns me more is…

Mikhail glanced toward the magic research institute's formation a short distance away, then moved toward a nearby tree.

He needed somewhere quieter to sort through his thoughts.

"……"

Mikhail leaned his back against the broad trunk and folded his arms.

Verte Fischer. And the magic research institute.

In an ideal scenario, he'd bury the institute so far below Salvator in the standings that they wouldn't even be in contention.

But I need to think efficiently. There's no reason to spend that much effort.

Even maintaining the current rivalry between factions, the main storyline's trajectory—which ended with Salvator's overall victory—wouldn't be thrown off course.

Strip away Verte as their linchpin, and the institute's combat strength was no different from the Allied Knight Order or the Guild's private defense academy, both of which had been Salvator's original rivals.

Under Germain's watchful eye, none of those factions had the means to create variables beyond a straightforward clash of force. And none of them shared enough common interest to band together and single out Salvator.

Which means even if I leave the next round's strategy mostly in the protagonist's party's hands, they can hold their own and push the situation forward without any problems.

Then it was just as he'd expected. His own role was crystal clear.

Lock down Verte Fischer—the one person who threatened to derail the main storyline's progression—and keep him firmly in check.

"……"

Mikhail blinked slowly, weighing his own combat capabilities against Verte's, retracing the behavior and mindset Verte had displayed so far.

The one thing Verte wanted above all else.

To grind Mikhail into the dirt in front of every person of influence, then declare to the world that the true heir of the North stood right here.

Mikhail let the thought hang for a moment, tapping his fingertips together. Then his lips curled into the kind of smile that came with a winning hand.

In other words… the initiative is mine.

At that moment, the announcer's voice split the sky.

"Now, now—I'm sure everyone watching and everyone competing could use a little entertainment! Let's fill this break with an interview! Our guest is the man of the hour who engineered that stunning comeback—Verte Fischer! Sir, would you share a few words on how it feels to finish Round One?"

Verte apparently hadn't refused the interview.

The instant the announcer finished, a voice that hovered somewhere between a growl and a boast came through.

"What you just saw was only a fraction of what I'm capable of. The real clash hasn't even started yet. So keep your eyes wide open and watch until the very end."

What followed was nothing short of a declaration.

"Watch closely—and see who truly deserves to soar as the heir of the North. Who holds the strength to protect everyone. Whose name can deliver what you're all hoping for. And in the end—!"

Verte paused. But the silence didn't last long before he drove the final stake home, each syllable forced through the simmering heat in his chest.

"…Who will stand at the center of a new future."

Cheers and gasps burst from every direction like spring blossoms scattering in an eastern wind.

Mikhail, though, barely reacted.

He tilted his head back and watched the echo of Verte's words linger against the open sky, letting a low whistle trail from his lips.

Fweeee—

Then a stray breeze—soft as foxtail grass—brushed past the tip of his nose, and a quiet laugh finally slipped out.

"Interesting. Verte Fischer."

---

Meanwhile, at that very same moment.

"……"

Ethan had been going back and forth with the group about their plans for the next round when he turned his head and noticed the empty space.

The spot where Mikhail had been standing barely ten minutes ago. Now there was nothing but a gap.

Ethan stole a glance at the transport—nearly finished being prepared—and set off to find Mikhail. Leaving without knowing where a teammate had gone, delaying departure in the process, wasn't the kind of thing that earned anyone favorable looks.

"……"

But the steps Ethan had taken with purpose began to slow the moment his mind drifted back to what had just happened. He stopped where he stood, eyelids half-lowered.

[—!]

In the middle of their conversation, Mikhail had frozen—as though something had seized hold of him—and his head had dropped. No amount of calling his name drew a response. Judging the situation serious, Ethan had reached out to shake him back to awareness—and Mikhail had flinched violently and gone rigid.

And in that single instant… what had been written plainly across the pale face staring back at him was fear.

The polar opposite of everything he and Mikhail had shown each other all through the previous semester.

…Why?

Ethan stared blankly at the hand he'd extended toward Mikhail, then narrowed his eyes.

Theories without clear context surfaced in his mind. But the grip of the question didn't last long. Ethan let out a faint sigh, shook his head, and cut the thread of thought short.

No—whatever it was, it doesn't matter. It wasn't hostility, and it wasn't him scheming something like before.

Ethan resumed walking. The lingering strangeness was probably nothing more than surprise—the jolt of seeing a familiar dynamic suddenly flipped on its head, of being confronted with an expression he'd never expected to find on that face.

---

The transport the Guild had arranged was a carriage pulled by enormous birds with unusually powerful leg muscles.

Plains sprinters.

A medium-sized avian species native to the border where grassland met scrubland—creatures said to outrun horses in speed and outlast camels in endurance, so long as they had open ground to stretch their legs.

THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.

Campaign participants, support crews, everyone.

The moment the headcount cleared and the signal dropped, the dozen-odd sprinters surged forward with a thunderous drumroll of footfalls, hauling the carriages at blistering speed.

"……"

Lloyd sat in his rattling seat, letting the headwind cut straight into him, then turned and scanned the carriages around them.

The members of each faction wore faces full of plans and resolve, eyes fixed on the destination drawing closer by the second.

But none of them seem like much to worry about.

Setting aside the few he'd already been watching, every last one of them moved within expected parameters. The way they huddled over strategy, the combat instincts they'd shown under pressure—all of it, predictable.

Lloyd let a short laugh slip and pulled his gaze back.

Then again, breaking free of your true nature—your fundamental disposition, the thing people called temperament—might be an extraordinarily difficult thing to do.

Or maybe it was impossible altogether.

"……"

Lloyd shifted his eyes to the profile of Mikhail sitting across from him.

The name Senit, so thoroughly unremarkable until now. The status of legitimate heir to the North's great house. And Verte, charging at him from the opposite end of that spectrum.

As one compelling circumstance after another clicked into place, a single question surfaced in Lloyd's mind.

Mikhail Senit. When you're pushed to the absolute limit… what will you look like?

The bearing of a noble Northern heir?

Or the instinct of an ordinary person, scrambling to save his own skin because he had no other choice?

Well—even if it's the latter, I wouldn't exactly be surprised.

Lloyd was still staring at Mikhail, a half-sigh trailing from his lips like a stray thought, when Mikhail seemed to sense the gaze. He turned his head and met Lloyd's eyes.

Two unreadable stares collided.

Lloyd spoke first. He bent the corner of his mouth into a crooked grin and let his tone turn playful.

"I said it before, but—I want to see you earn everyone's recognition as a worthy guardian through this campaign."

Mikhail didn't answer.

His expression gave away nothing—but there was something probing in the silence, as though he were waiting for Lloyd to show what lay beneath the surface.

Stubborn as ever, aren't you.

Lloyd deflated with a breathy sound and shrugged, turning his head toward the scenery rushing past.

Silence stretched between them for a while.

Then, from between Lloyd's lips, a tone dropped lower than anything he'd used before.

"Because if you don't… that would be deeply unfortunate."

The habit of pressing down on the tail end of a warning—that came from his father, the head of House Cloelle. He knew it, and he'd tried to break it more times than he could count, but it was one quirk he could never quite shed.

A fierce gust tore across Lloyd's cheek and collar before an answer came from across the carriage—cool and steady as seawater.

"I know."

Lloyd answered with nothing but a smirk and turned to face forward.

Far ahead, rising from the scrubland on the horizon.

The site of Round Two—the Ruins of the Adversaries—was beginning to take shape.