Chapter 117

THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD—

The drumming footfalls of the sprinter pulling Mikhail and Lloyd's carriage repeated like a mindless metronome.

"…I know."

Mikhail answered Lloyd's question, then turned to watch the ruins drawing closer on the horizon.

Knowing that Lloyd was a Cloelle, it wasn't hard to read the warning buried in those words.

"……"

Before long, Mikhail pulled his attention away from Lloyd and picked up the thread of thought he'd left hanging.

The scene from earlier resurfaced in his mind. The moment he'd gone looking for somewhere quiet to sort through his head—Verte's triumphant shout, overheard from behind that tree, still rang in his ears like a thesis statement demanding a response.

[—Who will stand at the center of a new future!]

What Verte had declared was, in essence, a direct rejection of the setting assigned to him. A signal that he intended to move against the very progression Mikhail had resolved to uphold.

A stray rumor drifted unbidden into Mikhail's mind—words that had once described the Fischer family's final days.

[There's no direct Fischer heir left who can step forward with any dignity. If you wanted to exaggerate a little… well, you could say the line was wiped out entirely.]

Mikhail narrowed his eyes as he recalled Verte's end—a slow fade into history's forgotten margins.

Then he noticed his outstretched fingers had curled inward. He'd just reaffirmed his commitment to maintaining the original progression, yet his hand was trembling in a way that didn't match that resolve. The sight irritated him.

Maybe I should… think about something else.

Mikhail drew a deep breath to clear his head, then traced through the progression of the round ahead.

The second round, to be held in the ruins they were fast approaching.

The objective was to gather as many limited resources scattered throughout the ruins as possible and convert them into points for your faction.

Along the way, they'd have to cut down magical beasts lurking inside and rampaging ancient machines, while fending off or outmaneuvering rival factions competing for the same resources or crossing the same paths.

And if I factor in the ripple effects of this round…

With clashes between participants just as frequent as fights against beasts, the highlights from this round would become the stories that circulated most among outside observers afterward.

Ethan distinguished himself through his quick reflexes and resourcefulness, which quietly earned him favorable reviews among prominent figures. That was how it played out in the original.

Mid-reflection, Mikhail stole a glance at Ethan, seated diagonally across from him.

Ethan had been watching the ruins grow closer just as Mikhail had been—but their eyes met almost immediately.

The two faced each other in silence.

"—Ahem, khem!"

An awkward clearing of the throat stole every pair of eyes in the carriage. It was Dian. He snuck a cautious look at Mikhail, scratched the back of his head, and spoke up.

"So, uh—about what Verte said earlier. Didn't that rub anyone else the wrong way? Nothing's even been decided yet. Who does that—grandstanding like that where everyone can hear?"

Albin pushed his glasses up with a knowing look.

"Could be a psychological tactic? Seizing the initiative. There are strategies like that in mental warfare…"

"Dude, come on."

Dian shot Albin a glare sharp enough to serve as a warning, cutting off whatever came next. Albin caught himself with a wince and shut his mouth.

Nisha and Hailey had been watching the exchange with barely contained giggles. They chimed in together.

"Right? A one-sided declaration of war like that? That's just bad manners."

"Exactly. Mikhail's on our team, you know? Having to sit there and listen to someone trash-talk him out of nowhere—yeah, that didn't feel great."

Lloyd caught the drift of the conversation and instantly adopted a mischievous expression, adding his own remark.

"Couldn't agree more. Save the boasting for after the outcome's been decided. Besides…"

Lloyd's eyes rolled toward Mikhail.

"The part about not even showing half his strength? That applies just as much to our side. Wouldn't you say?"

The question lilted upward with pointed weight. Mikhail met the probing tone with silence—like squaring off against a viper rearing its head—but it didn't last long before a relaxed smile settled at the edge of his lips.

"Yeah."

That single word shifted the atmosphere, and the tension in the carriage loosened.

Laughter broke out among the group, and soon they were trading guesses about the upcoming round while eyeing the ruins on the horizon.

"……"

In the middle of it all, Mikhail turned his head toward the distance.

His gaze landed on the carriage Verte would be riding in.

Verte's carriage was rolling toward the ruins alongside the rest—but from the edge of the passenger compartment, an empty potion bottle tumbled free.

Clink.

The glass bottle bounced once across the sand and rolled to a stop before slipping out of sight.

Mikhail watched the retreating detail for a moment longer. Then he pulled his gaze from its path, lifted his chin, and faced the wind rushing toward him like a rising tide.

The second round was almost here.

The moment to bring everything he had against Verte was closing in fast.

"Hey, Verte. Don't you think you're overdoing it? That spell you used earlier, and now… all these potions you keep downing."

Inside the rattling carriage.

Verte had been gulping down a mana recovery potion when the cautious question reached him. He answered with a flash of his eyes.

"Ah…"

The teammate who'd spoken flinched.

Verte's throat bobbed as he swallowed the rest of the potion, and then his mouth twisted into something sharp.

"No. I haven't overdone anything. Don't kill the mood. I'm just getting started."

He spat the words like chewing through gristle, then hurled the empty bottle toward the sack in the center of the carriage. He snatched up another potion from beside him and tipped its contents into his mouth.

Clink. Clink.

But the bottle Verte had just thrown didn't land inside the sack.

It had been empty barely fifteen minutes ago—yet somehow, spent bottles had already piled high enough to overflow. With nowhere left to settle, the glass rolled helplessly off the rim and clattered to the carriage floor.

Clatter.

Every pair of eyes except Verte's tracked the rolling bottle, then pulled away.

"Okay… shouldn't someone say something? He's definitely past the safe daily intake. If he collapses before the competition even starts, then what?"

One of the group spoke up, fidgeting with barely contained anxiety. Others murmured their agreement, stealing worried glances at Verte.

"Someone stop him. He's going to seriously hurt himself."

"I want to. Believe me, I want to… but who's going to win an argument with Verte?"

The nervous chatter swelled louder by the second, but Verte showed no sign of caring. He grabbed another bottle, popped the cap, and raised it to his lips.

CLAMP.

A large hand shot out of nowhere and seized his wrist mid-motion.

Verte's brow creased with irritation, the bottle still clutched in his grip, and he glared at the intruder.

Noen—a broad-shouldered young man his own age—was letting out a sigh heavy enough to crack the earth.

"That's enough. Revenge or whatever you want to call it—you're going to drop before you get the chance."

Verte's face contorted viciously. He wrenched his wrist free and snapped back.

"Don't worry about me. It doesn't—"

"Verte Fischer."

Noen cut him off by name alone, his tone brooking no argument. His thick brows furrowed as he pressed on with measured gravity.

"We understood the anger and resentment inside you. That's why we've gone along with every call you've made on your own. But that was because we put you first—you as a person. If you keep destroying yourself like this, there's no reason for us to follow anymore."

Verte said nothing while Noen's words bore down on him.

He went still, head lowered, the hand gripping the potion bottle clenching just hard enough to make the glass creak.

But the silence was brief.

Verte lifted his eyes. His lips twisted into something ugly, and a voice dripping with bitter spite came crawling out.

"…That so? Then I don't need it. Your help."

He drained the bottle in one long pull and flung the empty shell into the corner of the carriage.

CLANK.

The glass rolled across the floor and came to rest in a far-off spot. Its upturned surface caught the sunlight streaming down and shattered it into fractured reflections.

At the same moment, Verte spoke in a voice that frayed at its edges, issuing orders for what came next.

"You've all worked hard. This round, just focus on completing the objective safely. Don't worry about my end."

He paused for a steadying breath, then dropped his tone to a low growl and continued.

"The real fight was always going to come down to a one-on-one. No interference. No outside help. Crushing Mikhail Senit through nothing but my own strength. There's no scene more decisive than that."

"……"

A single troubled exhale sank from Noen's lips, and after that—not another word was exchanged inside the magic research institute's carriage.

THUD-DUD-DUD— DUD-DUD.

A few minutes of silence had settled before the sprinters' galloping strides began to slow.

"……"

Before long, the birds came to a full stop. One by one the carriages carrying the participants pulled to a halt, and Verte swept his gaze over the destination looming just ahead.

Was the Restorer's palace in the capital even this large?

Ruins too vast to take in at a single glance stood before them, wreathed in golden sandstorms that clung to their walls like an aura of ancient majesty.

Meanwhile, at the site of Round Three.

The Cave of Contemplation, nestled at the edge of the wasteland.

Drip. Drop—

The cavernous space—just cleared by the recon team moments ago—sat in deep silence, a thin veil of darkness draped across the still air.

The occasional drip of water added nothing resembling life. Only unease.

WHIRRRRR.

What waited at the very end of the Cave of Contemplation was a massive teleportation circle.

Tangled lines, geometric shapes, and inscribed characters glowed with a soft blue light. A formula designed to transport everyone to the outside in one sweep—activated once all participants reached the cave's final chamber, marking the campaign's conclusion.

……

The circle sat undisturbed, humming in quiet stillness.

FZZT.

Then, for just an instant—a sphere-shaped safety device positioned at the circle's edge, designed to read the surrounding mana's condition, flared with light.

The blue glow within it warped, its wavelength distorting, and flickered once in a deep violet.

……

But the anomaly went no further.

The color on the sphere's surface steadied back to a stable blue glow and melted once more into the silent landscape—as unremarkable as it had always been.