Okay, maybe I underestimated the popularity of Champions, or at least the popularity of this specific Champion. Forget what I said about them being a mix of celebrity and god knows what else, and all that about high-level prestige. At this point, I am sure Dennis was right: these people would squander whole fortunes just to be in the sa room the Champion farted in.
I’m not surprised by the excitent of the students; it is, after all, a good opportunity to take their minds off their studies for a mont. But the Assistant Professors? So of them are acting like grandmothers willing to slit your throat in the mall just to get their hands on the last discounted Cinnabon roll.
At least the professors act a bit more dignified, the others should consider taking notes. So of the students’ families are even in attendance. Overall, it turns out to be a huge event.
I hate it, and the fact that I am part of it.
We Assistant Professors are on the sa floor as the professors, arranged on a huge, wide balcony overlooking an amphitheater below. There are a few higher floors above us, reserved for the more senior professors, and further above that, are an assortnt of powerful families and academy leadership, mingling with senior professors and families.
(The fact that you’re attending this event, combined with your continued dismissal of the fact that a thermonuclear warhead has gone missing, is making nervous, Nat.) Sophie complains next to , naturally having been stationed on the sa floor, given that she’s an Assistant Professor herself.
(Look, if there is no one capable of launching an attack of that magnitude and they need that warhead, they are incompetent and pose no threat.) I reply, looking down at the thousands of students and other attendees.
This place is huge and there are so many people.
I hate it.
(Could you create an attack comparable to it?) Sophie asks.
(I have considered it and, possibly, I could. I would need materials and inscriptions to construct a similar bomb, or I could work out an array to collect and channel sufficient mana and thermal energy. But it is hard to say; I have not witnessed a thermonuclear explosion yet, so I have nothing to compare it to,) I answer.
(You just used a word that concerns greatly.) She says.
(Is it ‘yet’?) I ask.
(Yes,) She replies.
(I see.)
(Don’t “I see” , damn it.)
She groans and leans on the railing. (And still no sign of the ruler candidate or the “fake” ruler candidate as you theorise. If we at least knew their subclass, it could help.)
(This is an Academy, aning this is a place of study – so maybe it’s diligence?) I suggest.
(By that logic, it could be lust, because this place is full of horny teenagers.) Sophie counters with a snort.
(Well, never mind then. Have you found anyone suspicious?) I ask.
(There was that thylarin girl, Ari, who takes classes with the professor I assist. You ntioned her as well,) She says.
(Why her?) I ask, genuinely curious.
(She’s shockingly perceptive and intelligent. Apparently, she attends so many classes that even the professors have taken notice, and she excels in all of them,) Sophie explains.
(She didn’t really seem that good when I taught her.) I admit.
(Nat, you were almost declared an Absolute Candidate by one of the most powerful Absolutes to ever live. Sorry, but at this point, I do not trust your judgnt,) She retorts.
(I understand, but if you suspect her as the Ruler Candidate, should she not have incredible talent?) I object.
(She does have incredible talent. Another factor to consider is that she might be hiding most of it. Another thing – your favourite “fake” Ruler Candidate theory could also explain it. Sophie muses.
(If you think that way, it could apply to almost any student.) I protest.
Sophie exhales. (Yes, and that is what annoys . The problem is that it doesn’t even have to be a student. It could be one of the professors. It could be the Champion we’re waiting for, and who is already late by the way, but the people here would probably apologize to him before they even thought about complaining.)
(Well, it seems like you summoned him.) I say as the crowd falls silent.
No one speaks anymore as the lights go off and a single beam shines on the podium, where the pink-skinned, pink-haired, white-freckled man appears out of nowhere.
(What is even the na of that race, by the way?) I ask Sophie.
(Selari. You should know that by now,) She answers.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Then we watch as that selari Champion smiles brightly, taking in the applause. But after a few seconds, he lifts his arm, and silence ensues.
The selari Champion pauses for a mont, not for effect, but as if he were asuring his thoughts before speaking. As he speaks, his voice echoes throughout the hall, as if he were standing directly in front of .
“Let us discuss sothing they will not teach you here,” he says, his tone light but distant. “Not because it is forbidden or dangerous, but because no one wants to admit how little control there really is once certain lines are crossed.”
He takes a breath, then continues, speaking deliberately.
“When two Champions fight, the entire world watches. But I have always wondered: what exactly are they watching for? The techniques? The scale? Maybe. But if you look too closely, you will see that it is not a fight but a collapse. It is the mont all the rules stop applying.”
He speaks as if he were explaining a concept he’s considered all too often.
“Even the strongest formations and arrays, even our reinforced cities, despite being designed to survive right on the edge of the battlefield, all of it becos irrelevant once both sides stop holding back. The ambient mana alone begins to rewrite the terrain. Not intentionally, just as a byproduct of who we are.”
He glances upward briefly, then back ahead, glancing between a few people in the dead silent crowd.
“There is this idea that a fight between Champions is a contest of wills. It is not. In my opinion, it is a contest of consequences. It is a show of how much destruction one side is willing to tolerate for the sake of victory.”
He takes a few steps that seem to echo much like his voice.
“I used to think the danger was the violence itself: the cities falling, the land splitting, the disruptions to the weather, not to ntion the permanent environntal changes, leaving entire continents uninhabitable. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to think the real danger is how quickly everything breaks down once a Champion stops caring about the cost. Because the other one must match that disregard just to survive.”
Those last two sentences resonate in my mind. There is sothing about them I know I will rember for later reflection.
The selari man’s eyes narrow slightly, his expression thoughtful, though not unkind.
“You can prepare for the arrival of a Champion. You can build defenses. But what do you do when two of them treat the battlefield itself as expendable? When mana stops flowing around the world and starts carving paths through it?”
He lets that question hang without rushing to fill the silence.
“That is what they do not teach you here. It is not because it is too advanced, but because there is nothing you can do about it. There is no defense, you can only delay. There is no victory, only a lesser loss. At least, that is what I think, for whatever it is worth.”
He pauses, then finally adds, “So, if you ever hear that two Champions are fighting, do not think about watching. Do not analyze. Just ask yourself one question: how far are you from the epicenter?”
And with that, he falls silent, his expression unreadable, and very slowly, he smiles. It is a tired but sowhat gentle smile.
He then speaks further about his travels, interactions with other Champions, and similar topics, but none of it sticks in my mind like that beginning.
Barely a few hours after the visiting Champion departs, I find myself stand behind Professor Elian during our third lesson together.
Even as the professor instructs to provide orbs for all thirty eight students present, my thoughts remain elsewhere. I observe Elian and wonder why he feels so similar to that Champion. Is it just a mask he wears, an aura cultivated by the scions of powerful families? Is it an arrogance rooted in his skills? Is he hiding sothing?
“Assistant Professor Gwyn, may I ask you to lower the difficulty of the orbs you’ve created for the students so that they can practice?” His voice scolds, bringing back to the class.
I examine my orbs and observe the students. Although thirty eight orbs hover in the class, and all the students give their utmost effort, not a single orb wavers under their disruption attempts.
Apologizing, I lower the difficulty as requested and refocus on the lesson.
Later that day, as we talk in the Community, Izzy chatters away about the transfer student. As she ntioned before, the student is a ten-year-old human girl and, as rumored, she is strong, possibly approaching level 350.
All that without the help of the tutorial... I pause my thoughts. Or maybe not? What if she ca from a different planet that just ended its tutorial, making her part of the First Generation? What a fascinating thought.
I ntion my theory in the Community, and so of them seem to find it as fascinating as I do. Yet still, Izzy warns not to rush into anything. As much as there are rules in the Academy, they are worth nothing if sobody breaks them and kills you before you manage to file a complaint.
So another person gets added to the mix. Tyven, Ari, that human girl, Elian, and god knows who else.
I also notice an unusual rush as a number of servants move through the Academy. They try to avoid notice, but sothing about them feels off, if only from their twitchy movents and erratic heartbeats.
When I ntion it in the Community, Izzy confirms it as well. She doesn't probe too deeply, but sothing seems to have happened.
A bit later, despite the rules and possible breach of decorum, multiple powerful, large-area scans sweep across the entire Academy and likely reach much farther. In addition, I notice a few flying figures, resembling search helicopters, scanning the area around the Academy.
Observing them, I head to the offices to et the head accountant, who doesn’t make wait long. Soon, I enter a very nice office, where I am offered sothing to drink and snacks as I sit in a very comfortable armchair and wait for just a few seconds while a short man with a well-kept beard goes through the docunts.
"Here it is! Assistant Professor Nathaniel Gwyn. As per your instructions, your salary is to be paid weekly, in person, and as you have noted, it just happens to be payday."
"Seems like it," I confirm.
"Well, give a mont then." He uses his mana to create a difficult, quickly changing mana pattern that unlocks a smaller safe behind him.
Reaching inside, he withdraws a small tal disc and hands it to . "May I ask you to channel just a tiny bit of your mana into this?"
I do as I am told, and the thing lights up.
"Great, your identity has been confird. Now, as an Assistant Professor under Professor Elian, you are to be paid..." He quickly reads the docunt. "...exactly eight obsidian drachs per week."
He turns again, reaching into another safe that seems to be even more secure. From it, he draws a set of tiny, obsidian-black rods of tal. He counts eight of them, places them into a nice pouch, then closes it and sets it on a silver tray laid out on the table, and moves the tray over to .
"May I ask if everything is in order with your salary, Assistant Professor Gwyn?"
"Yes, it is," I confirm and stand up.
Still extrely nice and polite, he follows by my side, not attempting small talk, and walks with until we exit the offices, where he wishes a nice day.
Not caring that much about how it might look, I pick one of the tiny black cylinders and examine it a bit before throwing it back inside the pouch.
Before I even reach my rooms, I find out the reason for the erratic mood the Academy seems to have fallen into.
The selari Champion has been found dead on Academy grounds.
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