For the days leading up to the Inter-Class Competitions, the entirety of Awakener Supre had plunged into absolute pandemonium.
In the span of a single day, the prestigious academy shed its veneer of an educational institution and transford into a frantic, high-stakes military encampnt.
The threat of starvation in the Bronze Dorms or the promise of Silver and Gold Dorm luxury pushed every student to their breaking point.
Nowhere was this desperation more evident than in the training sectors of the Year One Class Groups.
Inside the training rooms, Instructor Phiodor Blaze pushed the Elentalist-D students through a crucible of every elent possible.
"Wider! Make the blast radius wider!" Phiodor roared, his veins bulging against his neck as a student’s fireball splashed weakly against a reinforced dummy.
"You think the other Class Groups are going to stand still and let you cast? You think a Vanguard Knight won’t charge right through that spark? Burn your Grace! Unleash the tempest or pack your bags for the slums!"
In Specialist-D training, Instructor Dexter Marcist handled the students as he usually did, with care and understanding.
"Precision," Dexter’s voice echoed as he effortlessly parried a lunging Knight and swept the legs out from under a flanking Assassin. "A flashy strike that misses is completely useless. So you must find your target, learn to exploit the blind spot. If you waste your stamina on useless movents in the battleground, you will lose."
For Enchanter-D, Instructor Estelle Nightingale oversaw her students with her usual soft spoken and yet direct tone. Estelle was pretty strict, but she knew when to and when not to.
Estelle taught with a calm elegance that made the room feel quieter the mont she entered. Unlike Phiodor, she did not shout. She guided her students through complexity with patience, though the steel underneath her composure made it clear that she expected them to keep up.
"Your mind must be focused," she lectured, her voice sharp and uncompromising. "As Enchanters, our minds are our strongest strength. It is the core of our powers, not rely Grace. If your mind wavers, your hexes, runes, charms and spells all fall. Do it again. Perfectly this ti."
And finally, Instructor Maecil Gudgarten maintained her overly affectionate, yet surprisingly intense, training regin for Summoner-D.
"Oh, beautiful! Who’s a good Shadow Hound? You are!" she cooed, rubbing a terrifying, multi-eyed wolf before imdiately snapping her gaze to the panting student tethered to it. "But your Grace flow is abysmal! If you don’t give your beast direct orders how do you expect it to follow?! Please, stop joking around and focus!"
The dungeon halls were almost always full.
They were full in the morning, full in the afternoon, full at night. Students from every Year and Class Group kept clearing different ranked Dungeons over and over, working on their teamwork and efficiency.
But the pressure wasn’t just coming from the instructors. The seniors had begun their reign of terror.
All across the academy, seniors began appearing in the lives of younger students like weathered generals returning to inspect troops before a war.
Class Group-C terrorized Class Group-D, Class Group-B terrorized C, and so on. They cornered juniors in hallways, courtyards, dining spaces, and training grounds.
The ssages were not always gentle.
"Let make this crystal clear," a Third-Year Enchanter snarled, lifting a Year One by his collar until his feet dangled off the ground.
"Our Class Group’s Tribute yield pays for my high-tier potions and my Silver Dorm suite. If you weaklings fumble in the lower-bracket matches and drag our overall scores down, I won’t wait for the administration to punish you. I will personally shatter your legs before the enemies even get a chance. Understand?"
The junior nodded frantically, eyes wide with terror as the senior dropped him to the floor.
Similar ssages spread around the academy.
"Don’t embarrass us or you’ll die."
"If your Year loses badly, it affects all of us."
"You think I got where I am by being sloppy? Fix your stance."
"Do not bring the Class Group down, kid. I know your na so I’ll check your score. If it’s low, I’m definitely making my errand boy until I graduate!"
So of the older students offered advice with practical frustration. Others leaned closer and made the warning sound more like a threat. A few were clearly enjoying the pressure they were putting on the younger years.
The tension between Years sharpened by the day, and even the students who had once dismissed the competitions as distant now had to reckon with the reality that lower performance ant they would be a bully target for years.
As the days bled into one another, the tension was magnified by the colossal construction project taking place directly above their heads.
Because of how massive the Inter-Class Competitions were, the event couldn’t take place on the Academy’s field. Instead, the platform was being constructed in the sky.
Right above the spires of Awakener Supre, a massive, floating island was being built, held aloft by magic thrusters. It was a stadium with a magic shape-shifting chanic, allowing it to rearrange its topography depending on what challenge was about to be done.
Day after day, students and professors alike would stop in the courtyards, craning their necks upward to watch builders construct the platform.
"Look at the scale of it," Kasto muttered one afternoon, shielding his eyes from the sun as he stared up at the floating island. "It’s almost unbelievable to witness."
Anita shivered, clutching her books tightly. "If we get knocked off the edge, do the wards catch us, or do we just... fall?"
"Good question," Lancet told her, staring at the thing.
The professors spoke too, when they thought the students were not listening.
"It’s been a long ti since the academy moved this fast," one of them murmured near a balcony.
"That’s because the stakes are higher now," another replied. "Hebthej changed the mood. The funding. The expectations."
"And the Headmistress doesn’t intend to let that montum waste."
"No," the first professor said quietly. "She doesn’t."
In almost no ti at all, the big day arrived.
The grueling week of preparation ended and the morning was filled with nervous chatter all over the campus.
Everyone was wound as tight as a bowstring. Then, the piercing blare of the academy klaxons shattered the noise.
"Attention everyone. The Inter-Class Competitions will comnce now. Everyone, you are to proceed to the exterior courtyards and enter the ascent tubes. May your strength serve your Class Group."
The campus erupted. Tens of thousands of students surged out of the dormitories and halls, a sea of uniforms streaming toward the massive, clear-glass elevator tubes that stretched from the ground all the way up to the floating stadium.
The anticipation in the air was electric; there was dread, excitent, anxiety and raw adrenaline.
Lancet moved with the crowd, feeling the pressure of the day settle into his body as he went. He was excited. Genuinely so.
The Inter-Class Competitions was one of the events that made the light novel very famous, and now he was standing inside it. The Academy was about to shift into a competitive mode he had read about, and his own place in it was about to be tested in ways that mattered.
"Alright, let’s see what this is all about," he muttered to himself, a confident grin spreading across his face.
Lost in his excitent, he took a sharp turn around a blind corner in the administrative wing, moving much too fast.
Thud.
Lancet collided hard with soone stepping out of an office. For a split second, his chest was pressed firmly against a pair of heavy, tender breasts, and his nose was assaulted with the sweet scent of hibiscus and honey.
Realizing what had just happened, Lancet gasped and briskly pulled himself backward, stumbling as he frantically tried to regain his balance. His eyes widened with shock when he saw who was in front of him.
Standing right there, adjusting her spectacles and looking at him with a perfectly calm, yet piercingly strict gaze, was the Enchanter-D instructor.
"Miss Nightingale!" Lancet exclaid.
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