Luminaris Academy's Annual Freshers Tournament was the social event of the season. For three weeks, the academy's combat arena would host hundreds of matches between first and second-year students, showcasing their combat abilities before nobles, merchants, and military recruiters looking for promising talent.
The grand arena occupied the academy's eastern courtyard—an enormous circular structure with enchanted seating that could accommodate five thousand spectators. The combat floor itself was protected by powerful wards that prevented fatal injuries while still allowing students to fight with full intensity.
Marcus had zero interest in participating.
He sat in the academy dining hall during lunch, working through his usual pile of food while watching other students buzzing with tournament excitement. Registration had opened yesterday, and half the Bronze Rank students had signed up immediately.
"Marcus!" A cheerful voice called out.
He looked up to see Lyra Brightwind approaching with a tray of food. She'd advanced to Bronze Rank - High Stage recently, making her one of the strongest second-year students. Her silver hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she wore training clothes instead of robes.
"Mind if I sit?" she asked.
"Free country," Marcus said, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.
Lyra sat down and immediately started eating with surprising enthusiasm. "You're not entering the tournament?"
"I'm an alchemist, not a fighter."
"You're also Bronze Rank - Mid Stage now," she pointed out. "I heard you beat Gerald Thornhill in combat class easily. You could compete."
Marcus shrugged, taking another bite of his meat pie. "Fighting in a tournament doesn't interest me. Too much attention, too much risk of injury interrupting my alchemy work. Not worth it."
"Risk of injury? The wards prevent anything serious."
"Wards can fail. Equipment can malfunction. I'd rather spend my time brewing potions."
Lyra studied him with curiosity. "You're an interesting person, Marcus Aldrich. Most students would jump at the chance to showcase their abilities in front of noble recruiters. You got House Thornvale's patronage for your alchemy—that's already more prestigious than anything the tournament could offer."
"Exactly my point."
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Marcus found he didn't mind Lyra's company—she didn't pry into his business or make assumptions about him. She just accepted that he was a fat student who liked food and happened to be unusually talented at alchemy.
"Are you competing?" Marcus asked.
"Of course. I need the combat experience." Lyra smiled. "Plus, the prize for winning your division is a high-grade mana crystal and 5,000 gold. That's three months of cultivation resources."
"You'll probably win your division easily. Bronze - High Stage against mostly Bronze - Low and Mid Stage opponents?"
"There are a few other High Stage students. It'll be competitive." She paused. "You really won't reconsider? The alchemist students have their own exhibition matches—non-combat demonstrations of potion-making skill."
"Still no. I don't perform well under pressure."
That was a lie, of course. Marcus performed excellently under pressure—like when assassinating people who were trying to kill him. But tournament pressure meant scrutiny, questions about his techniques, attention he didn't want.
After Lyra left for training, Marcus remained in the dining hall, reading an advanced alchemy text while eating. The room gradually filled with more students as lunch period progressed.
"Well, well. If it isn't the academy's prize pig."
Marcus didn't need to look up to recognize the voice. Damian Ashcroft—Bronze Rank - Mid Stage, son of a minor noble family, and someone who'd made mocking Marcus his personal hobby since the semester began.
"Ashcroft," Marcus acknowledged without looking up from his book.
"Reading during lunch? How studious." Damian sat down uninvited, flanked by two of his friends—both Bronze - Low Stage students who laughed at everything Damian said. "I'm surprised you're not entering the tournament. Oh wait, no I'm not. They'd have to reinforce the arena floor first."
His friends laughed dutifully.
Marcus turned a page in his book, still not looking up. "Is there something you want, Damian? I'm trying to study."
"Just making conversation with a fellow student. Though I suppose you wouldn't understand the excitement about the tournament. It's for fighters, not... whatever you are."
"An alchemist," Marcus said flatly.
"Right, an alchemist. Because that's a real combat profession." Damian leaned forward. "Tell me, Aldrich, do you ever get tired of being a joke? The fat boy who hides behind potion bottles because he's too weak to actually fight?"
Marcus finally looked up from his book. His expression was perfectly neutral, but his eyes were cold. "I beat Gerald Thornhill in combat class. He's the same rank as you. Draw your own conclusions about what that means."
"Thornhill's a spoiled noble who never trained properly. I'm actually good at fighting." Damian stood up, his hand moving to the practice wand at his belt. "In fact, why don't we settle this right now? You and me, practice duel in the training yard. Let's see if you're actually as capable as you claim."
"Not interested."
"Of course you're not. Because you know you'd lose." Damian's voice grew louder, drawing attention from other students. "The great Marcus Aldrich, Bronze Rank Alchemist, too scared to fight another Bronze Rank student. Maybe you should stick to what you're good at—eating and making potions for real warriors."
Marcus set down his book carefully and stood up. The movement was deliberate, unhurried. At his full height, he was slightly taller than Damian, and his considerable bulk made him significantly more massive.
"You want to fight me?" Marcus asked quietly.
"That's what I said, pig."
"Fine."
The word hung in the air for a moment. Damian's confident smirk faltered slightly—he'd been expecting Marcus to back down, to make excuses, to retreat like he always did from confrontation.
"Right now?" Damian asked, recovering his composure. "Training yard?"
"No. Here."
"Here? In the dining hall? But—"
Marcus's fist hit Damian's chest before he could finish the sentence.
It wasn't a wild swing. It wasn't clumsy or unskilled. It was a perfectly executed punch, channeling Bronze Rank - Mid Stage mana reinforcement through his arm, targeting the exact center of Damian's sternum with surgical precision.
The sound was horrific—a wet crunch that echoed through the suddenly silent dining hall.
Damian flew backward, crashing through three tables before hitting the wall. He slid down to the floor, gasping, his eyes wide with shock and agony. Blood leaked from his mouth.
Marcus stood where he'd thrown the punch, his expression unchanged. "You wanted to see if I could fight. There's your answer."
Students scrambled away from Damian, some screaming for help. Professor Kellan burst into the dining hall thirty seconds later, her Gold Rank aura flaring.
"What happened here?!" she demanded.
"He punched Damian!" one of Ashcroft's friends shouted. "Just attacked him for no reason!"
"That's not true!" Lyra's voice cut through the chaos. She'd returned to the dining hall just in time to witness the punch. "Damian provoked him repeatedly, challenged him to fight, and called him—" she paused, looking at Marcus, "—insulting names. Marcus accepted the challenge."
Professor Kellan moved to Damian and assessed his injuries with diagnostic magic. Her face went pale.
"Multiple fractured ribs, collapsed lung, internal bleeding. His sternum is completely shattered." She pulled out an emergency healing potion and forced it down Damian's throat, then looked at Marcus with something between anger and shock. "You did this with one punch?"
"He challenged me to a duel," Marcus said calmly. "I accepted. He just wasn't ready."
"A duel requires both parties to be armed and in a designated combat area!"
"He had his practice wand. I had my fist. We were both Bronze Rank - Mid Stage. Seems fair to me."
Kellan's jaw clenched. "Headmaster's office. Now. And you—" she pointed at Damian's friends, "—take him to the infirmary."