The Headmaster's office was an imposing space on the academy's top floor, overlooking the entire campus. Headmaster Aldric Thornsworth was a stern man in his seventies, Platinum Rank cultivation, and known for his zero-tolerance approach to student violence outside sanctioned combat.
He sat behind an enormous desk made of ancient oak, his hands steepled, studying Marcus with eyes that had seen everything over five decades of teaching.
Professor Kellan stood to the side, having already explained the situation.
"Marcus Aldrich," Thornsworth said finally. "In my fifty years as headmaster, I've seen students fight, duel, brawl, and occasionally attempt murder. But I've never seen someone inflict that level of damage with a single punch in the middle of the dining hall."
Marcus said nothing. He'd learned that silence was often the best defense.
"Damian Ashcroft will recover," Thornsworth continued. "Master-grade healing potions are expensive, but his family can afford them. He'll be fully healed within three days. However, the psychological impact of having his sternum shattered may take longer to heal."
"He challenged me to fight," Marcus said simply. "Multiple times. In front of witnesses. Called me insulting names. Implied I was weak and cowardly. I accepted his challenge and proved him wrong."
"You could have refused."
"I've been refusing for months. He wouldn't stop."
Thornsworth leaned back in his chair. "Professor Kellan, your assessment?"
"Damian Ashcroft has been harassing Mr. Aldrich since the semester began," Kellan admitted. "I've received multiple reports from other professors. Ashcroft views himself as superior to non-combat students and frequently bullies those he perceives as weak. Today, he pushed too far."
"And Mr. Aldrich's response was... disproportionate."
"Disproportionate?" Marcus spoke up. "He challenged me to a duel. I used appropriate Bronze Rank force for a Bronze Rank opponent. The fact that he couldn't defend himself isn't my problem—it's his. If he wanted to avoid injury, he shouldn't have challenged someone to a fight."
Thornsworth studied Marcus for a long moment. "You make a valid point. However, the location was inappropriate, and the level of damage suggests you held nothing back. Most students would have pulled their punch."
"Why? He wanted to see if I could fight. I showed him. Holding back would have been dishonest."
A ghost of a smile crossed the headmaster's face. "You're either remarkably straightforward or remarkably clever. I haven't decided which." He tapped his desk thoughtfully. "Here's my ruling: no formal punishment. Damian challenged you publicly, and you accepted. However, you will pay for his healing potions—10,000 gold. Consider it a lesson in proportional response."
Marcus nodded. "Acceptable."
"Additionally, you're now required to participate in the Freshers Tournament."
Marcus's head snapped up. "What? Why?"
"Because you've just demonstrated combat ability that every student in the academy is now talking about. If you don't compete, rumors will spread that you're afraid, that the punch was a fluke, that you can only fight when your opponent isn't ready. Entering the tournament will settle the matter definitively."
"I'm an alchemist, not a fighter."
"You're both, apparently. You have three days to register. That's final."
After leaving the headmaster's office, Marcus walked through the academy corridors in a foul mood. This was exactly the kind of attention he didn't want. Now he'd have to enter the tournament, which meant public combat, which meant people studying his techniques, which meant potential connections to his Phantom identity if he wasn't careful.
Damian Ashcroft had gotten exactly what he wanted—forcing Marcus into the spotlight.
"Marcus!"
He turned to find Lyra jogging to catch up with him, slightly out of breath.
"That was incredible," she said, her eyes bright with excitement. "One punch! I've never seen anything like it. The way you channeled your mana reinforcement, the precision of the strike—where did you learn to fight like that?"
"Books," Marcus said curtly.
"Books don't teach you to hit that hard. That was practical experience." She fell into step beside him. "So you're entering the tournament now?"
"Apparently I have no choice."
"Hey, look at the bright side. The Bronze Rank division prize is worth 5,000 gold and a high-grade mana crystal. You'll probably win easily if you can hit like that."
Marcus doubted it would be that simple. The tournament would have students who'd trained their entire lives for combat. He was skilled at assassination—quick, brutal, efficient. Tournament fighting was different. Rules, judges, non-lethal combat. It would require adjusting his entire approach.
But if the headmaster insisted, he'd participate. And if he participated, he'd make sure to win. Losing would be even more attention-grabbing than winning.
That evening, Marcus registered for the Freshers Tournament under protest. The registration clerk, a cheerful woman named Sarah, took his information with barely concealed excitement.
"Marcus Aldrich! We were hoping you'd enter after that incident in the dining hall. The betting pools are going crazy—some people are giving you 3-to-1 odds to win your division!"
"Fantastic," Marcus said dryly.
"Your first match is in four days. You'll be fighting... let me check... Viktor Steelwind, Bronze Rank - Low Stage. Should be an easy first round for you!"
Marcus took his schedule and left. Back at his warehouse base, he sat down and thought through his strategy.
The tournament would have rounds over three weeks:
Week 1: Preliminary rounds (Bronze Low vs Mid Stage mixed) Week 2: Semi-finals (winners face off) Week 3: Finals (championship match)
He needed to win without revealing his assassination techniques. No poison, no transmutation, no 100x Effect unless absolutely necessary. Just straightforward Bronze Rank combat.
Which meant he'd need to actually train like a normal fighter for the first time since arriving in this world.
Marcus spent the next three days doing something he'd never done before: practicing conventional combat. He worked with training dummies in his warehouse, focusing on basic sword work, hand-to-hand combat, and defensive techniques.
His body remembered things from his assassination work—footwork, angles, timing. But he had to consciously avoid lethal strikes and aim for tournament-appropriate techniques instead.
It was surprisingly difficult to fight while intentionally not killing.
On the fourth day, Marcus stood in the academy arena's preparation room, wearing light combat armor provided by the tournament organizers. His opponent, Viktor Steelwind, was in the opposite room—a lean young man from a military family, confident and well-trained.
The arena was packed. Five thousand people had come to watch the preliminary rounds, and Marcus's match was particularly anticipated given the dining hall incident.
"Bronze Rank Division, Match 7!" the announcer called. "Marcus Aldrich versus Viktor Steelwind!"
Marcus walked into the arena, and the crowd's reaction was immediate—a mix of cheers, jeers, and excited betting. He could hear snippets:
"That's the one who shattered Ashcroft's chest!"
"Look at him! He's huge!"
"My money's on Steelwind—Aldrich is too slow!"
Marcus ignored them all, taking his position on one side of the combat floor. Viktor stood opposite, holding a practice sword and looking entirely too confident.
The referee, a Silver Rank professor named Aldwin, stood between them.
"Rules are simple. First to land three clean hits or force surrender wins. Protective wards are active—no lethal strikes will connect. Excessive force will result in disqualification. Understood?"
Both nodded.
"Begin!"
Viktor charged immediately, his sword raised for an overhead strike. Fast, aggressive, textbook opening attack.
Marcus sidestepped and hit him in the ribs with a controlled punch.
"Point to Aldrich!" the referee called.
Viktor stumbled, surprised. He recovered quickly and came again, this time with a more cautious approach. Feint, slash, thrust—a combination designed to overwhelm.
Marcus blocked the feint, parried the slash, and caught Viktor's wrist during the thrust. He twisted, disarmed him, and punched him lightly in the chest.
"Point to Aldrich!"
The crowd was getting louder now, sensing that this wasn't going to be competitive.
Viktor retrieved his sword, breathing hard. "Lucky shots."
"If you say so."
The third exchange lasted longer as Viktor used everything he'd learned—footwork, combination attacks, defensive positioning. He was genuinely skilled, probably in the top twenty percent of Bronze - Low Stage fighters.
Marcus waited for an opening, then swept Viktor's legs and tapped him on the head as he fell.
"Point to Aldrich! Match over! Winner: Marcus Aldrich!"
The crowd erupted—some cheering, some booing, many counting their lost bets. Viktor lay on the ground, staring at the ceiling in disbelief.
Marcus offered him a hand up. "You're better than most. Just not better than me."
"Apparently," Viktor muttered, accepting the help.
As Marcus left the arena, he could hear the announcers already hyping his next match:
"Ladies and gentlemen, Marcus Aldrich advances with a perfect score! His next opponent will be Helena Darkwater, Bronze Rank - Mid Stage specialist in lightning magic! Can anyone stop the powerhouse alchemist?!"
Marcus sighed. Three more weeks of this. Three weeks of public combat, constant attention, and pretending he was just a talented student and not a serial assassin who'd killed dozens of people.
This was going to be exhausting.