Marcus spent the evening after his first tournament match in his warehouse base, brewing potions and trying to ignore the fact that he was now the subject of intense academy gossip. His demolition of Viktor Steelwind had been efficient, clinical, and apparently "terrifying" according to the student newspaper's dramatic coverage.
"The Alchemist Warrior Shows His Claws!" read the headline. Marcus crumpled the paper and tossed it aside.
His next match was in two days against Helena Darkwater, Bronze Rank - Mid Stage like himself, but specializing in lightning magic. According to the tournament brackets he'd reviewed, she'd won her first match in under thirty seconds by paralyzing her opponent with a lightning bolt.
Fast, aggressive, ranged combat specialist. Everything that countered close-quarters fighters like Marcus.
He'd need a strategy.
Marcus pulled out his alchemy notes and began reviewing anti-lightning preparations. Rubber-based coating potions, electrical resistance elixirs, grounding enchantments. He could create several defensive measures, but tournament rules prohibited bringing outside potions or equipment beyond basic armor.
So he'd have to fight conventionally. Dodge, close distance, overwhelm her before she could leverage her range advantage.
Simple in theory. Difficult in practice against someone who could throw lightning bolts.
A knock on his warehouse door interrupted his planning. Marcus tensed—very few people knew about this location. He grabbed one of his poisoned daggers and approached cautiously.
"Marcus, I know you're in there. It's Lyra."
He relaxed slightly but kept the dagger ready. "How did you find this place?"
"I followed you yesterday after combat class. You're not as subtle as you think."
Damn. Marcus had gotten complacent, too confident in his counter-surveillance. He opened the door slightly.
"What do you want?"
Lyra stood outside, wearing casual clothes and carrying a training bag. Her expression was serious. "To help you prepare for Helena. Can I come in?"
Marcus considered refusing, but Lyra had already seen the warehouse exterior. Refusing now would just make her more suspicious. He opened the door wider.
She entered, looking around at the equipment, workbenches, and stored supplies. Her eyes widened. "This is... a lot more than a student practice space."
"I'm paranoid about being prepared."
"I can see that." She set down her training bag. "Helena Darkwater is my friend. I know how she fights. If you want to beat her, you'll need help."
"Why would you help me beat your friend?"
Lyra smiled. "Because the tournament is about growth and challenge. Helena would want to face you at your best. And honestly, I'm curious to see how far you can go. That punch you threw at Damian... that wasn't normal Bronze Rank power. There was something else there."
Marcus kept his expression neutral. "Just good technique."
"Sure. Whatever you say." She pulled out practice equipment from her bag—padded gloves, protective gear, training weapons. "Helena's strategy is simple: maintain distance, throw lightning bolts until her opponent is paralyzed, then finish with precision strikes. She's fast, mobile, and has excellent mana control."
"So I need to close distance quickly."
"Exactly. But she knows that's her weakness, so she's trained extensively in evasion. You'll need to predict her movements, cut off escape routes, force her into close quarters." Lyra tossed him the padded gloves. "Let's practice. I'll play Helena's role."
For the next two hours, they sparred. Lyra moved like Helena apparently did—quick, evasive, constantly creating distance. She threw balls of light magic that simulated lightning bolts, forcing Marcus to dodge while advancing.
It was frustrating. Every time Marcus closed distance, Lyra slipped away and "hit" him with a light bolt. By tournament rules, three hits would end the match.
"You're too direct," Lyra said after Marcus's tenth failed approach. "You charge straight at your target like you're trying to kill them as fast as possible. That works against slower opponents, but Helena will read you easily."
"So what should I do?"
"Feint. Misdirect. Make her think you're going one way, then go another. You have the physical power to end the fight in one hit—you proved that with Damian. But you need to land that hit first."
They continued training, with Lyra teaching Marcus evasion patterns, feinting techniques, and how to read an opponent's movement tells. It was basic stuff for most fighters, but Marcus had never trained conventionally—his assassination work relied on surprise, overwhelming force, and lethality.
Tournament fighting required finesse he hadn't developed.
By the time they finished, Marcus was sweating and frustrated but noticeably improved.
"Better," Lyra said, slightly out of breath. "You're a quick learner. If you can apply this against Helena, you have a real chance."
"Why are you really helping me?" Marcus asked, studying her face.
Lyra was quiet for a moment. "Because I see something in you that reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone who was brilliant, talented, but kept everyone at arm's length because they were afraid of being vulnerable." She met his eyes. "You have walls, Marcus. Big ones. But I think underneath those walls is someone worth knowing."
Marcus didn't know how to respond to that. Emotional honesty wasn't his strength.
"I should go," Lyra said, packing her equipment. "Match is tomorrow afternoon. Get some rest, eat your usual mountain of food, and trust your instincts. You're better than you think you are."
After she left, Marcus sat thinking. Lyra was perceptive—dangerously so. She'd noticed his walls, his distance, his carefully maintained persona. If she kept watching, she might eventually notice connections between Marcus and Phantom.
That was a problem for later. For now, he had a tournament match to win.