The atmosphere in the grand auditorium was electric. It was the first day of the Inter-Class Championship, and the energy was a physical force, buzzing with anticipation and nerves. The stands were packed. Not just with first-years, but with the entire student body. The second-years lounged with an air of bored superiority, here to scout the new blood or just enjoy the show. I even spotted scouts from smaller guilds in a designated section, their eyes sharp and analytical.
Up in the VIP booth sat the Headmaster, his magnificent beard looking especially official, alongside all the professors. I saw Professor Vance watching with calm interest, Instructor Borin looking like a proud (and terrifying) father, and Professor Petal cheering for everyone like it was a bake-off.
The format was simple and brutal: single elimination. Lose once, and you're out. But even losers would be graded on performance, so there was still pressure to put on a good show.
One by one, names were called. I watched as my classmates fought. Some won, some lost. Then Snow Menikins was called. She glided into her arena, faced a boy from Class 4 who could generate weak light shields, and ended the match in ten seconds by flash-freezing the entire floor of the arena, sending him slipping and sliding uncontrollably until he conceded. The crowd cheered. The teachers nodded in approval. She was a known quantity, and she delivered.
Then, my name echoed through the stadium.
"**For Class 1... Ron Sanchez!**"
A few murmurs went through the crowd. The guy who beat Snow. The telekinetic.
"**Versus, for Class 2... Robert Widinson!**"
A large guy with a neck thicker than my thigh and a haircut that screamed "I punch walls for fun" stood up from the Class 2 section. He cracked his knuckles loudly and shot me a grin that was all teeth and no warmth. We walked to our assigned arena, number 3.
He was huge up close. A classic C-Type physical strength build. Probably a [Brawler] or a [Brute] class. I could practically smell the protein shakes on him. As we entered the ring, he made a crude hand gesture across his throat. *'I'm going to kill you,'* it said.
I didn't flinch. I just smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was the kind of smile a spider gives a fly that's just landed in its web. Wide, a little unhinged, and full of quiet confidence.
The referee gave the signal. The electronic *DING* rang out.
Robert Widinson dropped into a fighter's stance, muscles coiling to launch a devastating charge.
He never got the chance.
I didn't wave my hands. I didn't even tense up. I just *thought* it.
A massive, invisible net of [Puppet Strings] erupted from me, latching onto every limb of his body. I didn't try to control him delicately. I treated him like the sack of meat and muscle he was.
With a casual flick of my will, I *yanked*.
He was lifted clean off his feet with a startled grunt, soaring five meters into the air. The crowd's murmur turned into a gasp of confusion. Before gravity could even think about pulling him back down, I reversed the force and *slammed* him back into the arena floor like a meteor.
***BOOOOOOM.***
The sound was colossal, a percussive blast that echoed through the entire auditorium and drowned out all other matches. The reinforced concrete of the arena floor cratered under the impact, a spiderweb of cracks radiating out from where Robert's body had landed.
He didn't move. He was out cold before he even knew what hit him.
Silence.
For a full three seconds, the only sound was the faint ringing in everyone's ears. Every single eye in the entire stadium was locked on Arena 3. The other seven fights had stopped dead. The second-years were no longer lounging; they were leaning forward, eyes wide. The guild scouts were frantically tapping on their tablets.
Then, the announcer's voice, shaky with disbelief, broke the silence. "R-Ron Sanchez... wins!"
The silence shattered into a tidal wave of noise—not cheers, but a roar of pure, undiluted shock and confusion.
"What just happened?!"
"Did he just telekinetically slam him?"
"I didn't see anything! He didn't even move!"
"Is he even breathing?!"
Up in the booth, the Headmaster's bushy eyebrows were trying to escape into his hairline. He turned to Instructor Borin, who was sporting a massive, shit-eating grin.
"Borin? Analysis?" the Headmaster asked, his voice low.
"Not telekinesis, sir," Borin rumbled, his voice full of pride. "Too physical. Too much *impact*. That was pure, applied force. Precise, brutal, and efficient. The kid's a natural."
Professor Vance simply nodded, a small, intrigued smile on her lips. "The application of force was... remarkably direct."
I didn't milk the moment. I just turned and walked out of the arena as the medics rushed in with a stretcher. I went back to my seat in the Class 1 section and sat down, perfectly calm.
The students around me edged away slightly, looking at me not with camaraderie, but with a new kind of wary awe. I ignored them all, staring straight ahead at the next match as if nothing had happened.
Inside, though, I was doing backflips. *It worked! The Silk Shield didn't just defend; it made my strings strong enough to manhandle a guy twice my size without breaking a sweat!*
My next fight couldn't come soon enough. This was way more fun than I thought it would be.