I was sprinting like a lunatic through the grand hall, surrounded by hundreds of other students, all of us scrambling to escape… something.Those maniacs from Gray Wall and Melody Academy had apparently teamed up and decided to play the brilliant strat of "catch all the chickens and butcher them in one go."
"Because it was similar to the previous practical exam, every time we lost we would get teleported elsewhere. That's why every scummy tactic imaginable ended up being used."Since we get teleported elsewhere to recover whenever we "lose" like in the previous practical exam, every scummy tactic in existence gets used without hesitation.
And barely a few hours into the tournament, they already pulled a mass-herding stunt like this. Of course they did.
In case anyone forgot, this tournament groups students by academic year—there are two hundred second-years on this field. We're supposed to survive and eliminate each other until only fifty remain, over a span of up to three days. Items drop randomly throughout the match, increasing in both frequency and power as time goes on.
But somehow—within just a few hours—we'd already been herded straight into a trap.Like low-IQ chickens waddling headfirst into the obvious bait in a battle royale game.
'God, how did I forget something this obvious…?'I clutched my head, internally screaming at my own stupidity. I never claimed to be smart—not even half a letter of it—so forgetting such an elementary tactic wasn't surprising. Still, the timing couldn't be worse.
"Woah—someone stop them!!"
"Are you stupid?! Who the hell would volunteer for that?!"
Panic spread as the ground beneath us softened like overmixed dough. Most of the students clearly weren't used to chaotic brawls like this—they were inexperienced, hesitant.
I ran past them, my steps steady, my expression blank.Not panicking. Not screaming.Just calmly selecting the weakest target and deciding to… use them as a sacrifice.
I grabbed a dwarven student by the collar and stabbed him in the gut. Too physically weak to resist at close range, he could only wheeze out a spell before I covered his mouth.
"Umm—ummm—!"
Then I tossed him—no, threw him—straight into a chaotic cluster of combatants.
Boom.
…
"YOU ABSOLUTE PSYCHO!!" Marcus roared somewhere far behind me, cursing whoever had attacked him.
The mob chasing him moved like the mountain monkeys he used to befriend back home—wild, relentless, and vicious. They cornered him against a cliffside.
The tournament grounds, though technically an arena, included natural survival zones. And Marcus had the misfortune of spawning in a region full of cliffs and ravines.
Worse, not a single person from his own academy wanted to ally with him. In fact, some explicitly wanted him gone.
Clutching a spear, Marcus leapt onto the rock wall, digging his fingers into the protruding stones for support.
BOOM!
Magic-infused arrows exploded around him. Like an oversized monkey himself, he scrambled upward, desperation fueling each frantic motion.
He could only run.There was nothing else he could do.No one could solo this many opponents—not Marcus.
"Ha… ha…"His breath grew heavier. Even with his massive physique, he was losing strength rapidly.
"Motherf—when does this EN—"
Before he could finish, dizziness crashed over him. His grip weakened.He slipped.
'OH YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME—'
Marcus mentally gave up.He let himself fall.
Below him, a mob of bloodthirsty students waited, drool practically dripping from their predatory grins. He stopped resisting and fell freely—dramatic, like in a movie.
And, like in movies, a hero arrived at the last second.Minus the "damsel" part.
A figure shot past Marcus, scooped him up princess-carry style, and continued descending with inhuman agility.
Marcus' eyes widened as he saw his "hero," effortlessly cool and radiating the aura of someone who could steal every spotlight if he wanted.
"Oh my God, Ron, I—"
"Shut up."
My shoulders trembled, teeth grinding, as I braced my feet against the cliffside. I amplified my legs with mana and launched us away under the furious stares of the hunters behind us.
'Why the hell is this idiot so heavy?!'
From a distance, Janeus stood on another cliff, observing the chaos below.She exhaled, raised her bow, and pulled the string taut.
A monster of a shot unfolded—her arrow screaming through the air with terrifying velocity.
It pierced the skull of one pursuer.But walls of stone instantly erupted, blocking any follow-up shots.
Bows looked simple. They weren't.They needed absurd control and technique—more so than most melee weapons.But Janeus was royalty.She'd been trained in everything—combat, killing, strategy.
She retrieved two arrows from her spatial ring—one red, one blue—and fired them at opposite sides of the stone wall.
The arrows embedded themselves and—twisted—as an unnatural force coiled the walls inward like wrung cloth.
She lifted her wrist.
"Western district reporting…"
…
A nameless man drifted through the night toward a hotel.He drew a switchblade, sliced off one of his fingers, and used the exposed bone as a brush, his blood as ink.
He pressed it to the stone wall and began to paint.It looked excruciating.No one cared.
Some pain flows along fate forever—enough to fill books for thousands to read.Some pain never earns even a single lament.
Stroke after stroke, he painted.If he ran out of blood, he carved another finger.If his hands shook, he steadied them forcibly.He painted the one thing he could never forget—something etched deeper than pain itself.
Stab.
A blade pierced his throat—a random patrolling student driving it clean through.
The mural remained.Unfinished.Or finished.No one knew.