By mid-afternoon, only eight participants remained. The fatigue was setting in for most, but Lencar felt as fresh as the moment he'd woken up. His "Mana-Forging 2.0" had turned his stamina into a nearly bottomless resource. While the others were panting and drinking water, Lencar was standing in the shade, his eyes fixed on Asta's latest match.
Asta was facing a boy with Light Magic. The spells were fast, but Asta's reflexes were faster. He swung the Demon-Slayer sword, the flat of the blade batting away light-bolts like they were flies.
Observation: Asta's Anti-Magic doesn't just negate; it reflects if hit with the flat of the blade. Variable noted. Do not use projectile-based wind spells against Subject A.
"Next match!" Drouot yelled. "Lencar Abarame versus Aris of Sosie!"
Aris was the only other "prodigy" in the region—a noble-born boy whose family had been relegated to the Forsaken Realm generations ago. He had a four-leaf clover? No, a three-leaf, but it was thick, filled with advanced spells of Sand Magic.
"You've been lucky, blank-book," Aris said, his voice cold. "But wind can't cut sand. It only makes the desert grow."
Aris didn't wait. He clapped his hands together. "Sand Creation Magic: Grand Burial!"
The entire arena floor shifted. The dirt turned to fine, flowing silt, rising up like a tidal wave to swallow Lencar whole. It was a massive amount of mana, likely the boy's entire reserve.
Lencar didn't move. He closed his eyes, sensing the vibrations in the ground through his Mana-Forged soles.
Toggle: Mage Mode. Attribute: Wind.
He didn't use the Tornado. He used the Wind Step he had developed during his six-month training. He channeled the siphoned mana into the soles of his boots.
Command: Atmospheric Ejection.
With a sound like a thunderclap, Lencar was launched upward. He didn't fly; he was propelled. He soared twenty feet into the air, over the crest of the sand-wave.
From his vantage point in the sky, he looked down at Aris. The boy was looking up, his mouth agape. He had expected a struggle; he hadn't expected his opponent to simply delete gravity.
Lencar tilted his body, using his siphoned wind to adjust his trajectory. He came down like a meteor. He didn't use a spell. He just used the momentum of the fall, his fist cocked back.
"Wind... Strike!" he called out, the lie rolling easily off his tongue.
The impact of his landing sent a shockwave of wind and dust throughout the square. The sand "Burial" was blown apart by the sheer kinetic force. Aris was thrown back, his grimoire skidding across the dirt.
Lencar stood in the center of the crater, his breathing perfectly level. He hadn't used even 10% of the siphoned mana pool.
"Winner: Lencar Abarame!"
The Final Stand: Three Outliers, Two Slots
The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, dramatic shadows across the Hage square. The bracket was finished. The final three stood in the center of the ring: Yuno, Asta, and Lencar.
The crowd was buzzing. This was the nightmare scenario for the village. Three of their own, all clearly superior to everyone else, but only two could go.
Tower Master Drouot looked at the three of them, then at the regional magistrate, Lord Fungen, who was watching from a sheltered balcony. Fungen looked annoyed. He had wanted the "trash" filtered out; instead, he had found three monsters.
"The rules state only two can be granted travel passes," Fungen called down, his voice oily and arrogant. "Since we have three of you... we will have a final, three-way free-for-all. The first one to be knocked out or yield is disqualified. The remaining two go to the Capital."
Asta grinned, slamming his fist into his palm. "YES! This is it! I'm gonna take you both down!"
Yuno stepped forward, his wind already swirling around him in a protective, elegant gale. "I won't lose, Asta. And I won't lose to you, Lencar."
Lencar looked at them both. This was the moment of maximum risk. If he fought Yuno, he would be using Yuno's own mana signature against him—the suspicion would reach a breaking point. If he fought Asta, he would have to deal with the Anti-Magic void.
Analysis: The optimal outcome is for Asta and Yuno to engage each other, allowing me to conserve resources and secure the second slot through minimal expenditure.
Lencar opened his grimoire. He let the false three-leaf clover glow with a bright, emerald light.
"I'm ready," Lencar said, his voice a calm anchor in the center of their storm.
The air in Hage became heavy. The three Prodigies of the Hage and Sosei village—the loud dreamer, the silent prodigy, and the calculating analyst—faced each other. To the villagers, it was a battle for glory. To Lencar, it was the final calibration of Phase Four.
The data was about to get very, very interesting.
"Fight!" Drouot screamed.
Asta roared and charged Yuno. Yuno unleashed a blast of wind that cracked the stone of the tower.
Lencar didn't move. He waited. He watched. He was the shadow in the corner of the data, the variable they hadn't yet learned how to solve.
Toggle: Latency check... 0.1 seconds.
"Let the simulation begin," Lencar whispered.
The afternoon sun was a heavy, golden weight hanging over the Hage village square. The dust from the previous three-way skirmish had settled, but the atmosphere remained thick with a jagged, electric tension. Lord Fungen, seated on his velvet-lined balcony, looked like a man who had been forced to watch a particularly dull play. His patience, much like the shade provided by his silk canopy, was rapidly receding.
Below him, the arena had been cleared for the final, decisive match. The ruling from the Magistrate had been swift and bureaucratic: since the three-way fight had ended in a chaotic tangle of dust and unconsciousness, a formal 1v1 would determine the second and final qualifier for the Royal Capital.
Lencar Abarame stood on the eastern side of the ring. His tunic was tattered, and a thin line of dried blood traced a path down his jaw, but his eyes remained as cold and clear as mountain water. Opposite him stood Asta. The boy was a mess of bruises and grit, his black grimoire hovering beside him like a dark omen. He gripped the hilt of the Demon-Slayer sword, his knuckles white, his breathing heavy but rhythmic.
"Begin!" Tower Master Drouot shouted, though his voice lacked its earlier vigor. He, too, was beginning to feel the weight of the day's anomalies.
Asta didn't wait. He never did. He exploded forward, a grey blur of motion. "HAAAAAA!"
Lencar didn't move until the rusted edge of the black blade was inches from his throat. He performed a Wind Step, a sharp, 0.1-second burst of siphoned mana to his heels that propelled him laterally. He didn't just dodge; he calculated the minimum distance required to avoid the swing, preserving every ounce of kinetic energy.
Data Point: Subject A (Asta). Recovery time between swings: 0.6 seconds. Swing arc: 120 degrees. Anti-Magic field diameter: 2 meters.
"You can't keep running, Lencar!" Asta roared, pivoting on his heel and bringing the sword around in a low, sweeping horizontal cut.
Lencar jumped, the wind beneath his boots acting as a pneumatic lift. He soared over the blade, his eyes never leaving Asta's form.
Five minutes passed. To the crowd, it was a mesmerizing display of cat-and-mouse. Asta was a relentless storm of strikes, each one capable of shattering stone. Lencar was a ghost, a series of after-images and precision shifts.
Lencar wasn't trying to win. Not yet. He was Harvesting.
Every time Asta swung the sword, Lencar was measuring the "Negation Radius." He was watching how the Anti-Magic interacted with the ambient mana in the air. He was studying Asta's physical fatigue—noticing the slight dip in his left shoulder, the microscopic tremor in his grip.
Analysis: Asta's physical base is immense, but the metabolic cost of swinging a hundred-pound slab of iron is rising. At the current rate, his efficiency will drop below 60% in ten minutes.
Ten minutes. The villagers began to whisper. They had expected a quick resolution—a flash of wind or a crushing blow. Instead, they were watching an exercise in endurance. Asta was drenched in sweat, his skin steaming in the cooling air. Lencar was equally exhausted, his siphoned mana pool beginning to show a "Low Resource" warning in his mind.
"Fight him, Lencar!" Asta panted, his voice raspy from the dust. "Stop... stop dodging! Let's settle this!"
Lencar landed softly on the edge of the crater. "Efficiency, Asta. To fight you head-on while you are at 100% output is a high-risk gamble. I am waiting for the variables to align in my favor."
"Variables?!" Asta charged again, his movements becoming more animalistic, more desperate. He threw the sword, a spinning wheel of black metal, but Lencar simply leaned back, letting the blade whistle past his nose by a hair's breadth.
Asta caught the hilt on the rebound, but the impact sent a shudder through his tired arms.
Fifteen minutes had elapsed. The sun was now a bruised purple on the horizon. The crowd was no longer cheering; they were weary. Lord Fungen, however, was past weary. He was insulted.
The Magistrate stood up, his silk robes rustling as he slammed his hand onto the balcony railing.
"Enough!" Fungen's voice boomed, amplified by a small magic tool at his collar. "This is a disgrace! I did not come to this backwater hovel to watch two peasants play tag in the dirt! I have a dinner engagement in the regional capital, and I will not spend another minute in this dust!"
Lencar and Asta both paused, looking up at the balcony.
Fungen pointed a fat, jeweled finger at the ring. "You have sixty seconds. Complete the fight quickly, or I will end it myself and decide the winner based on who looks more like a proper knight! And believe me, neither of you is winning that contest!"
Asta's eyes widened. "What?! You can't do that! That's... that's totally unfair!"
Lencar, however, didn't argue. He looked at the Magistrate, then at the "Low Mana" indicator in his internal monologue.
Variable Changed: External Time Constraint.
Probability of Fungen choosing Asta: 5%.
Probability of Fungen choosing me: 10%.
Probability of Fungen choosing neither and picking a random noble: 85%.
"Phase Six: Hard Termination," Lencar whispered.
Lencar didn't open his grimoire to the Wind page. He didn't use the Chain. He closed the book and tucked it into his holster.
Asta saw the change in posture. He saw Lencar's breathing stop—not because he was out of air, but because he was concentrating every ounce of Mana-Forging into a single, localized point.
"Here I come, Lencar!" Asta roared, putting everything he had left into a vertical overhead strike.
Lencar didn't dodge. For the first time in fifteen minutes, he moved forward.
He stepped inside the reach of the sword. The black blade descended toward his head, but Lencar's head was no longer there. He had dropped into a low, terrifyingly powerful crouch.
He channeled the last of his siphoned mana—the very dregs of the wind energy—into his right elbow and fist. He didn't use it to create a tornado. He used it as a Pneumatic Piston. He compressed the air behind his elbow, building a pressure differential so high that the air itself began to glow with a faint, green heat.
"Mana-Enhanced... Kinetic Strike!"
Lencar drove his fist upward. It wasn't a "Wind Magic" spell. It was a physical punch backed by the kinetic force of a high-pressure ejection.
CRACK.
The sound was like a lightning strike. The punch caught Asta squarely in the solar plexus, just beneath the edge of his Anti-Magic field. The kinetic energy didn't negate; it transferred.
Asta's eyes went wide. The wind was knocked out of him so violently that he couldn't even scream. He was launched five feet into the air, his black sword falling from his limp fingers and clattering into the dirt.
Lencar stood in the center of the ring, his right arm trembling, steam rising from his bruised knuckles.
Asta hit the ground with a heavy thud. He tried to push himself up, his hands clawing at the dirt, his face a mask of shock and agony. He looked at Lencar, a single, silent "Why?" in his eyes, before his head slumped forward.
"Winner: Lencar Abarame!" Drouot yelled, his voice filled with a mix of relief and awe.
The Final Gambit
Lencar stood over Asta, his chest heaving. He felt empty. Truly empty. The siphoned mana pool was at 0.5%. His physical muscles were screaming from the sheer force of the final strike.
"Excellent!" Lord Fungen clapped his hands, though the gesture was hollow. "Finally, some results. Now, since we have the two winners, let us proceed to the final ceremonial match to determine the regional champion! Yuno versus Lencar! Begin immediately!"
Lencar looked toward the tree where Yuno was standing. The four-leaf prodigy pushed off the bark, his expression unreadable. He walked toward the ring, his golden eyes fixed on Lencar's right arm. He had seen the "Wind Piston." He had seen the signature.
Analysis: Yuno is at 90% capacity. He has been observing my movements for twenty minutes. If I fight him now, I have two choices:
Use another attribute (Chain, Fire, Water) and reveal my Replica nature to the entire village and the Magistrate.
Try to fight him with zero mana and 100% physical fatigue, leading to a humiliating defeat and potential injury.
Yuno stepped into the ring, his wind already beginning to swirl around him. "Lencar. Show me that punch again. I want to see exactly how you're using... my kind of magic."
Lencar looked at the travel pass sitting on the Magistrate's table. He had already secured the objective. He was in the top two. The title of "Champion of Hage" held zero tactical value in his 15-year plan. In fact, it was a liability.
Lencar raised a hand.
"I give up," Lencar said.
The square went dead silent. Asta, who was being helped up by Sister Lily, froze. Yuno stopped mid-stride, his brows furrowing in genuine confusion.
"What did you say?" Lord Fungen barked from the balcony.
"I yield," Lencar repeated, his voice calm and steady. "I have exhausted my mana supply in the match against Asta. To continue against a mage of Yuno's caliber in my current state would result in a 99% probability of severe injury without any gain in outcome. I have already secured the qualification. There is no logical reason to continue."
"You... you coward!" a voice from the crowd yelled. "Fight him!"
Yuno stared at Lencar. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed. And more than that, he looked suspicious. "You're quitting? After that last punch? You still had enough to move."
"Moving is not fighting, Yuno," Lencar replied, closing his eyes for a moment to dull the throbbing in his head. "I'm a data analyst. I know when a project has reached its margin of diminishing returns. I won't be beaten for no reason."
Internal Monologue: And more importantly, I won't let you see my mana signature for another second. You're already too close to the truth.
Lord Fungen scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Tch. A peasant with common sense. Rare, but boring. Very well! If the boy yields, the final results stand! Yuno is the regional champion of Hage! Lencar Abarame takes the second slot!"
Fungen stood up, signaling his guards. "Drouot, give them their passes. I'm leaving. This air smells too much like poverty."
18:00 – The Aftermath
The sun had finally vanished, leaving Hage in a cool, blue twilight. Lencar stood at the edge of the square, holding the small, official travel pass in his hand. It was a heavy piece of parchment with the golden seal of the Magic Knights.
Sister Lily was walking Asta back to the church, the boy's head hanging low. He had lost. He wasn't going to the capital. The silence from Asta was the loudest thing in the village.
Yuno walked up to Lencar, his travel pass tucked into his belt. He didn't offer a congratulatory hand.
"You did that on purpose," Yuno said.
"I saved my strength for the journey," Lencar replied.
"No," Yuno stepped closer, his voice a whisper that only Lencar could hear. "You gave up because you didn't want me to see your grimoire open for too long. You're hiding something, Lencar. Something about that wind."
Lencar looked Yuno in the eye. For a second, Kenji Tanaka stared out from the fifteen-year-old's face—a cold, adult gaze that made Yuno's mana flare in an instinctive defensive reaction.
"We both got what we wanted, Yuno," Lencar said. "Let's leave it at that."
Lencar turned and walked toward his farmhouse. He was exhausted, his body was in pain, and he had just crushed the dreams of his childhood friend. But as he looked at the travel pass, he felt a surge of cold, analytical satisfaction.
Phase Four: Integration... Complete.
Phase Five: The Royal Capital... is now the primary objective.
He had siphoned the magic. He had gamed the system. He had secured the ticket.
As he reached his front door, Lencar looked back at the giant demon skull one last time. He wasn't a hero, and he wasn't a rival. He was a survivor who had just moved his first pawn across the board of a kingdom.
"See you in the capital, Yuno," Lencar whispered. "Where the datasets are much, much bigger."