The announcement board outside the eastern arena was already surrounded by students when he arrived.
Which was impressive, considering it was barely dawn and most first years still walked like their souls had not fully loaded into their bodies.
Cadet 317 stood at the edge of the crowd and stared at the neatly posted parchment.
Scholarship Duel Evaluation Participants.
He did not need to read it to know what he would find.
Silver haired aura prodigy.Opponent. Third year transfer.Sponsor. House Velcrest.
There it was.
Exactly as written in the novel.
He scanned the names anyway.
Her name was third from the top.
Her opponent was unfamiliar to most first years, but not to him. In the novel, he had been described as physically overwhelming, technically average, politically useful.
Translation. Hired hammer.
The purpose of this duel had never been about victory. It had been about injury.
He stepped back from the board.
Around him, students whispered.
"Velcrest is backing that transfer student."
"She offended them during ranking evaluations."
"I heard she refused their offer."
Of course she did.
She had always refused.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
In the original timeline, she would win narrowly. She would take a heavy hit to the ribs. It would slow her reaction time during the dungeon arc.
That injury would matter.
The system flickered faintly in his peripheral vision.
Event ApproachingKnown Outcome RecordedInterference Risk ModerateReward for Positive Divergence Increased
He frowned slightly.
"You're really not subtle, are you?"
The system remained professionally silent.
The eastern arena was circular, surrounded by stone seating that rose in tiers. Faculty members gathered near the front. Noble sponsors occupied a shaded balcony with an air of polite superiority.
He slipped into the lower rows, choosing a seat that did not stand out.
He was not important.
He intended to remain that way.
For now.
A murmur rippled through the arena as the participants entered from opposite gates.
Her opponent walked in first.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Expression bored. He carried his practice blade like someone who enjoyed breaking things that could not break back.
Then she entered.
Silver hair tied neatly. Wooden sword at her side. Posture straight. Calm.
The sunlight caught the edge of her blade as she stepped into the center.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Just quiet focus.
The instructor overseeing the evaluation stepped forward.
"This duel is conducted under academy regulation," he announced. "First to incapacitation or surrender. Excessive force will result in penalty."
The transfer student smirked faintly.
Excessive force.
He remembered that line.
He also remembered how meaningless it had been.
The signal was given.
They moved at the same time.
Wood struck wood.
The sound echoed cleanly across the arena.
The transfer student relied on power. Heavy swings. Broad arcs. He forced her backward with sheer strength.
She gave ground deliberately. Not retreating. Adjusting.
Her footwork was precise.
The watching students murmured in appreciation.
Cadet 317 watched something else.
The timing.
In the novel, the decisive moment came when she shifted left instead of right. A calculated risk. It exposed her side for half a second. The transfer student anticipated it and drove his blade into her ribs.
She would still win.
But she would pay for it.
He leaned forward slightly.
The exchange intensified.
She deflected a downward strike. Countered with a clean thrust. He twisted away, barely avoiding it.
The rhythm accelerated.
Then it happened.
She stepped left.
Exactly as before.
The transfer student's eyes sharpened.
He adjusted his grip.
Cadet 317 felt it before it landed.
That strike.
Too angled.
Too deliberate.
It was not meant to knock her down.
It was meant to break something.
His heart thudded once.
Do nothing.
Seventy eight percent.
Interfere.
Divergence increases.
His fingers tightened against the stone seat.
This was not the dungeon.
This was earlier.
Safer.
Lower risk.
The strike came down.
He moved.
Not dramatically. Not heroically.
He did something very simple.
He channeled the fragile thread of mana he had stabilized yesterday.
And he released it into the ground.
A tiny pulse.
Weak. Barely noticeable.
But enough.
The stone beneath the transfer student's rear foot shifted slightly.
Not a crack.
Not a collapse.
Just the faintest uneven tilt.
The transfer student's balance faltered.
Just a fraction.
His strike landed.
But the angle was wrong.
The wooden blade hit her shoulder instead of her ribs.
Still strong.
Still painful.
But not crippling.
Her eyes flashed.
She stepped inside his reach.
Her wooden sword struck his wrist.
A sharp crack.
His grip broke.
Her next movement was precise.
Blade to throat.
Silence filled the arena.
The instructor raised a hand.
"Victory. Silver division."
Applause erupted.
The transfer student stared at the ground in confusion.
He had not understood what had happened.
Neither had most of the audience.
Cadet 317 slowly leaned back into his seat.
His pulse was loud in his ears.
A notification flickered.
Plot Divergence IncreasedCritical Injury AvoidedDivergence plus 1.8 percentSurvival Probability 15 percent
He exhaled slowly.
Three percent.
For that tiny shift.
Worth it.
Down in the arena, she rolled her shoulder once. Testing it.
She winced slightly.
But her posture remained steady.
No broken ribs.
No internal damage.
Small change.
Large consequence.
Her gaze swept the lower stands briefly.
It passed over him.
Paused.
Returned.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Not suspicion.
Recognition.
He looked away immediately, pretending to study the arena wall as if stone architecture fascinated him deeply.
Do not look guilty.
Do not look accomplished.
Look unimportant.
The applause faded.
The transfer student exited stiffly, escorted by a faculty member.
Noble sponsors whispered among themselves in the balcony.
House Velcrest would not be pleased.
He stood slowly as the crowd began to disperse.
That had been subtle.
He hoped.
He stepped down from the seating area.
And nearly walked directly into her.
Silver hair.
Steel gray eyes.
Up close again.
"You were here," she said calmly.
"That is generally how spectating works."
Her gaze did not waver.
"Your mana control improved quickly."
He froze internally.
"Is that so?"
"There was a fluctuation," she said. "Minor. From the lower stands."
His mind ran several calculations at once.
Deny.Deflect.Admit nothing.
"You must have impressive sensory range," he replied lightly.
"I do."
Of course she did.
She studied him for a long second.
"You interfered."
Not a question.
A statement.
He tilted his head slightly.
"With what?"
She held his gaze.
The air between them felt sharper now.
Around them, students continued to leave the arena, giving them little privacy but enough noise to mask the conversation.
He let out a small breath.
"I dislike unfair matches," he said.
"That duel was regulated."
"Politically regulated," he corrected gently.
Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
She had noticed it too.
Of course she had.
"You risked penalty," she said.
"For what?"
He shrugged.
"I was bored."
That earned him the faintest narrowing of her eyes.
"You are a poor liar."
"I try my best."
Silence stretched between them.
Then she spoke again, quieter.
"Thank you."
The words were simple.
But deliberate.
He blinked.
"I did nothing," he replied.
She held his gaze for another second.
Then turned slightly.
"You should improve your mana control further," she said. "If you are going to interfere, at least be competent."
That sounded like her again.
She took a few steps away.
Then paused.
"You will attend the dungeon midterm," she said without looking back.
"Yes."
"Stay near me."
He stared at her.
"That sounds dangerously like plot entanglement."
She did not understand that sentence.
But she understood the tone.
"It is practical," she said. "You lack durability."
He felt personally attacked.
"Noted."
She walked away.
He watched her go.
Another notification flickered.
New Link EstablishedHeroine Trust Level IncreasedDivergence 2.1 percentSurvival Probability 16 percent
He let out a slow breath.
Four percent increase in two days.
Not terrible.
Not safe.
Across the arena, he noticed something else.
In the shaded balcony.
A man in noble attire watching him.
Not her.
Him.
The man's expression was thoughtful.
Calculating.
House Velcrest did not like variables.
Cadet 317 straightened slightly.
Well.
He had wanted to stop being background decoration.
It seemed the background was starting to notice.
"Sixteen percent," he murmured under his breath.
Progress.
Mildly terrifying progress.