The first morning of the Wargames dawned under a sky the color of tempered steel. Clouds gathered above Varncrest's floating island like an assembly of silent witnesses, their shadows sweeping across the layered coliseums, tiered observation decks, and wide elemental practice fields below. Every balcony, tower-top, and glass-walled observatory teemed with spectators. Students, faculty, sponsors, artifact merchants, noble delegates, even military envoys from kingdoms beyond the Marlo Empire had arrived to watch.
This was, after all, the academy's grandest annual ritual. A demonstration of power. Proof that Varncrest remained unchallenged as the peak of magical and martial development.
Martin stood alone in the assembly plaza, notebook tucked under one arm, coat collar raised against the cold dawn breeze. Around him, hundreds of students clustered in lines and formations—some joking in tense camaraderie, others silent with focused dread. Whispers flickered like brushfire wherever he walked.
There he is.
That's the necromancer.
No, idiot, he's not a necromancer. He's something worse.
"Welcome, participants."
An old voice broke the murmur as two figures appeared on a floating podium that descended with flawless mechanical grace.
Woldamort, Magus Supreme, Headmaster of Varncrest Arcane Academy.
And beside him—
Emperor Burgest Marlo — The Lion of the East.
The crowd bowed instantly. Students dropped to one knee, faculty inclined deeply, nobles performed a synchronized sigil-salute with right fist pressed over left shoulder, heads bowed in perfect discipline.
Martin simply stepped back behind a marble pillar, leaning lazily against its cool surface to avoid bowing altogether.
"Welcome, participants," Woldamort repeated, his voice carrying effortlessly through mana amplification. Though ancient, it was unbreakable, ringing clear across every courtyard and balcony. "Today marks the opening of the 378th Annual Wargames of Varncrest Arcane Academy."
Martin's eyes narrowed slightly, gaze lifting to the floating platform. Even the ground is shimmering with his presence. Exactly as heard… 'Old monster.'
"Today," the Magus Supreme continued, "you will display the culmination of your studies. Your trials here are not merely tests of strength, but tests of creativity, willpower, and the capacity to adapt. You stand here not only as students of Varncrest, but as candidates for the future leadership of this world."
A murmur spread through the assembly. Martin watched students swallow nervously, fingers twitching around weapon hilts. Others exhaled slow, confident breaths, mana simmering off their shoulders like heat haze.
Then the Emperor stepped forward. Silence fell like a guillotine.
"Children of the Empire," Burgest Marlo spoke, his voice low and thunderous, vibrating through rune-amplified channels. "We are a kingdom built not upon faith, nor upon hope, but upon strength. The strong guard the weak. The strong define the law. The strong preserve order. If you wish to rise… then show us your strength."
Martin raised an eyebrow, unfazed, while thinking, Old and powerful. But even kings can be dissected.
The Emperor's lips curled in a faint, wolfish smile, as if reading the unspoken insult.
Martin blinked. Did he hear that?
"The rules are simple," Woldamort interjected. "You will compete and be assessed across six categories: Combat Prowess, Strategic Acumen, Magical Aptitude, Problem-Solving, Leadership, Resourcefulness, and Sportsmanship."
He gestured, and six immense shimmering banners unfurled from hidden compartments above the plaza, each emblazoned with a sigil representing one of the categories.
A crossed sword and shield for Combat Prowess
A stylized compass for Strategic Acumen
A swirling vortex of mana for Magical Aptitude
A complex gear mechanism for Problem-Solving
A raised gauntlet for Leadership
A laurel wreath for Sportsmanship
"The victors in each category will be recognized," Woldamort continued, his eyes glinting with unsettling amusement, "and from among them, one shall be named Champion of the Wargames. This champion will be granted an audience with the Imperial Throne, and their name will be etched into the annals of Varncrest for all time."
He paused, the corners of his lips curling almost imperceptibly. "But remember—sportsmanship is next to godliness. Though, I suspect some of you will find godliness to be a distant second."
The Emperor chuckled, a low rumble echoing Woldamort's sentiment. His mana aura pulsed across the courtyard, dense and metallic, pressing down on every soul in attendance like a silent threat.
"Let the games begin!" he roared.
A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd. Runes flared overhead, projecting shimmering illusions of the six banners across the sky. Scry-globes hovered in formation, capturing every angle for viewers across the empire.
Martin remained hidden behind his pillar, scanning the categories with clinical detachment.
"Six categories," he murmured, fingers drumming lightly against his notebook. "Combat, Strategy, Magic, Puzzles… I can bag these easily. Leading and behaving nicely, I guess I'll have to leave those to someone else."
"Your arrogance is unending."
Martin turned calmly at the voice. Before him stood the entire Consortium of Lineage and Legacy. Twelve nobles, each wearing their houses' formal combat attire, embroidered with sigils that shimmered with embedded mana threads. At their center stood Iven, chin high, eyes brimming with righteous disdain.
"Does CLL really want to be annihilated that much?" Martin asked, expression flat.
"This isn't about you anymore, Kaiser," Iven said, his tone vibrating with hatred barely held in check. "This is about the future of Varncrest. The future of order."
Martin tilted his head. "And here I thought it was about your bruised egos."
Kyliss stepped forward, her posture still stiff from the healing cast around her waist. "We're here to ensure your failure. The Emperor is watching. Your little performance ends today."
Martin's gaze swept across the twelve nobles, noting the subtle tremors in their mana signatures, the irregular flickers of spell stabilizers embedded in their gloves and belts. Fear, barely masked. Anger, tightly wound. Determination, warped by entitlement.
He smiled slowly, eyes half-lidded with boredom. "Then step up. I was getting worried I'd be bored today."
Iven sneered, his aura flaring bright blue as he activated a mana channeling glyph along his collarbone. "You won't be smiling soon."
Martin's smile only widened. "Good. It'll save me the trouble of explaining why your jaw is shattered."
Around them, the morning air hummed with tension. Students edged away from the gathering, whispering feverishly.
He's really going to fight them.
All twelve? Alone?
He's insane. He's a monster.
Martin didn't care. His thoughts were already racing ahead—plans unfolding in clean, ruthless geometry behind his tired eyes.
Let them come.
Because if the world insisted on noise—
Then he would carve himself a quiet so absolute that even the gods would fear breaking it.