By mid-afternoon, the sun was a hammer, beating down on the Hage village square. Only eight participants remained. The rest were nursing bruises, egos, and empty mana pools on the sidelines.
Lencar stood in the shade of the Grimoire Tower, sipping tepid water from a skin. He watched Asta fight.
Asta was facing a boy with Lightning Magic—a fast, jittery kid who was firing beams like a machine gun. Asta was sweating buckets, his face caked in dirt, but he didn't slow down. He swung the Demon-Slayer sword with a grunt, the flat of the blade batting away light-bolts like they were flies.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Lencar's eyes narrowed. Anti-Magic doesn't just eat magic; it reflects it if the angle is right, he noted. He felt a twinge of admiration. Asta had zero mana, zero training, and yet he was dismantling kids who had practiced spells their whole lives. It was raw, ugly, and beautiful.
"Next match!" Drouot yelled, his voice hoarse. "Lencar Abarame versus Aris of Sosie!"
Lencar straightened up, cracking his neck. Aris. The only other "prodigy" in the region. A noble-born boy whose family had fallen from grace generations ago and ended up in the Forsaken Realm. He had a three-leaf clover, but it was thick, filled with advanced Sand Magic spells.
Aris stepped into the ring. He looked immaculate compared to the other kids—clean tunic, hair slicked back. He sneered at Lencar.
"You've been lucky, blank-book," Aris said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Beating common trash is easy. But wind can't cut sand. It only makes the desert grow."
Lencar didn't engage. He felt the nervous flutter in his stomach, the same feeling he used to get before a big presentation in Tokyo. Don't let him get set, Lencar told himself. Sand is heavy. If he buries me, I'm done.
Aris didn't wait. He clapped his hands together.
"Sand Creation Magic: Grand Burial!"
The ground rumbled. The dirt of the arena dissolved into fine, flowing silt. It rose up like a tidal wave, ten feet high, threatening to swallow Lencar whole. It was a massive amount of mana—likely Aris's entire reserve poured into one "checkmate" move.
The crowd gasped. This was noble-level magic.
Lencar closed his eyes for a split second, sensing the vibrations in the ground through his boots.
Toggle: Mage Mode. Attribute: Wind.
He didn't use the Tornado. He used the movement technique he had broken his ankles learning in the forest. He channeled the siphoned mana into the soles of his boots.
"Atmospheric Ejection."
With a sound like a thunderclap—BOOM—Lencar was launched upward. He didn't fly; he was propelled. He soared twenty feet into the air, clearing the crest of the sand-wave by inches.
From his vantage point in the sky, time seemed to slow. He looked down. Aris was looking up, his mouth agape, his confident sneer replaced by the terrified realization that he had just lost sight of his target. 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 shrieking around his knuckles.
"Wind... Strike!" he called out, the lie rolling easily off his tongue to cover the crude application of mana.
CRASH.
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 as if hit by a carriage, his grimoire skidding across the dirt.
Lencar stood in the center of the crater, his knees bent to absorb the impact. He took a steady breath, checking his internal gauge. He hadn't used even 10% of the siphoned mana pool.
"Winner: Lencar Abarame!"
The crowd was silent for a beat, then erupted. They didn't understand the mechanics, but they understood dominance.
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. The math was cruel.
Tower Master Drouot looked at the three of them, then up at the regional magistrate, Lord Fungen, who was watching from a sheltered balcony. Fungen looked annoyed. He fanned himself with a silk handkerchief.
"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! I'm going to the Capital!"
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. Yuno was smart; he was already suspicious. If he fought Asta, he would have to deal with the Anti-Magic void, which negated his "Mage Mode" advantage.
I need them to fight each other, Lencar thought, his heart pounding. If I engage, I reveal too much.
"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 faded back, waiting. He watched. He was the shadow in the corner, the variable they hadn't yet learned how to solve.
The fight between Asta and Yuno was a stalemate. Asta cut the wind; Yuno dodged the sword. They knew each other too well.
After five minutes of chaos, Lord Fungen slammed his hand on the railing.
"Enough!" the Magistrate boomed. "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!"
The fighting stopped. Asta and Yuno looked up, panting.
Fungen pointed a fat finger at the ring. "The loud one. And the one in the brown tunic. You two fight. The winner takes the second slot. The quiet one with the four-leaf clover is clearly superior; he gets the first pass by default."
Yuno blinked. "What?"
"I said what I said!" Fungen barked. "Yuno qualifies. Lencar versus Asta for the final spot. You have sixty seconds to finish it, or I disqualify both of you!"
Asta's eyes widened. "That's totally unfair! Yuno didn't even win!"
Lencar felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Me versus Asta. The worst matchup.
He looked at Asta. The boy was his friend. The boy was the only one who had trained as hard as he had. And now, Lencar had to crush him.
I'm sorry, Asta, Lencar thought, closing his grimoire and tucking it into his holster. But I need this ticket.
"Here I come, Lencar!" Asta roared, putting everything he had left into a vertical overhead strike. "I'm not holding back!"
Lencar didn't open his grimoire. Magic was useless against the Demon-Slayer Sword. If he cast a spell, Asta would eat it.
I have to brawl him.
Lencar saw the change in Asta's posture. He saw the telegraph. He stopped breathing—not because he was out of air, but because he was concentrating every ounce of his Mana-Forging into a single, localized point.
He stepped inside the reach of the sword.
It was a terrifying move. The giant black blade descended toward his head, whistling through the air. Asta's eyes widened as Lencar moved forward instead of back.
Lencar dropped into a low crouch. The sword missed his nose by a millimeter, slamming into the dirt where he had just been standing.
Lencar 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 spell. It was a physical uppercut backed by the kinetic force of a high-pressure ejection. Anti-Magic couldn't negate physics.
CRACK.
The sound was sickeningly loud.
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 bugged out. 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 violently, steam rising from his bruised knuckles. He gasped for air, his lungs burning.
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.
Lencar stared down at his friend. He felt empty. Truly empty. The siphoned mana pool was at 0.5%. His physical muscles were screaming. He had won, but it felt like he had even weaker than he would after his daily routine.
"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 froze.
He 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 saw the Wind Piston, Lencar realized. He saw the signature.
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's mind raced.
Yuno is at 90% capacity. I am at 0%. If I fight him, I have to use another attribute—Chain or Fire—to even survive. If I do that, I reveal my Replica nature to the entire village and the Magistrate. I lose my cover.
Lencar looked at the travel pass sitting on the Magistrate's table. It was right there. He had secured the objective. He was in the top two.
The title of "Champion of Hage" held zero tactical value. In fact, it was a liability. It brought attention.
Lencar raised a hand.
"I give up," Lencar said.
The square went dead silent.
Asta, who was being helped up by Sister Lily, froze, clutching his ribs. 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, though his legs were shaking. "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 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! Don't bring shame to the village!"
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 done. Take the win."
And more importantly, Lencar thought, 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."
The sun had finally vanished, leaving Hage in a cool, blue twilight. The crowd had dispersed, muttering about the anticlimactic ending.
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. It felt like it weighed a ton.
Across the square, Sister Lily was walking Asta back to the church. The boy's head hung low. He wasn't screaming. He wasn't cheering. He had lost. He wasn't going to the capital.
The silence from Asta was the loudest thing Lencar had ever heard.
I stole his spot, Lencar thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. In the original story, he went. In this one... I took it.
Yuno walked up to him. His travel pass was tucked into his belt. He didn't offer a congratulatory hand.
"You did that on purpose," Yuno said quietly.
"I saved my strength for the journey," Lencar replied, not looking up.
"No," Yuno stepped closer, his voice a whisper that only Lencar could hear. "You gave up because you didn't want to use your grimoire for too long. You're hiding something, Lencar. Something about that wind. It felt... familiar."
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."
Yuno held his gaze for a long moment, then turned away. "Don't fall behind on the road to the Capital. I won't wait for you."
"I know," Lencar said.
Lencar watched him go. He was exhausted. His body was in pain. He had just crushed the dreams of his childhood friend and lied to the other.
But as he looked at the travel pass, the regret was slowly pushed aside by 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 to the dark. "Where the stakes are much, much bigger."
He opened the door to his house, putting on his mask of the dutiful son, leaving the Heretic outside in the cold.