Academy Combat - Final Scrimmage Preparation
The numbers didn't lie.
Seraphine's team had only risen 49 magic points—from 939 to 988—but their battle readiness had skyrocketed. Where they once moved like clockwork soldiers, they now fought like wolves: adaptive, unpredictable, ruthless.
I watched from the sidelines as Seraphine barked orders during their last drill before the finals. Her katana flashed, not with raw power, but precision—each strike calibrated to exploit gaps in her opponent's stance.
"Flank left! Lure him into the rune-cinders!" she shouted.
Her team reacted instantly. No hesitation. Just like my old unit.
Armored Car - En Route to Ironhold Mansion
The dashboard's glow illuminated Seraphine's satisfied smirk as she reviewed the scrimmage data.
"Lady Seraphine," I said, navigating the capital's neon-lit streets. "It seems everything is prepared."
"Indeed, Gunther." She tapped her nails against the holographic display. "I never imagined sparring outsiders would make my team so much more… tactical."
A notification chimed. Her magic aptitude had officially reached A-rank—a 12% surge since adopting my methods.
My salary had tripled for it.
"Though," she added, eyes narrowing at a news feed about the Jenuvian League's latest attack, "I suspect our real test won't be in the arena."
I tightened my grip on the wheel. She wasn't wrong.
Ironhold Mansion - Training Grounds
Duke Ironhold observed us from the balcony, his voidsilver cane clicking against the railing.
"Your progress is… acceptable," he said, though his gaze lingered on me. "But scrimmages won't save you from what's coming."
A servant rushed in, whispering about Blackwater Dock sightings.
Seraphine's hand drifted to her katana. "Father—"
"Not yet." The Duke's smile was ice. "Let the finals prove your worth first."
As they argued, I studied the shadows beyond the gates.
Hiding my combat skills won't be possible much longer.
Driver's Room - Ironhold Mansion
I slumped into the creaking chair of my driver's quarters, the bitter tang of black coffee coating my tongue. Alcohol? I'd drowned in it once—until Elizabeth's fury scorched that habit out of me. Now, caffeine and regret were my only vices.
Beyond the window, Seraphine sparred with the Duke in the moonlit courtyard, their runesteel blades clashing like thunder. My fingers twitched. Every instinct screamed to intervene—her stance's too wide, Duke's feinting left—but I wasn't her mentor. Just a ghost with a salary tripled to keep secrets.
Then—a flicker.
A shadow moved wrong atop the eastern gatehouse.
Instinct took over.
I exploded through the window, shattering glass, my muscles channeling the brute-force leap. The stone cracked under my impact as I landed behind the intruder.
BRAKK!
My arm hooked his throat in a sleeper hold before he could gasp.
"Who sent you?" My whisper was colder than the Ironhold winters. "What did you see?"
The man trembled, a voidsilver-laced camera clutched in his sweat-slick hands. "V-Viscount Durak! H-he just wanted photos of Lady Seraphine! I swear—"
Durak. That honey-tongued vulture. My grip tightened. "Leave. Before I reconsider."
I hurled him off the ramparts. His scream faded into the mist.
Zone 9 - Ironhold's Northern Perimeter
Something felt… off. The usual rune-cinders lining the walls had dimmed. The air clung thick with the scent of rotting sylph-orchids. Even the Duke's guards were absent.
I crouched, fingertips brushing a fresh bloodstain near the drainage grate.
"Not just a photographer, then."
My coffee cup lay shattered back in my room. Whatever this was, it'd take more than caffeine to survive.
Ironhold Mansion – Restricted Zone 9
The photographer's trail led not to the outer walls, but back into the mansion itself.
I sharpened my hearing, filtering the hum of runesteel pipes and distant servant chatter. Five heartbeats. Five voices. All clustered in the abandoned west wing—a place even the Duke's guards avoided.
"Since when did I last do urban guerrilla work?" I mused, scaling the rain-slicked walls. "Back when my hair was still black, probably."
A rusted emergency door creaked under my touch. Voices slithered out.
Inside the Safehouse
The photographer—now clutching a bleeding nose—gestured wildly at a holo-map of the Elite Academy of Ironhold.
"The combat finals are our best chance! Seraphine's team will be exhausted after the semifinals!"
A woman with a mindscour tattoo sneered. "Durak wants her alive. The Duke's heir is worth more than—"
I stepped into the light.
"Planning a party?" My shadow swallowed the holo-map. "Shame you forgot to invite the host."
Five heads snapped toward me. Five hands reached for weapons.
The photographer's face went white. "Y-you're just a driver—"
My kick shattered his knee before he finished the sentence.
Ironhold Mansion – West Wing Safehouse
Five corpses littered the floor. Five sets of gear now strewn across the table. I sifted through their belongings—standard issue blades, a few voidsilver lockpicks, and then...
The blueprint.
The Academy Combat Dome's structural schematics, marked with three glowing red X's along the central pillars. Rune-bombs. Enough to collapse the entire arena during the finals.
But something was missing.
"No trigger mechanism in the notes," I muttered, flipping through their ragged mission logs. Only deployment coordinates for their team. Someone else held the detonator.
Viscount Durak? No. That peacock lacked the patience for this level of planning. This reeked of higher influence—someone who understood both magic and structural engineering.
I pocketed a mindscour-etched pendant from the leader's neck. The Jenuvian League's signature.
"Clever bastards."
The bombs were already planted. The trigger was out there. And Seraphine would be standing at the dome's center in less than 48 hours.
Ironhold Mansion – Gunther's Quarters
The dim glow of a single lamp cast long shadows across the tactical map I'd scratched onto the floor with a combat knife. The dome's blueprints were spread out before me, marked with three red X's—kill zones.
"Not a kidnapping. An extermination."
My fingers traced the blast radii. The rune-bombs weren't just placed to collapse the dome—they were positioned to maximize carnage.
Primary Targets:
Seraphine vi Ironhold (center stage, no escape route)
Heirs of the Three Royal Academies (front-row seating, per tradition)
Secondary Effect:
The collapse would crush hundreds of noble scions—the next generation of leaders.
A classic decapitation strike. On Earth, we called it "cutting the head off the snake."
Military Probability Assessment:1. Attack Methodology
Trigger Mechanism:
Option A: Remote detonation via magic pulse (requires a mage within 500m).
Option B: Timed spellscroll (less likely—too unpredictable).
Option C:Pressure-sensitive rune (activated by combat vibrations).
Execution:
Bombs go off mid-match, when Seraphine's team is exhausted.
Blame pinned on "structural failure" or "terrorists"—clean deniability.
2. Countermeasures
Neutralize Bombs:
Impossible without alerting the enemy (they'd trigger early).
Alternative: Sabotage the trigger mechanism instead.
Evacuation:
Too obvious. The attackers would notice and adapt.
Alternative: Manipulate the match schedule to delay finals.
Decapitation Strike of My Own:
Find and eliminate the handler before detonation.
3. Political Fallout
If successful, the Jenuvian League would:
Cripple the kingdom's future leadership.
Spark civil war between the grieving noble houses.
Duke Ironhold would be the first scapegoat (his dome, his daughter).
Gunther's Decision Tree:
Step 1: Identify the Handler
Cross-reference Academy staff with access to blueprints.
Investigate Durak's inner circle for engineering expertise.
Step 2: Misdirection
Covertly weaken alternate pillars to force an "early inspection."
Plant false rumors of assassination plots to increase security.
Step 3: Contingency
Teach Seraphine emergency teleportation sigils (if she can learn in time).
Prepare a smoke bomb to obscure her position at the critical moment.
Flashback – Earth Parallel
"Lieutenant! The bridge is wired to blow!" Vance's voice crackled in my earpiece.
"Then we don't step on it," I'd growled. "We make them think we did."
We'd feinted a frontal assault while flanking through the sewers. The enemy detonated too early.
"Same principle here," I muttered. Make them trigger their hand prematurely.
Final Realization:
This wasn't just an attack—it was a statement.
"You don't just kill heirs," I whispered, crushing a charcoal stick to dust. "You kill hope."
And the only way to counter that was to play dead before the strike landed.
Ironhold Mansion – Gunther's Quarters
The coffee was still warm.
I sipped slowly, letting the bitter heat anchor me to the present. The blueprints of the Academy dome burned behind my eyelids—three red X's seared into my memory. Pillar 7, 12, and 23. Load-bearing points. A structural engineer's wet dream for maximum collapse.
"Demolition 101," I muttered. Back on Earth, I'd toppled buildings with half the explosives. But here? No C-4. No drones. Just magic I couldn't see or understand.
Problem:
Bombs already planted.
Trigger unknown.
Seraphine and the Duke oblivious.
Solution:Not sure yet. But I'll start with recon. Tomorrow, while Seraphine trained, I'd infiltrate the dome. Civilian clothes. No weapons. Just a janitor's uniform and a head full of battlefield calculus.
The cup clinked against the saucer. Outside, laughter echoed.
Training Grounds – Ironhold Mansion
Blunted runesteel swords clashed under the setting sun. Seraphine danced around her father, her movements sharper than last week—thanks to my scrimmage advice.
"Father, your reflexes are slipping!" She pivoted, her katana grazing his vambrace.
The Duke chuckled, sweeping her legs out from under her with a staff. "Bold words for a little princess who can't last two strikes."
Seraphine rolled to her feet, grinning. "Do you think I can win the Academy Combat next week?"
"Perhaps." The Duke's smile faded. "But your opponent is the king's own niece. And we've never beaten their bloodline."
"I know." Her grip tightened on the hilt. "But this time, we'll give the king a real surprise."
They didn't know. They couldn't. To them, the dome was just an arena. Not a tomb.
Seraphine's Search
Post-training, Seraphine stormed the mansion, still buzzing with adrenaline. "Gunther? Where's that brooding driver of mine?"
She found me in my quarters, staring at a blank wall like it held the secrets of the universe.
"Gunther?" She leaned in the doorway, sweat dampening her training gear. "You've been quiet lately."
I blinked, refocusing. "Just tired, My Lady."
A lie. But what else could I say? "By the way, someone's rigged your arena to explode, and I'm the only one who knows"?
She frowned but let it drop. "Well, cheer up. Tomorrow's our final drill before the semifinals. I expect you there—with coffee."
The moment she left, I was back to planning.
Gunther's Assessment (Internal Monologue)
1. Reconnaissance (Tomorrow's Task):
Infiltrate the dome disguised as maintenance.
Confirm bomb placements without touching them (risk triggering).
Identify guard rotations and blind spots.
2. Possible Triggers:
Remote: Requires a mage nearby during the event. Likely suspect: Judge or referee.
Timer: Less probable—too rigid for their precision.
Pressure/Impact: My worst fear. A single misstep could kill hundreds.
3. Contingencies:
If remote: Find and isolate the mage.
If pressure-based: Sabotage the arena floor to collapse before the match.
Last Resort: Fake Seraphine's injury to cancel the finals.
4. Constraints:
No magic knowledge. Must rely on physics and sabotage.
No allies. Can't risk leaks.
Time: 72 hours until the finals.
Ironhold Academy – Courtyard
"Young Mistress," I said, keeping my voice low as the academy gates loomed ahead. "I may be delayed. The car's suspension felt unstable during the drive."
Seraphine barely glanced up from her combat scroll, the morning light catching the edge of her frown. "Fine. But don't take too long—I want you glaring at those Blackthorn nobles during drills."
The moment she disappeared into the student wing, I moved.
The Grand Combat Dome – Service Entrance
The dome's shadow stretched like a sleeping beast. I adjusted the ill-fitting janitor's uniform—stolen from a locker reeking of cheap soap and sweat—and pushed my mop bucket forward.
The Pillars. 7. 12. 23.
My boots echoed too loudly in the empty corridor.
Pillar 7 – Observation Log
I knelt, the cold marble biting through the thin fabric of my disguise. The bomb was smaller than I'd imagined.
Eight-point-five centimeters in diameter. Voidsteel casing. Pulsing blue gel core.
The adhesive seal shimmered wetly, reacting to my breath. When I shifted, the light caught thin, vein-like filaments branching into the pillar's cracks.
"Not just attached—integrated," I noted. Prying it loose would be suicide.
A droplet of sweat slid down my temple. I forced my hands steady.
Pillar 12 – Kinetic Test
This one was greener. Batch variance or intentional?
I extended the mop handle and tapped the floor.
Thud.
The gel flared crimson. Three seconds. Then it settled.
"Pressure-activated. With a delay."
Enough time for the attacker to escape. Professional.
Pillar 23 – The Anomaly
The wire was nearly invisible—a spider's thread of voidsilver trailing up into the rafters.
My knife hovered. Cutting it could disarm the bomb. Or trigger it.
Then I saw it.
A tiny emblem stamped on the casing's underside:
A coiled serpent with a dagger through its eye—the mark of the Jenuvian League's sabotage unit.
My grip tightened. "Not just an attack. A declaration of war."
The Grand Combat Dome – Maintenance Tunnels
I stepped back from the final pillar, my mind racing through calculations. Pressure-triggered. No wires. No remote signals. Just pure kinetic energy waiting to be unleashed.
The solution was clear—disable the arena, not the bombs.
A structural collapse before the finals would force an evacuation. No event, no vibrations, no detonation.
I turned to leave—
"You. Janitor."
A man in a supervisor's uniform blocked the corridor, his arms crossed. His badge read "Harkin – Head of Facility Maintenance."
"Section 4B hasn't been mopped," he snapped. "And why are you even in this wing? Dome's off-limits until inspection tomorrow."
I kept my head down, shoulders slumping into the tired slouch of a minimum-wage worker. "Apologies, sir. New hire. Got lost looking for the supply closet."
Harkin's eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, his breath reeking of onion rolls. "Let me see your work pass."
Gunther's Dilemma
Option 1: Knock him out.
Risk: Leaves evidence. Delays my sabotage plan.
Option 2: Talk my way out.
Risk: He's already suspicious. Might report me.
I reached slowly into my pocket—not for a weapon, but for the damp rag I'd used to fake-clean the pillars.
"Here, sir." I offered it like a peace treaty. "Just got assigned today. Foreman said to start with the dome's prep work."
Harkin snatched the rag, sniffed it (why?), then scowled. "Smells like bleach. We use citrus solvent here. You're definitely not one of ours."
Shit.
Improvisation
A shout echoed down the hall—"Harkin! The Duke's advance team just arrived!"
The supervisor hesitated, torn between interrogating me and his actual job.
I seized the distraction. "I'll—uh—go report to the foreman then. Must've been a mix-up."
Before he could respond, I shuffled backward, then bolted around the corner the moment he turned away.
Training Grounds – Academy Courtyard
Seraphine's team was mid-drill, their practice swords clashing against the Blackthorn cadets. She moved like a storm—precise, relentless. Unaware that her arena was a powder keg.
I slipped back into my chauffeur role, leaning against the car as if I'd never left.
"Took you long enough," she called between strikes. "Find your 'suspension issue'?"
"Just a loose bolt, My Lady." I lied smoothly. "All handled."
She nodded, too focused on her opponent to notice the tension in my jaw.