The two months of preparation passed in a blur of sweat, bruises, and illogical physics.
Since the "Illogical Club" was effectively banned from the Elite Gyms (President Elander claimed they "smelt of poverty"), they trained in the Scrapyard—a dumping ground for broken siege golems and rusted airships on the edge of the University island.
"Again!" Lack Flameheart shouted, his voice echoing off a pile of scrap metal.
Torin (Wind) sprinted across the uneven terrain, firing arrows while sliding under a rusted chassis. He didn't aim at the targets directly. He aimed at a sheet of polished metal, banking the arrow off the reflection to hit a dummy hiding behind a wall.
Ping. Thwack.
"Nice shot!" a voice whistled from above.
Lack turned. Standing on a pile of junk were three students in the crimson uniforms of the Elite Stream.
They were Lack's former classmates—the ones who had graduated to University while he was held back.
- Volt (Lightning God - Executor) leaned against a broken wing, sparks dancing between his fingers.
- Terra (Plant God - Executor), a girl with vines woven into her hair.
- Rian (Ice God - High Executor). Absolute boredom radiated from his posture, his breath misting in the warm air.
"What do you want, Volt?" Lack asked, wiping grease from his knuckles.
"Just watching the circus," Volt grinned, jumping down. He moved in a blur of electricity, appearing instantly in front of Lack. "We heard you beat Jareth in a cooking contest. And a duel. Rumour has it the 'Reserve King' isn't so useless anymore."
"Rumours are dangerous," Lack said calmly. His Vibration Radar (Passive) pinged. Static electricity built violently in Volt’s palm, manifesting as a localized storm.
"We're in the same bracket," Rian said coldly, stepping forward. The temperature dropped ten degrees, frosting the scrap metal. "Round 2. If you beat Jareth, you fight us. Don't think a flashlight and some party tricks will work on us, Lack. We aren't Jareth. We don't play with our food."
"We'll see," Lack replied.
Terra giggled—the crisp, physical rustling of autumn leaves. "It's cute, really. The failures trying to play soldier. Just try not to die in the first round, okay? It would be boring if Jareth wins."
The Elites turned and left, but not before Volt tapped Lack’s shoulder.
Zap.
A jolt of electricity surged into Lack’s shoulder. It was meant to numb his arm—a petty, "friendly" warning.
Lack didn't flinch. His AI Interface rerouted the surge into his Energy Cell.
[System Alert: Energy Absorbed: +2%]
"Thanks for the charge," Lack called out.
Volt paused, a frown fracturing his posture. The data defied his calculations.
They are arrogant, the Light Devil noted in Lack's mind. But they are strong. Volt is fast. Rian can freeze the air. Terra can turn the floor into a jungle. Jareth is a joke compared to them.
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"I know," Lack muttered, flexing his now-charged arm. "That's why we need to win Round 1 fast."
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[System Record: Enemy Tactics] Location: Sector 88 (The Silent Isle) – The Server Room Time: The Same Night
The blast doors hissed open. The Silent Shadow stepped into the ancient chamber, confident.
"Time to arm the seed," he whispered, his voice rasping against the silence.
He walked to the console. He reached for the black orb he had planted weeks ago.
It wasn't there.
He froze. His focus snapped to the power cables. One of them had been... chewed? There were distinct teeth marks on the obsidian casing.
"Chewed?" The Shadow touched the severed cable. "Who eats raw mana?"
He scanned the room. No sign of forced entry. No magical residue. Just a faint smell of... ozone and Old Spice?
"Master," the student tapped his earpiece. "The Seed is gone. The node has been neutralised."
The Floating Projection materialized, its form flickering with static. The voice was distorted, anonymous.
"Gone? Impossible. Who found it?"
"I don't know," the student hissed. "But whoever it was, they didn't just disarm it. They stole it. And they left this."
He pointed to the console. Scratched into the dust was a crude drawing of a Golden Spatula.
"The Cooking Club?" The Projection’s voice rasped with confusion. "No. It's him. Lack Flameheart. He won the festival with a spatula."
The Silent Shadow clenched his fist. "He knows. He has the bomb."
"He plans to expose you," the Projection concluded. "He will likely produce the bomb during the Tournament as evidence."
"Then we change the plan," the Shadow’s eyes glowed with a dark, violet light. "He likes tricks? Fine. We will use his trick against him."
"Explain."
"I have a second Seed," the student revealed, pulling a smaller, more volatile orb from his shadow storage. "I won't plant this one in the server room. I'll plant it under his bench in the Arena."
The Projection swirled. "Risky."
"When he tries to expose me," the Silent Shadow smiled beneath his mask, "I will trigger the backup. The explosion will originate from his position. We will claim he brought the bomb. That he is the terrorist."
"And the disruption?"
"The explosion will still overload the local mana grid," the student promised. "The Node will crash. The chaos will happen. And Lack Flameheart will be nothing but a smear of traitorous ash."
"Proceed," the Projection ordered. "Do not fail me again. The Dreallytear are watching."
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[System Record: Pre-Tournament Log] Location: University Dormitory, Block F Time: 23:00 PM (The Night Before)
The atmosphere in the dorm was heavy. Armour was polished. Weapons were sharpened.
Borg was stress-eating a pillow. Mina was hydrating (drinking water to replenish her tears). Torin was hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Lack sat on his bed, holding the Black Orb (the first bomb) wrapped in a lead-lined cloth.
"We turn this in tomorrow," Lack said. "Before the match starts. We give it to Professor Valerius. He's strict, but he's lawful."
"What if Jareth denies it?" Serra asked.
"The orb has a magical signature," Lack explained. "It traces back to the Shadow Faculty. They can't deny it."
The second bomb remained entirely obscured. The Vibration Radar, while powerful, was completely blind to a plot hatched miles away, while powerful, couldn't detect a plot hatched miles away in the Neutral Zone.
He looked at his team.
"Get some sleep," Lack ordered. "Tomorrow, we aren't Misfits. We're Contenders."
He lay back, staring at the ceiling. The Ancient Map was tucked under his pillow.
Something feels wrong, the Devil whispered. It's too quiet. The Shadow guy... he didn't panic when we stole his toy. Shadows don't panic. They adapt.
"We'll be ready." Lack closed his eyes.
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[System Record: Character Progression] New Intel: Ex-Classmates (Volt, Terra, Rian) are watching. Hidden Threat: The Silent Shadow has counter-planned. Status: Unaware of the Second Bomb.