Yesterday, while Mikhail was asleep, Adrian once again examined the All-Seeing Eye carefully stashed beneath the bed. Both his and Mikhail’s remained just as heavy, almost as if they had sworn to stay that way unless things unfolded exactly as they had in the previous dream. They were so heavy, in fact, that Adrian, a human with no mana at all, could barely lift his from the ground no matter how hard he tried.
“So when exactly are the preliminaries?”
Adrian murmured without taking his eyes off Mikhail’s back.
These days, his biggest concern was whether the weight of their Eyes would lessen if Mikhail truly managed to obtain Fellen Deeps’s sword. Mikhail believed he had four chances, but in truth, this year was the only one that mattered—making this year’s martial tournament all the more crucial.
A small amount of mana was needed to observe how it flowed, which was why Adrian’s eyes were currently glowing with a golden hue. Mikhail, unaware of this because Adrian had his eyes closed and was turned away, finally spoke.
“Tomorrow.”
At the disinterested response, Adrian tilted his head slightly. Tomorrow? He swiftly gathered up the golden motes of mana that shimmered in his eyes—just in case Mikhail decided to turn around.
“You’re telling me the prelims start tomorrow, and you haven’t even been practicing?”
“…I’ve been reading the swordsmanship manual instead? And come on, the prelims are for kids.”
“I heard this year’s tournament has the most applicants in history.”
Mikhail let out a sharp sigh at Adrian’s words. That was exactly what annoyed him the most. Typically, around a hundred people signed up for the tournament. But this year, over two hundred had swarmed in.
What Mikhail had overlooked was that students entering Hounds and Amber were aspiring Royal Knights or Court Mages. And now that a direct royal prince of Rustavaran—not some fringe noble or distant cousin—had enrolled in Basamiel, every single one of them wanted to prove their skills in front of him.
Whatever those students’ lofty dreams were, they meant nothing to Mikhail—except that his list of opponents he’d have to beat had gotten a whole lot longer.
“Thanks to that, I have to pointlessly fight in six rounds of prelims.”
“Six? How many of those do you have to win?”
“Third and fourth years have to win five, first and second years need four.”
“Oh, so the format changes by grade. Then what about the main tournament?”
“The main…”
Mikhail stopped mid-sentence and sharply turned his head to glare at Adrian standing behind him. Somehow, explaining all this out loud was starting to feel incredibly irritating.
“What, do I look like the tournament rules manual to you? If you’re that curious, go look up the damn rulebook yourself.”
“I mean, I’m not that curious. And besides, you’re explaining it so kindly.”
That last comment was, of course, pure sarcasm. Adrian boldly used a member of the royal family to satisfy his own curiosity. He expected Mikhail to lash out with annoyance as usual—but surprisingly, there was no reaction this time.
“…”
Adrian stole a glance at Mikhail, who merely furrowed his brow in silence. He kept insisting he was confident about passing the prelims, that it was a given—but deep down, was he nervous? It was that kind of moment. While Adrian was busy making his own assumptions about Mikhail’s unspoken thoughts—
“The main tournament.”
“Yeah?”
Mikhail twisted his lips into a crooked smirk and finally began answering Adrian’s question. Weren’t you the one who told me to go look it up myself? Adrian just shrugged. It was easier having Mikhail explain anyway, so he quietly closed his mouth and listened.
“Like I said, first you’ve got to win six rounds to meet the passing criteria. That’s the first phase of the prelims. Only then do you officially earn the title of ‘Challenger of Serichane.’ After that, the second prelims mix all grades together. The basic rule of the Serichane Martial Tournament is to keep battling until only the final ten are left.
By the time those ten are chosen, it’ll be about a month later—just in time for the Serichane Festival to begin. There was one year when they hadn’t picked the final ten by the day the festival started, and they had to keep the prelims going until dawn that morning.
Anyway, once the festival begins, the Serichane Martial Tournament enters the main stage. From that point on, it’s a straight elimination. Win or you’re out. Lose even once, and you’re done.”
“…”
Adrian stared blankly at Mikhail, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Had he ever heard this many words come out of Mikhail’s mouth in one sitting? Mikhail gave a slight jut of his chin, as if to say Satisfied now?—the incense had already been burning for over ten minutes.
“Wow… well, thanks. That was super detailed.”
Was he always this talkative? Tilting his head slightly, Adrian reached for the dish with the incense and gave a soft puff to blow it out.
***
Mikhail stood in the waiting room of the first preliminary arena, his expression impassive.
He had unbuckled the belt and sheath that once hung at his waist and placed them in the storage unit provided at the back. Now, he held only a single live blade in his hand. His mind was consumed by the urge to unsheathe it and wield it freely, right then and there.
The waiting room wasn’t empty—far from it. It was packed with first- and second-year students participating in the Serichane Martial Tournament. From where he stood in one corner, Mikhail watched as the others sneaked glances at him while checking and rehearsing the techniques they intended to use. Thankfully, one wall of the room was fitted with a magitech display that projected the arena outside, allowing them to see and hear the ongoing events and saving them from boredom.
And then—
Waaaah!
Cheers erupted from the stands as the students began waving excitedly. Someone strode confidently onto the central stage with a wide grin, signaling the official start of the preliminary rounds. The man wore a ridiculous horse-shaped mask painted in shimmering rainbow hues. As he walked to the platform, he greeted the crowd of spectators with carefree waves, soaking in their reactions.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?”
Watching from the waiting room, Mikhail clicked his tongue in irritation. A martial tournament that ought to be solemn and noble had its image instantly trampled by this absurd display.
Meanwhile, the man in the horse mask ascended the stairs to the central platform. He adjusted the height of the built-in speaker system, then tapped the mic with his fingers to test the sound. The lively chatter and applause of the students quickly faded as all eyes turned toward the stage. That included the students in the waiting room.
Finally, the masked man brought his mouth to the mic.
“Hello, everyone! I’m your voice, your secret letter carrier—Pinyata!”
A sprightly voice echoed across the arena, a stark contrast to his broad-shouldered physique. The mood across the stadium visibly lifted with his bright tone.
“It’s the long-awaited, much-anticipated opening day of the first preliminary round of the martial tournament!”
Waaaah!
Despite that ridiculous mask, each word he uttered had the crowd screaming in delight. His showmanship was nothing short of extraordinary.
“So then, who will be the first to fight in this grand opening match? Just so you know, even I don’t get told who’s participating until right before the match. Contestants receive their notice only the day before, and their match order isn’t confirmed until they arrive at the arena!”
Holding the mic in one hand, he raised the other high into the air. So he was a mage, just like they said—someone rooting for Amber. Mana surged and spiraled around his hand, quickly forming a transparent orb in the center of the arena, large enough to rival the size of a carriage.
So that’s how they’re choosing? Mikhail tilted his head, eyeing the many white spheres inside the orb, each marked with a number.
“Before we mix up the balls, let’s assign them to their owners! Just for fun, did you know there are 287 participants in this year’s Serichane Martial Tournament? With each paying a 20-Tilon entry fee, that makes the grand prize a whopping 5,740 Tilons! Pretty wild, huh?”
Pinyata emphasized the prize money like a seasoned MC, and the audience responded with another wave of enthusiastic cheers. Chuckling smugly to himself, he slowly raised his hand, then lowered the orb until it nearly touched the ground. The white balls inside rattled slightly from the motion.
“Now, there’s a small hole on the side of this transparent orb, just big enough for a ball to roll out. I’m going to shake it up and draw two balls. Isn’t magic amazing?”
Boooo! A ripple of jeers rose from the crowd in response to Pinyata’s sudden and unprompted praise of magic.
“And at the same time as this spell…”
Snap! Pinyata brought his fingers close to the mic and snapped them. The sharp sound rang through the arena. A student in the waiting room, staring blankly at the scene, suddenly looked around and blurted out, “Huh?” Then, pointing above his classmates’ heads, he added, “Look!”
Above each of their heads, where the familiar Tilon emblem had once been, a large glowing number now hovered.
“The numbers… just appeared! Hey, can someone check what mine is?”
“We assign numbers to each challenger—exactly like this! That’s why I don’t know ahead of time either. Now, on my count, I’ll mix the balls. The two numbers that come out will be our lucky first duelists of today’s preliminaries!”
The large orb began to move more vigorously up and down. The white balls inside clattered against each other in wild, chaotic bursts, like they were desperate to be picked. pinyata deftly controlled the orb, stirring it with increasing speed so the balls would mix thoroughly. The students in the audience joined in with a count, shouting in rhythm with each wave of motion.
Clack! One ball caught on the lip of the opening before rolling down and landing with a soft thunk on the arena floor. Another soon followed, bouncing out just seconds later.
“Yes! Our first two challengers for the prelims have been selected! Congratulations to Numbers 5 and 209!”
Who the hell are 5 and 209?
Every student in the waiting room began whipping their heads around, trying to spot the chosen numbers—until their gazes all snapped in unison to a single point.
Above Mikhail’s head, glowing brightly and unmistakably, was the number 209. His face remained blank, utterly unfazed.
“Both of our challengers, please step out of the waiting room!”
