It was official. Another dal.
The Star of Valor, no less—pinned proudly to the breast of the boy who'd apparently made a habit of surviving hopeless encounters and walking away with decorations instead of common sense trauma. The highest civilian honor in the entire Western continent. Which ant, by my count, I was now two-for-two, since I'd already been told I'd be getting the dal for rit from the Slatemark Empire.
I exhaled, running a finger along the cool tal edge of the dallion.
"Ha," I muttered aloud to no one in particular, the sound sowhere between a laugh and a sigh of existential confusion. It was all getting a bit silly now. The Star of Valor, normally reserved for soldiers who threw themselves on grenades or civilians who stopped catastrophes, awarded to a student who'd essentially gotten into a supernatural xican standoff with an apocalyptic orc pope. Not exactly what the founders of the award had in mind, I'd wager.
Not that I was going to complain. I wasn't nearly that noble. Free rewards were still free rewards, and if the world insisted on handing shiny symbols of national appreciation, I wasn't going to be the idiot who turned them down on principle. The look on Headmaster Eva's face when I'd received it had been nearly worth the near-death experience—a complex cocktail of pride, irritation, and the resigned acceptance of soone watching their insurance premiums skyrocket in real-ti.
But dals weren't the only thing looming.
It was now November.
Which ant only one thing: the Inter-Academy Festival was coming.
A childish na, all things considered. Sothing between a sports day and a martial arts world war, wrapped in banners and broadcasted in high-def across half the planet. Students from every prestigious magical academy gathering to asure themselves against each other in combat, magic, and various specialized disciplines. Career-making performances, international recruiters, and more corporate sponsorship than a race car with an identity crisis. And still... my heart was thudding in my chest like a war drum.
I wanted to win.
Not because the world needed saving. Not for the sake of peace or duty or the pursuit of truth.
I just wanted to be the strongest.
The most powerful.
The one who stood above everyone else and looked down at the field like a chess player holding the final piece.
There was sothing pure about it, this desire stripped of noble motivation or grand purpose. Just raw ambition, naked and honest. The kind that would have been called unhealthy in my previous life, but here, in this world, it was practically expected. The bare minimum for soone in Class A.
But ambition, as always, was a ladder full of missing rungs.
I walked into Class 2-A, my mind still chewing on plans and possibilities, only for my senses to prickle the mont the door slid shut behind . A pulse of sothing—like static across the soul. My fingers itched. My lips twitched. The ambient mana in the room felt different, charged with competing auras that brushed against my awareness like sandpaper.
Lucifer.
He looked at from his seat with those unnatural, verdant eyes of his, a slow, knowing smile curling on his lips. The air around him felt sharp, like a blade honed so finely it cut the wind. Not just controlled mana, but sothing more fundantal—a concept made manifest. Sword Intent. The idiot actually pulled it off. Without even stepping fully into low Integration-rank, the golden boy had reached a domain most people only dread of after decades of work and three near-death experiences.
His smile wasn't arrogant, exactly. It was sothing worse—confident. The quiet self-assurance of soone who knows exactly where they stand in the hierarchy of power and is perfectly comfortable with their position. The smile of a predator who doesn't need to roar.
And then there was Ren.
He was quieter now. Less of a storm and more of a simr. The usual disdain and competitive snark were gone, replaced by sothing deeper. Sothing more dangerous.
Resolve.
His fists sat calmly on the desk. But there was a pressure to them, a tension in his fra, like coiled steel beneath the surface. Fist Intent. Another one. Just like Lucifer, he'd reached the level of Intent before Integration. And, judging by the subtle shift in his gaze, the God's Eyes were changing, too—sharper, more focused, as if he were seeing through things rather than rely looking at them.
There was no arrogance in his expression anymore. Just a quiet fire that hadn't been there before. A hunger to climb. To catch up. And maybe… to beat us both. He t my gaze for a brief mont, his violet eyes acknowledging without speaking. Not respect, exactly, but recognition. We were pieces on the sa board now.
I sat in my seat, eyes half-lidded, thoughts spinning.
Ren had changed. In the novel, he was always Lucifer's rival—up until Lucifer unlocked his second Gift and shot ahead like a rocket with no fuel limit, leaving everyone else in the dust. After that, Ren had grown bitter, his rivalry poisoned by the knowledge that the gap between them was unbridgeable.
But things were different now.
Ren had seen what Lucifer and I were becoming, and instead of giving up, he'd doubled down. Sothing inside him had caught fla. And that made things infinitely more interesting.
Because this wasn't just about one protagonist anymore.
This was a battlefield. And I could feel the war for the top finally beginning.
The classroom door slid open with a pneumatic hiss after I settled into my seat. Instructor Nero entered, his usual expressionless face sohow conveying disapproval without changing a single muscle. He carried a tablet under one arm, likely containing detailed assessnts of our Third Mission performances.
The room fell silent imdiately. For all his lack of outward emotion, Nero commanded respect through sheer presence. Even Cecilia, who typically treated authority figures with casual disdain, straightened slightly in her seat.
"Class," Nero began, setting the tablets on his desk with a precise movent, "I've completed my evaluation of your Third Mission performances. As expected, most of you t or exceeded the basic requirents."
His gray eyes swept across the room, pausing montarily on .
"So of you, however, seem determined to turn simple assignnts into international incidents."
A few students chuckled nervously. I maintained my neutral expression, though I could feel Rose's amused glance from the seat behind .
"I will distribute your individual assessnts shortly. Before that, I should note that the Western Front mission group's evaluation had to be adjusted due to... unexpected circumstances." Again, his gaze flickered to . "While the mission was cut short, the data gathered and the actions taken during the confrontation with the Savage Communion have been thoroughly analyzed."
He began distributing the tablets, his movents efficient and precise. Each student received their evaluation with varying degrees of anticipation or nonchalance.
"As a reminder," Nero continued, "these assessnts will factor into your overall ranking for the Inter-Academy Festival selection process. Those with exceptional evaluations will be given priority consideration for the more prestigious events."
When my tablet reached , I activated it with a touch. The screen illuminated with detailed trics—combat readiness, tactical awareness, adaptability, team coordination, and more. At the bottom, in bold letters: A .
Rachel leaned over, her hair brushing my shoulder as she peered at my screen. "A ? After what you pulled? The academy's standards must be slipping."
I glanced at her tablet. Also A .
"Or perhaps they're rewarding creative problem-solving," I replied.
Nero cleared his throat, drawing our attention back to the front. "For transparency, I will announce the overall grades. From the Western Front group: Arthur Nightingale, Rachel Creighton, Rose Springshaper, and Clana Alaric—all A ."
Clana raised her head from her desk where she'd been napping, looking montarily disoriented before processing the information. "Oh. Nice," she mumbled, before her head dropped back down.
"From the Northern Front: Lucifer Windward and Ren Kagu, A . Cecilia Slatemark, A."
Lucifer nodded, as if rely confirming what he already knew. Ren's expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened slightly on the edge of his desk.
"From the Southern Front: Ian Viserion, Jin Ashbluff, Seraphina Zenith, A."
Ian grinned, apparently pleased with his assessnt, while Cecilia examined her nails with practiced indifference and Seraphina just looked blankly without a care in the world.
"These grades reflect not just your individual performances, but your contributions to your teams and your adaptability in the field," Nero explained. "Those who received A demonstrated exceptional skill or judgnt under pressure."
His eyes found mine again, and this ti there was a flicker of sothing almost like amusent. "Or, in so cases, a unique talent for turning potential disasters into diplomatic victories."
He closed his tablet with a snap. "Now, with the Third Mission evaluations complete, we turn our attention to the Inter-Academy Festival."
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