Victor Garrick looked nothing like the rough, brawling students of the College of Valor. Viktor was a portrait of a magical aristocracy. He wore the traditional deep blue and silver robes of the College of Arcanum, tailored from the finest spider-silk, without a single crease or speck of dust.
His most striking feature was his hair, shimmering, metallic silver-white, worn straight and shoulder-length. It wasn't the grey of age, but the physical manifestation of the Garrick bloodline’s immense mana density. His face was pale, with high, sharp cheekbones and glacial blue eyes that looked at the world with a bored, critical appraisal.
He held a staff of polished white ash topped with a sapphirine focus crystal, resting it lightly against the cobblestones.
Viktor had taken 3rd place in the Promotion Trial, earning him a spot on the Direct Entry list. But looking at his expression, a slight, superior smirk it was clear he didn't view his placement as a victory. He viewed the existence of the person in 1st place as an insult to the sanctity of magic.
"Viktor,"
Ray nodded politely.
"Congratulations on the Direct Entry."
"Save your pleasantries, Artificer,"
Viktor said, his voice smooth and disdainful.
He stepped forward, his silver hair catching the sunlight. He looked Ray up and down, his eyes lingering on Ray’s new coat with a look of distaste, as if Ray were a mechanic wearing a tuxedo.
"I see you’ve cleaned up,"
Viktor noted.
"But you still smell like oil and copper wire."
Viktor stopped a few feet away, planting his staff. He stood perfectly still, embodying his philosophy: a mage should be a stationary turret of destruction, not a scurrying fighter.
"You’ve been playing assistant to the Headmaster I hear,"
Viktor continued.
"Hiding in your workshop, tinkering with your toys."
"I have been busy."
Ray said calmly.
"You have been diluting the quality of this institution,"
Viktor corrected him coldly.
"Look, Croft. I admit you are... clever. You build interesting contraptions like your glove. But the Azure Cup isn't an engineering fair. We are going up against schools like Iron-Bastion and Tidal Reach. They wield real magic. High-impact, catastrophic elemental forces."
Viktor’s eyes glowed with a faint, internal luminance.
"You are an Artificer. You rely on your contraptions and gears because you lack the bloodline for true dominance. If you enter the Dueling Event representing Solhaven, you will be exposed. And you will make the College of Arcanum look like a vocational school for blacksmiths."
"Is that advice? Or a threat?"
Ray asked.
"It is a demand for hygiene, Do not enter the Dueling Event, Croft. Stick to the Runic Event where you belong. Leave the fighting to the Mages."
Viktor sneered.
"And if I refuse?"
Viktor’s smirk deepened. He didn't crack his knuckles; such gestures were beneath him. He simply tightened his grip on his white ash staff, and the air around him suddenly grew heavy, distorted by a massive, unseen kinetic pressure.
"Then I will expose you, I challenge you to a spar. You and me right now."
Viktor declared, his voice carrying clearly to the gathering crowd.
He tilted his head, his silver hair shifting.
"If I win, you admit that engineering is a crutch for the weak, and you do not enter the Dueling Event."
The crowd hushed. It was a direct attack on Ray’s entire methodology.
Ray looked at Viktor. He saw pride. He saw the rigid dogma. Viktor believed that without his artifacts, Ray was nothing but a powerless commoner.
The irony was delicious. Ray had just spent the past three months honing his fighting style using the Tactical Replication Protocol to do countless combat simulations, learning new techniques based on his experience and he had just improved his body recently making his body improve by leaps and bounds so he wouldn't have to rely solely on magic.
"Acceptable,"
Ray said, unbuttoning the top clasp of his coat.
"But when I win, Viktor... you stop worrying about my path and start worrying about your own."
The students formed a wide, eager circle in the center of the courtyard. The air buzzed with anticipation.
Viktor stood on one side, planting his white ash staff. He adopted the stance of a classic Battle-Mage: feet shoulder-width apart, posture rigid, staff held vertical like a scepter. He didn't raise a guard; he believed his offense was his defense.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Ray stood opposite him. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't pull out a wand. He simply let his arms hang loose, his posture relaxed but perfectly balanced.
Inside Ray’s mind, he activated ‘Quad-Concurrent Partial Immersion,’ his innate skill ‘Cognitive Network’ immediately kicked in anticipation for the mental load..
His internal committee was excited and gave him advice.
Veteran: “He’s planted. He thinks he’s a turret. He’ll start small to test your reflexes, then escalate when you don't break.”
Cultivator: “Watch the flow, Disciple. Before the lightning strikes, the air must charge. His intent precedes his action.”
"Ready?"
Viktor asked, his voice dripping with condescension.