Chapter 80

Elder Lioren clears his throat and forces a thin smile.

“That was merely the obvious, Candidate Cloud. Any serious student could have noted those issues. This hardly warrants special praise,” he says, but his voice sounds strained.

The junior instructors by the wall stare at him.

The man with the crooked spectacles adjusts his glasses. Shameless old geezer. Does he really think anyone believes that? This boy should be skipping Runic Notation 101 after that.

The woman with the braided hair glances at Jacob, then at Lioren.

If that’s ‘obvious,’ I’m the Emperor’s wife. He found a flaw you missed. Just hand him the damn passing mark and make him a Knight Apprentice!

A third instructor folds his arms.

Elder Lioren has no shame at all. He’d choke before admitting a first-year just outclassed him.

Elder Lioren keeps his gaze on Jacob, though his left eyelid twitches. He glares and sweeps an arm at the next doorway.

“We will move on to the second trial,” he snaps, striding ahead.

* * *

“Aren’t you worried at all?” Fatty asks me.

“About what?” I ask back, as we’re made to wait in the chamber.

They need time to arrange the second trial, it seems.

“He didn’t seem happy when he read your recommendations. Did you make them up? Especially the second one.”

“I think we were just unlucky,” I reply. “Elder Lioren is an Elf, and out of all the races, he’s the worst officer we could have met.”

“Why?” Fatty asks, confused.

“Well, first of all, that recommendation letter was from Sir Renquell, the Wandering Knight. Ever heard of him?”

The way Fatty’s eyes go wide tells me that he has.

“Wow, that’s really unlucky. Anybody else would have ushered you in without a word. But… he does look like he has way more beef with you than that.”

“Well,” I cough, “I might have killed an Elf?”

“What?” Fatty’s eyes go wide. “You killed an Elf?”

“Well, sort of. I mean, who doesn’t kill an Elf every now and then?”

“YOU KILLED AN ELF?!”

“A high-court-approved Knight candidate Elf.”

“YOU KILLED A HIGH-COURT-APPROVED KNIGHT CANDIDATE ELF!”

“It happens,” I say, defensively.

“It doesn’t!” Fatty shouts back. “Oh my—you don’t know what that means! Elves are—OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?! THEY’RE GONNA KILL US!”

“I mean, are they?” I shrug. “I know Elves won’t like that, but—”

“Oh my God, I gotta go,” Fatty says, starting to walk away.

I grab him by the oversized collar of his shirt and say, with a wide, sly grin, “Brother, you’re not going anywhere. You owe me.”

“W—what?”

“I told you I would teach you. You’ve got talent, but without me, that’s nothing. You’re mine, Fatty. Plus, we’ve already submitted the paperwork. Did you even read it? You know that a Squire betraying his Knight can legally be executed?”

“You wouldn’t!” Fatty says, turning as pale as a sheet.

“Would too,” I wink at him. “Now, don’t worry about it. We’ll make friends. I have a good feeling about this.”

“You antagonized Lucen Margrave the first time I saw you!”

“The first day at Ytrial, I suppose,” I say, scratching my chin.

“Holy Mother, please have mercy upon me,” Fatty says, tears filling his eyes.

“Heh, come on. As long as there are no Infernals around, we’re done getting enemies.”

“What did you say?” Fatty’s prayer is interrupted as his attention snaps back to me.

“Me? Nothing. Why? What did you hear?”

“INFERNALS?! YOU OFFENDED INFERNALS?! HOW?! HOW DID YOU EVEN FIND THEM?!”

Pork chop has a point, though,

I hear Baalrek’s voice in my head.

You will need allies, Jacob Cloud. And I’m not sure what my people will think of you.

Can’t you put in a good word?

I frown, ignoring Fatty’s shouting and focusing on King Baalrek.

Well, first of all, I’m not sure they remember me.

King Baalrek’s voice turns pensive.

And if they do… well… my legacy is…

Holy shit. Please don’t tell me that Infernals hate you or something.

Well,

King Baalrek coughs mentally,

hate might be too much. But I have been known to leave legacies around the world for my fellow Infernals.

Oh, so they should be grateful, right? You’re a Royal who left behind a lot of legacies.

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About that…

King Baalrek’s voice trails off for a moment.

It might be the case that my trials were SLIGHTLY unreasonable. I have high standards, Jacob Cloud.

Oh no,

I think.

I know where this is going.

The moment he mentions his trials, it reminds me that without the Rainbow Skill, King Baalrek’s trial would have absolutely killed me.

Oh no, please tell me you haven’t, like, slaughtered a bunch of your kind with your stupid trials.

The silence that stretches after my question is the answer.

Holy shit. Can’t I meet someone who’s not cursed or hated by literally everyone of their kind?

They do have a nice nickname for me—they used to, at least. Baalrek the Scourge.

Does the second part refer to Scourge for Infernals?

Well…

I’m starting to put every single Attribute into Luck from now on.

My heritage is worth the sacrifice of a few—a few ten thousand—lives.

Fuck.

Oh, by the way, if the Dragonkin find out about pork chop there, they’ll NOT be pleased. Just so that you know.

Fuck.

Yeah.

* * *

A crying Fatty trails dejected behind me.

Elder Lioren leads us through a side corridor that runs past the registration hall. He walks briskly, never looking back, and we have to hurry to keep up. At the end of the corridor, we reach a set of double doors made from reinforced ironwood, carved with the Academy’s crest. Elder Lioren pushes them open, and the faint scent of animals and hay fills the air.

On the far side of the hall, sunlight pours through high windows, and there is a beast pen enclosed by tall iron bars. A small arena sits at its center, ringed by wooden bleachers and sawdust scattered across the floor. Several junior instructors stand nearby, arms folded as they watch a pair of handlers move a large, scaled creature into a holding cage.

Elder Lioren gestures for us to step forward and fixes his eyes on me. “The second trial will take place here. Prepare yourself.”

* * *

Elder Lioren stands before the arena, his hands clasped behind his back while the junior instructors gather at his flanks. His gaze sweeps the scattered audience, then settles coldly on Jacob.

“As an incoming Knight-candidate, you must demonstrate practical combat skill,” Elder Lioren announces. He nods toward the pen. “You will subdue the creature before you. This is your second trial.”

All the junior instructors raise their eyebrows.

One looks at the beast, then at Elder Lioren. Another mutters under his breath, though Elder Lioren pretends not to hear.

The thoughts ripple through the row of instructors.

Shameless old bastard, thinks the spectacled one. This is a Shooting Horned Lizard? That’s at least Intermediate Gold Rank in threat, no matter what its actual level is.

Who brings a monster like that for a first-year trial?

another thinks.

An Early Gold Rank beast would have been enough—a level in the low one-hundreds. That’s standard for this exam.

The lizard’s speed and reflexes are infamous.

Most adults here would hesitate to face it alone.

He’s trying to see Jacob fail.

A few students and idlers who came to watch the trials glance at each other in shock as the handlers shove the caged beast into the arena. When Elder Lioren announces the monster’s name, there’s a collective gasp from the crowd.

* * *

Lancelot tugs my sleeve, his eyes wide.

“Should I get someone? A real Knight, maybe?”

I shake my head, keeping my gaze fixed on the pen.

Elder Lioren watches, and the thought crosses his mind: He should have listened to the Fatty while he still had a chance.

I roll up my sleeves, step forward, and face the gate. The handlers use a pair of magic wands to prod the Shooting Horned Lizard into a frenzy. The metal gate lifts with a clatter.

The beast barrels forward, its jaws opening with a guttural roar

I didn’t plan to show off much this early, but I don’t want a prolonged fight,

I think.

If the Elves want to bully me, let them know who they’ll be messing with.

The Shooting Horned Lizard bursts from the pen with a jolt that sends sawdust flying in every direction. Its scales glint like hammered bronze, and two serrated horns jut forward from its brow, each tipped with pale, venomous spurs. Thick cords of muscle bunch along its shoulders as it hurls itself across the sand, moving so fast the arena boards tremble with every step.

Its claws rake the ground and gouge furrows in the dirt while its tail whips side to side, smashing against the arena wall with a dull crack. Steam hisses between its jagged teeth, and its yellow eyes fix on me with a predator’s focus.

In a single breath, the lizard closes the distance, lowering its armored head so that both horns line up with my chest.

I stand ready as the beast bears down, less than three paces away, the air between us swirling with heat and dust.

“Diavolo Draw,” I whisper under my breath, as the Hell’s Sword forms in my hand.

* * *

Elder Lioren watches the arena, his arms folded and his jaw set. He did not expect Jacob to stay rooted in place. He’s actually going to stand there and take the hit? One strike, and the lizard will break him in half. That will avenge the dead Elf. That’s exactly what a rat like this deserves.

The junior instructors shake their heads. He’s about to die. Nobody survives a direct charge from a Shooting Horned Lizard, not even half-trained Knights.

The lizard lowers its head, and the horns glint as it lunges. Jacob does not flinch or raise a guard, and his eyes narrow with focus.

The Hell’s Sword forms in his hand. One strike, quick as lightning, cleaves through the Gold-rank beast. The Gold-rank lizard crashes behind him, its body slamming into the sand in two broken halves. Steam and blood hiss in the air. The ground shakes under the beast’s final convulsion.

A beat of total silence falls across the arena. Nobody moves, and nobody speaks. The dust has not even settled by the time the realization dawns—Jacob ended the fight with a single blow.

Lancelot jumps up, both hands in the air, and lets out a cheer before clapping his own mouth shut, staring wide-eyed at me.

Jacob flicks beast blood from the edge of his sword and lets it fall to the side.

Elder Lioren stares at the corpse and feels bile rise in his throat.

This cannot be happening. The upstart was supposed to fail.

Who the hell did Renquell send?!

He scrambles to save face and gestures sharply to the center of the arena.

He draws out a scroll, his hands shaking, and kneels to inscribe a magical array on the sand. He tries to steady his voice.

“The third trial will begin immediately. A true Knight-candidate must demonstrate tactical skill and awareness in addition to brawn or knowledge. You will enter a simulated dungeon—one filled with only traps.”

He fumbles through a stack of scrolls, voice cracking before he finds the right one.

“This array is a simulation, and you will face conditions appropriate for a trial.”

The junior instructors step forward, disbelief on their faces. The woman with the braided hair steps up first.

“Elder, this isn’t right,” she says, pointing at the specific scroll in Elder Lioren’s hand. “These traps are meant for Platinum-ranked Knights, not first-year students.”

Another instructor speaks up, “He already passed every reasonable test. You can’t seriously expect him to run Platinum-tier traps.”

Elder Lioren whirls around, his ears twitching with anger. “You will know your place!” he snaps, his voice echoing. “The candidate has not yet earned admission. He will finish all three trials or leave as a failure.”

He looks back at Jacob, his eyes narrow with desperate malice.

“Well, Jacob Cloud, do you wish to withdraw and save yourself the humiliation, or will you take the final step and attempt to pass the test required for entry?”

Jacob smiles back.

“What Rank did you say the traps were?”