General POV

Rosen counted the fighters below. He'd lost track after twenty. Everyone looked the same once the sweat and shouting started. "They're dragging it out."

He didn't expect anyone to answer, but the man beside him did. "You're just waiting for Jason."

Rosen smirked. "Aren't we all? Kid wrecked a Rank 4 like it was training day." He didn't know Jason, didn't even like him, but he liked how nobles squirmed when commoners won. Well, he was from a merchant family, but they were commoners by technicality, so it didn't quite matter to him.

The man laughed. "That noble family had him shoved into Instance 7 after. Dirty move."

"Yeah, and guess who's there too." Rosen grinned wider. "Our bright royal disappointment."

The area was filled with competitors. Instances had been announced. Matches had been scheduled. Theodore Lockheart would face his first opponent sooner than later, and the collective opinion among those assembled held no mystery about how that encounter would end.

Conversations throughout the people focused on a single name, though not the prince's. Jason had become the tournament's unofficial favorite after his performance in preliminary rounds deciding the rankings—it was a systematic dismantling of a Rank 4 noble. Jason was not a noble. He was from a merchant family. The match lasted four minutes. The noble had surrendered with three cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder. The betting pools had shifted dramatically after that display.

And the noble family had retaliated by somehow getting Jason fixed in Instance 7.

Everyone loved a good underdog story, so Jason was the crowd favorite, and no way in hell was he going to lose to a recently awakened prince who was known for being a good for nothing wastrel until recently.

The crowd didn't need to see the stage Rosen was on to know who they were talking about. Everyone knew the name. The prince had become a joke with a pulse, and every gambler in the stands had money on Jason.

Maeve wasn't a gambler, and she also hated Jason's guts, so while she held no love for the prince or anyone else, she hoped someone would smack his face in. "Jason this, Jason that." It got old fast. She'd seen nobles train. The ones who survived didn't stay useless. "They'll eat their words if Lockheart's half as good as the rumors say," she said.

Her partner snorted. "Rumors say a lot of things."

Maeve kept watching the field. "Rumors start somewhere."

"Quite unlucky for him if they meet."

"If Theodore isn't eliminated before," another voice corrected. "Big assumption there."

"The prince's awakening was what, a year or something ago? Jason's been active for three years."

"The royal family probably hired private tutors to get him qualified for entry," sneered his companion. "Bare minimum performance in the preliminary trials. I checked the records."

Darren didn't bother pretending neutrality. "Jason cleared prelims in ten minutes," he said. "Stayed inside just to farm bonus objectives. Who does that?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Guy's a monster." He sounded half admiring, half afraid.

The young master from Vermillion Trading loved that sort of talk. "And the prince? Probably scraped by with tutors and royal pity." He flipped open his notebook and started writing. "I'm running advancement estimates. Jason reaches second event minimum. The prince?" He smiled faintly. "He's a face for the the newspapers. Everyone knows how that ends."

The mercenary beside him didn't even look up. "Ten thousand says he surrenders after the first hit."

"Only ten?" the young master said. "Charitable."

Their laughter wasn't cruel, only certain. They had seen too many real fighters to mistake pedigree for strength. Theodore Lockheart didn't have a chance and everyone knew it. The tournament attracted serious competitors. Rank, experience, and demonstrated capability determined respect. Theodore possessed a title and bloodline. Jason possessed a record of results.

"He'll probably turtle up in the starting chamber," someone predicted. "Wait out the timer. Minimum point performance to avoid complete embarrassment."

Maren listened without joining in. She didn't like nobles, but she hated easy consensus more. "What if he's changed?" she asked finally.

No one heard her. Or maybe they pretended not to. Someone said, "Changed from what, exactly?" and another voice answered for them all: "From drinking, gambling, and chasing women. Half the capital's daughters used to know to avoid that name firsthand."

The words drew grins and knowing looks. "Didn't he get dumped into sewer work?"

"Yeah," someone said. "But I heard it was something he did himself."

They laughed again. The hate wasn't personal, it rarely was in events like these, but people loved gossip, they loved to talk shit and nothing united a crowd like shared contempt.

Jason's name continued dominating every strategic discussion. His technique, his speed, his tactical awareness during the match. Observers had recorded his ability to maintain simultaneous combat awareness across multiple monster engagements while preserving mana efficiency. Professional-grade fundamentals that typically required years to develop.

The prince, meanwhile, remained an unknown variable weighted toward zero. Relatively recent awakening, minimal public performance, royal privilege enabling tournament entry despite questionable qualification of a mere Rank 2.

The narrative wrote itself.

No one believed the prince would last. No one wanted to. His failure was already entertainment. Jason's victory was already written. The rest was waiting for confirmation.

Cale adjusted his betting sheet and felt good about himself. "Three minutes," he said. "That's all I'm giving him." He didn't think it cruel; he thought it realistic. He had seen Jason fight, and Jason didn't waste motion or mercy.

The others agreed. The pools reflected it.

"Honestly, I'm more interested in seeing what the prince actually does," admitted one of the strategists. "Complete mystery box. Could be entertaining."

"Entertaining like a training accident," the mercenary replied. "I give him three minutes before withdrawal."

The betting pools reflected these sentiments. Jason's odds of course were the highest. Theodore's not so much.

***

Theodore POV

Theodore wandered through the estate. He turned a corner and heard voices from the training room. The door was slightly open. He wasn't planning to eavesdrop, really, he was just walking by and happened to—

"Again," Freya's voice carried through the gap. "But this time actually aim where you want it to go, not where you think it should go."

"That doesn't even make sense," Leona sounded frustrated.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Theodore found himself stopping. Just to... he didn't know what. Check on them? Make sure everything was okay? That was stupid. Of course everything was okay. Freya was a good teacher, surprisingly. Unconventional as hell, but good.

He peered through the gap.

Leona stood in the center of the room, hands raised in a casting position that was technically perfect but somehow still wrong. Too stiff. Too much thinking, not enough feeling. She fired off a [Mana Bolt] that hit the target dead center.

"See?" Leona said. "Perfect accuracy."

"Boring accuracy. Do it again, but this time like you mean it. I want a hole blasted through that thing."

"I do mean it!"

"No, you're doing it like you're afraid someone's grading you. Like there's a test at the end. Magic isn't a test, princess. It's... it's like..." Freya paused, clearly trying to find the right words. "You know when you're really angry? Like properly furious? And you just want to break something?"

"Ladies don't—"

"Oh, cut the crap. Everyone gets angry. Even proper noble ladies. Especially proper noble ladies, actually. You people are wound tighter than a merchant's purse strings."

Theodore almost laughed. Freya really had no filter sometimes. Most times. All the time, actually.

"The point is," Freya continued, "when you're that angry, you don't think. You just... feel. And the magic follows that feeling. Try it."

"I can't just—"

"Think about something that pisses you off."

There was a pause. Theodore wondered what Leona would think about. Probably had a whole list. He'd given her plenty of material over the years, hadn't he?

The [Mana Bolt] that shot from Leona's hands wasn't blue-white anymore. It was deeper, darker, with crackling edges that sparked and spat as it flew. It hit the target and kept going, slamming into the reinforced wall behind it.

Freya grinned smugly. "See? That's what I'm talking about. That had feeling. That had intent. That was real magic, not some academy paint-by-numbers bullshit."

"I... how did I...?" Leona stared at her hands like she'd never seen them before.

"Good job, princess."

"Don't call me princess."

"Why not? You are one."

"I'm the daughter of a—"

"You're a Lockheart," Freya said simply. "That makes you princess enough for me."

Theodore watched Leona's face go through about six different emotions in three seconds. Surprise, confusion, something that might've been gratitude, then suspicion, then back to confusion.

"We're done for today," Freya said suddenly. "You did good. Real good. Practice that feeling, yeah? The letting go part, not the anger part. Though the anger part's useful too sometimes."

Leona nodded, gathering her things. She moved toward the door and Theodore quickly stepped back, trying to look like he'd just been walking by. She emerged, their eyes met, and she froze.

"Theodore," she said, staring.

"Leona."

More staring.

Should he say something? What would he even say? Hey, sorry for being a massive ass for your entire childhood, want to grab lunch?

Gods, he hated how incompetent he was at relationships.

"Your casting's improved," he said lamely, because he had to say something.

She blinked. "You were watching?"

"I was walking by. The door was open."

"Oh." She fidgeted with her training bag. "I... yes. Freya's been helping."

"She's a good teacher."

"She's insane."

"That too."

Was that almost a smile? Just a tiny quirk of her lips, but still. Progress, maybe?

"I have to go," Leona said quickly. "Studies. Other... studies. Not magic. History. Very important history."

She practically fled down the hallway, but—and Theodore might've been imagining this—there was something different about how she moved.

A tiny, barely noticeable spring in her step.

Huh.

"You can come in now," Freya called from inside the training room. "Unless you're planning to lurk out there all day like some kind of weird stalker."

Theodore entered. Freya was sitting on one of the benches, drinking water from a flask that definitely contained water and nothing else, no matter what anyone said.

"She's getting better," Theodore said.

"She's getting less bad," Freya corrected. "There's a difference. Girl's got all the technical skill in the world but zero instinct. It's like teaching someone to dance when they've memorized all the steps and know how to move, but never heard music."

That was... actually a pretty good analogy. Theodore filed it away.

"She's cute though," Freya added. "All serious and 'I'm a proper lady' this and 'that's not appropriate' that. Reminds me of someone else I know who takes himself too seriously."

"I don't—"

"You absolutely do." She took another drink. "It's adorable. In an annoying way. You both do this thing where you think if you just follow all the rules hard enough, you'll... I don't know, win at life or something."

Theodore didn't know what to say to that. Mainly because she was probably right. He did follow rules. Structure made sense. It was safe. Predictable. You knew where you stood with rules. It was something you could control. He liked predictable.

"Speaking of taking things too seriously," Freya said, and something in her tone changed. Got heavier. "Tomorrow's Instance 7."

"I know."

"Everyone expects you to lose."

"I know."

"You planning to?"

Theodore looked at her. "What?"

"Lose. On purpose. Make them right. Avoid attention." She shrugged. "Would be the smart play. Keep expectations low, slide through without anyone noticing you're actually dangerous now."

Theodore wondered about that—

Time stopped.

Or rather, everything except him stopped. Freya froze mid-reach for her flask.

"Good," a familiar voice said from behind him. "You noticed me faster this time."

Theodore turned. Seraphina stood there, looking exactly the same as always. She wasn't frozen like everything else. Of course she wasn't. She was the one doing the freezing.

"Teacher," he said, because what else was he supposed to say? 'Hey, thanks for stopping time without warning, really love when you do that'?

She walked forward, circling him slowly. Studying him like he was some particularly interesting specimen. "The tournament has begun."

"Instance 7 doesn't compete until—"

"I'm aware of the schedule." She stopped in front of him. "I'm also aware of what you're thinking. Playing it safe. Holding back. Avoiding attention."

How did she—never mind. Of course she knew. She probably knew what he had for breakfast last month.

"I won't have it," she said simply. "You are my student. One of very few I've chosen to teach. You will not embarrass me by pretending to be less than you are."

"I wasn't—"

"Weren't you?" She raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, what was your plan? Scrape through the preliminaries? Perhaps eliminate a few easy targets? Make it to the second round if you're feeling adventurous? How thoroughly mediocre."

Okay, that stung a bit. Mainly because she was right. That had been roughly the plan. Don't stand out too much. Don't draw attention. Don't give people reasons to look too closely at what he could do now. Perform enough to get some backing, and cement himself in the—

"You will win," Seraphina said, and it wasn't a question or a suggestion. It was a statement of fact. Like saying water was wet or nobles were pompous. "You will win decisively. You will make them remember your name for reasons other than being a disappointment."

"That's asking for—"

"Trouble? Attention? Scrutiny?" She smiled, and it was not a comforting expression. "Good. You've been hiding long enough. A weapon kept sheathed too long forgets how to cut. Let me be very clear. You will not hold back. You will not play safe. You will fight to win, properly win, or I will strip you of everything I've taught you. Every skill. Every advancement. Every piece of knowledge. You'll go back to being exactly how you were before you met me."

Theodore stared at her. She couldn't actually do that... could she?

Except this was Seraphina. She stopped time like other people breathed. Impossible wasn't really in her vocabulary.

"The carrot," she continued, her tone shifting to something almost pleasant, "is that winning will accelerate your training. Open new paths. There are things I can only teach someone who's proven themselves worthy. And proof requires witnesses."

Carrot and stick. Classic. Simple, effective, and absolutely terrifying when the person holding both could manipulate time itself.

"Can you do that?" she asked.

[Parallel Processing] raced.

Win decisively or lose everything. That wasn't really a choice, was it? And honestly, part of him wanted to show off. Just a little.

"I—"

"Oh, and Theodore?" She smiled again. "Minimum 200 bracelets in the first event. Anything less is an insult to me." She didn't wait for him to answer. "See to it that you do. I will not have one of my students lack a sense of making an impression on others."

Time resumed.

"—anyway," Freya was saying, flask halfway to her lips, completely unaware that anything had happened. "You better not embarrass yourself out there. I've got money on you lasting at least ten minutes."

"Only ten?" Theodore asked, his mind still reeling from Seraphina's ultimatum.

"The actual bet I placed through a proxy. The odds are juicy, I'm going to win big."

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