The journey back to the main campus was silent. Alvian had commandeered a private cabin on the lead Mana-Skiff, not by request, but because no one dared to sit with him.

He sat by the window, watching the clouds drift by. The adrenaline of the battle had faded, replaced by the cold calculation of the next step.

The "Sand Wyrm Incident," as it would inevitably be called, was a turning point. He had exposed his new tankiness and his overwhelming power to the general student populace. The element of surprise for the Tournament was gone.

"Good," Alvian mused. "Fear is a better weapon than surprise."

He pulled up his interface.

[Level 31]

[Unassigned Stat Points: 15]

He dumped them all into Energy. His physical stats were already monstrous thanks to the [Tablet of the Earth Core]. He needed deeper mana reserves to sustain [Frost Heart] and [Runic Aegis] for prolonged battles.

The Skiff docked at the Academy's Grand Plaza.

When Alvian stepped off the ramp, he expected a debriefing. He expected the Disciplinary Committee.

Instead, he found a reception committee.

Representatives from the three factions he had saved—Vanguard, Phantom, and Sentinel—were waiting. The Arcanists were notably absent, still bitter over Lysander's humiliation and their uselessness in the desert.

A tall woman with scars on her face stepped forward. She wore the heavy plate of a Vanguard Commander.

"I am Tara," she said, her voice rough like gravel. "Head of the Vanguard Faction. My scouts told me what you did."

Next to her, a masked figure nodded. The interim Head of the Phantoms.

"We owe you," Tara continued. "Many of my juniors would be dead if you hadn't stepped in. The Vanguard pays its debts."

She handed him a token. It was heavy iron, stamped with a sword.

"If the Arcanists or the Administration try to bury you... call us."

Alvian took the token. An alliance. It wasn't friendship, but it was political leverage.

"The Tournament," Alvian said. "I assume your best fighters will be there."

Tara grinned, a savage expression. "Oh yes. And they'll be aiming for you. But not out of malice. Out of respect. You set the bar, Alvian. We intend to clear it."

"Try not to break your weapons on me," Alvian replied dryly.

He walked past them.

As he crossed the plaza, a shadow detached itself from a pillar.

Seraphina.

She fell into step beside him, matching his pace.

"You like making a scene, don't you?" she whispered, sucking on a lollipop. "First the Duel, now the Desert. You're making my job very hard. The Syndicate chatter is going crazy."

"Let them chat," Alvian said. "Did you secure Lysander?"

"We did," Seraphina's tone turned serious. "He talked. He was terrified. He confirmed the 'Subject Zero' project. But he didn't know what it was. Only that it's being kept in the 'Undercroft's Blind Spot'."

Alvian stopped. "Blind Spot?"

"A section of the old foundations that doesn't appear on any blueprint. Even Rogge didn't map it. It's deep, Alvian. Deeper than the Genesis Forge."

"That's where they're keeping the weapon," Alvian realized. "They aren't bringing it to the Academy. They're building it under us."

"We can't get in," Seraphina said. "The wards are ancient. Founder-level."

"I have a key for that," Alvian touched his pocket where the [Key to the Genesis Forge +1] rested. "Or at least, a way to brute force it."

"Not yet," Seraphina warned. "If you go down there now, you trigger the trap before the Tournament. We need them to commit. We need them to bring Subject Zero out into the light."

"The Finals," Alvian said. "They want to make a statement. They'll unleash it when the whole world is watching."

"Exactly. So you have to make it to the Finals."

Alvian scoffed. "Is that supposed to be a challenge?"

"Don't get cocky, Godslayer. Valeria has been training in the Hyperbolic Mana Chamber for a week. She's unlocked her [Titan Bloodline]. She's not the same girl you saved in Silverwood."

Alvian looked toward the Knight's dorms. He remembered Valeria's bow. Her determination.

"Good," Alvian said, a genuine spark of interest in his eyes. "Iron sharpens iron."

He turned toward the path to Rogge's lab.

"I have one week," Alvian said. "I need to craft armor that won't melt when I enter the Avatar State. And I need to figure out how to fuse [Frost Heart] with [Runic Aegis] without blowing myself up."

Seraphina watched him go.

"One week," she whispered to the wind. "And then the sky falls."

She disappeared into the shadows, leaving the Academy basking in the false peace of the afternoon sun.

[System Notification: Tournament Brackets Released.]

[Your First Match: Block C.]

[Opponent: Lysander (Recovered).]

Alvian paused, reading the notification.

"Lysander again?"

He chuckled, a cold, dark sound.

"The Syndicate really wants him dead. Sending him back to me is just an elaborate suicide note."

He dismissed the screen and walked into the darkness of the lab. The final preparations had begun.

The air inside the Department of Forbidden Arts was cool, recycled, and stagnant, a stark contrast to the hellscape Alvian was preparing to enter. He stood before the holographic map of the Academy's subterranean levels, projected by the chaotic red terminal of Rogge's legacy.

His preparations for the Tournament were nearly complete, but a glaring weakness remained. His offensive power was god-tier, his stats were monstrous thanks to the [Tablet of the Earth Core], but his defensive equipment was lagging. The [Robes of the Void Walker] were excellent for stealth and speed, but they were cloth. If he activated the [Avatar State] of his [Frost Heart] skill, the sheer output of absolute zero mana combined with the immense pressure of a prolonged battle would shred the fabric. He needed armor that could withstand the thermal shock of switching between the void's cold and the battlefield's heat. He needed a shell.

.

A/N: Creation is wild, exhausting, and sometimes my brain wants to run away. Power stones are my only bargaining chip to drag it back. If you liked this chapter, toss me one or a few, it helps more than you think.

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