The bulletin appeared just before sunrise.
A glowing announcement etched in silver across the inner courtyard wall.
> "Midterm Open Arena Challenge — All Divisions Invited. Observation by Staff and Affiliated Guilds."
Participants Selected: 14. Cadet Greenbottle, Lyle — Confirmed.
Lyle stared at his name.
Not at the top. Not hidden either.
Dead center. A perfect balance of noticeable but unimpressive.
He didn't panic.
But his fingers twitched just slightly.
> This isn't random. The Veiled Path wants me tested in public.
Someone else is watching.
---
The arena stood at the center of the Academy's east grounds—an open amphitheater of tiered stone seats and shifting barrier walls. Students gathered fast, spilling into rows while staff observed from raised platforms.
This wasn't just a drill.
It was a showcase.
Some cadets wore full gear. Bracers, enchanted gloves, mana-threaded cloaks.
Lyle wore only his uniform and a dull wand with a hairline crack near the grip.
Someone near the front laughed when he stepped in.
A whisper carried.
> "Did they pull a clerk by accident?"
> "Greenbottle's just filler."
He smiled softly.
Perfect.
---
The rules were simple: last three standing advanced to the next training tier.
Fourteen entered. Eleven would fall.
The match began with a low hum as the barrier sealed around them and the floor shifted into uneven terrain—half forest, half ruins.
Within seconds, two cadets launched high-tier spells.
Flashes of light.
Explosions of sand.
Everyone moved.
Except Lyle.
He walked—slowly—head down, posture slouched.
Letting the others forget him.
One pair of wind users were already targeting a kinetic-type near the crumbled arch.
Lyle adjusted his path toward them—not quickly, not stealthily, but deliberately unimportant.
When one wind user went to reposition, Lyle stepped just inside their path—
—and tripped him.
It looked like an accident.
The casting snapped.
The kinetic cadet took advantage and eliminated both.
Lyle kept walking.
No one questioned it.
---
By the seventh minute, four cadets were down. Two more were limping.
Lyle had drawn zero attention.
Until now.
A voice barked from the north end of the arena.
"Greenbottle! Get in the ring or get out of my way!"
The speaker was Lance Morrick—a second-tier cadet who'd earned the moniker Mana Breaker. Known for raw power and zero tolerance for weaklings.
Lyle looked up.
He saw the bait.
This was the moment—the trap—where being too passive would backfire.
He walked toward Lance.
Fast.
Deliberate.
Lance raised his wand—and that's when Lyle flicked a small burst of air under his own heel, stumbling forward.
It looked unplanned.
He crashed into Lance, palm brushing the man's casting arm.
Just a spark—misaligned the man's grip by half a degree.
When Lance triggered his attack, the spell backlashed into his own side.
He flew backwards into a broken pillar, groaning.
Lyle winced.
"I'm so sorry," he said. Loudly. "I wasn't watching where I was going!"
Gasps. Laughter.
The proctors took notes.
One instructor rubbed his temple.
But no one accused him.
And when the next blast from across the arena went wild and clipped another target, the match ended.
Lyle stood among the last three.
---
In the silence that followed, a low voice echoed behind the proctor's panel.
A cloaked figure leaned toward another observer.
"Mark that one. Greenbottle."
The other raised a brow. "Why? He barely cast."
"That's what makes him dangerous."