The day of the qualification tournament arrived with a cold, biting wind. The entire population of Hage and Sosie had gathered in the large, flat plaza between the demon skull and the Grimoire Tower. A wide circle, perhaps thirty yards in diameter, had been drawn in the packed earth to serve as an arena. At its edge sat a pompous, richly-dressed man in a high-backed chair, fanning himself despite the chill. This was Lord Fungen, the regional magistrate, and he looked profoundly bored.
"Ahem!" the old Tower Master called out, his voice shaking under the magistrate's annoyed gaze. "Welcome! As per Lord Fungen's decree, we will now begin the qualification tournament. The rules are simple! Contestants must fight within the circle. Be knocked unconscious or be forced out of the circle, and you are eliminated! No lethal force is permitted! Understood?"
A nervous "Yes!" came from the cluster of fifteen-odd teenagers, Lencar among them.
"We will proceed with a simple bracket," the Tower Master said, gesturing to a large board.
Lencar's eyes scanned it instantly. His analytical mind processed the data. Twenty contestants. He was in the first bracket. Yuno was in the second.
Good. They were on opposite sides. They could only meet in the final.
He kept scanning. His eyes narrowed.
Asta was also in the first bracket.
This means... if we both win our first two matches, I will have to fight Asta in the semi-final, Lencar calculated. The winner of that fight will almost certainly face Yuno in the final for one of the two slots. This... this is the filter.
He'd come here to gather data, and now he was being forced to present his own. He needed to win, but he needed to win smart. He couldn't reveal his hand. Not Anti-Magic. Not the disguised grimoire. He would have to rely on the most basic, unassuming tools in his arsenal.
"First match!" the Tower Master declared. "Lencar Abarame of Sosie versus... Marco Ril of Hage!"
A tall, lanky boy with a shock of brown hair stepped forward, his knuckles white as he gripped his thin, two-leaf grimoire. Lencar recognized him—a kid who helped his father with masonry. Earth magic, then. Probably weak.
Lencar walked to the center of the circle, his expression calm. He wore simple, dark clothes, and his grimoire was strapped to his hip, its three-leaf illusion holding steady. He looked like any other commoner hopeful.
"Begin!"
Marco acted instantly, his voice cracking with nerves. "I-I'm not going to lose! [Earth Magic: Mud Wall]!"
He slammed his hands on the ground. A sloppy, four-foot-high wall of dirt rose between them. It was, Lencar noted, a poor defense. It was porous, slow, and blocked his own line of sight.
A panic move, Lencar analyzed. He's all defense. He's expecting a barrage.
"[Mud Bullets]!" Marco yelled from behind his wall.
A spray of hard-packed dirt pellets shot over the top. Lencar didn't even flinch. He just walked. He took a casual, diagonal step to the right, and the entire volley sailed past him. His "Mana-Forged 2.0" body, reinforced to fight Yuno's mana, perceived the world with a terrifying, sharpened clarity. The mud bullets seemed to float in slow motion.
"H-He dodged them?!"
Lencar continued his calm, steady walk, circling the wall.
"[Mud Bullets]!"
Again, Lencar sidestepped. He didn't run. He didn't cast a spell. He just... walked. The crowd was silent, confused. It didn't look like a magic battle; it looked like a boy taking a stroll while another boy threw dirt at him.
This is inefficient, Lencar thought. And it's boring. Time to end this.
Marco, now in a full-blown panic, began to prepare a larger spell. Lencar could see the mana gathering at his feet.
He's rooting himself. Bad idea.
Lencar stopped. He opened his grimoire. He flipped to the single, simple page he'd copied from his father's grimoire.
He would use [Fire Magic]. Weak, common, unassuming.
But he would fuel it with Yuno's mana.
He was in "Mage Mode." He felt the ocean of power thrumming under his skin. He held out a single finger.
"[Tiny Fireball]."
He intended to cast his father's weak, fist-sized ember.
What happened was that the anemic, inflexible spell was force-fed a high-pressure jet of mana from a four-leaf grimoire.
FWOOOOOOM!
It wasn't a tiny fireball. It was a cannonball of compressed, roaring flame. The spell shot from Lencar's finger with a sound like a gas explosion, tore through the [Mud Wall] as if it were wet paper, and slammed into the ground where Marco had been standing a second before.
The resulting explosion kicked up a cloud of smoke and superheated dust. When it cleared, Marco was on the ground, ten feet outside the circle, his clothes smoldering, his hair standing on end, completely unconscious.
Lencar stood there, his finger still smoking.
The entire plaza was dead silent.
Lord Fungen, the magistrate, actually lowered his fan, a flicker of surprise in his bored eyes.
Lencar looked at his hand, then at the smoking crater.
Damn it.
His internal analysis was scathing. I have no fine control. The spells are inflexible. The input is 'tiny fireball,' but the output is tied directly to the available mana pool. It's like trying to water a houseplant with a firehose. I can't use this. It's too loud. Too flashy. It's... inefficient.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance as the Tower Master weakly declared him the winner. As he walked off, he saw Asta staring at him, stars in his eyes. "WHOA, LENCAR! THAT WAS SO COOL! YOUR FIRE MAGIC IS AWESOME!"