Thirty-one days. Seven hundred and forty-four hours of methodical, private torture.
The sun had not yet risen over the jagged horizon of the Forsaken Realm. In a fallow field on the outskirts of Hage, the air was cold enough to bite, yet a thick shroud of steam rose from Lencar's bare, sweat-drenched shoulders. He stood perfectly still, his breathing a rhythmic, low hiss that synchronized with the thrumming of his internal systems.
He was in "Mage Mode." The siphoned mana—once a crushing, alien burden that felt like an ocean trying to fit into a bucket—was no longer a weight. It had become a familiar, heavy cloak. Through a month of relentless "Mana-Forging 2.0," his body had finally integrated the high-pressure energy. He didn't just carry the mana; he wore it like a second skin.
"Phase A," he muttered, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
He dropped into a push-up stance, his palms flat against the frosted dirt. This was the foundation of his architecture. He willed the mana to resist him, commanding the energy to push down against his spine and limbs with the force of a falling mountain.
He pushed.
His muscles, now woven with the experience of fighting a storm every morning, screamed in protest. The repetition was just as agonizing as it had been on Day One. Every fiber of his being was being compressed, forged, and hardened. The difference was the result. He didn't collapse. His arms didn't tremble. He moved with the slow, inexorable power of a hydraulic press.
He finished the rep. He took one sharp, disciplined breath, and went down for another.
And another.
And another.
By the time he completed a full set of ten, his body was vibrating with a near-aneurysmal, vein-popping nightmare of effort. When he finally let his chest hit the dirt after the tenth rep, the impact felt like stone hitting stone. His body thrummed with the aftershock of a power he had successfully, brutally dominated.
He rolled over, staring at the dim, purple-grey sky. The transformation was internal. To a casual observer, he hadn't gained the bulky, showy muscle of a common laborer. Instead, he had become denser. His Mana-Forging had packed his muscle fibers, reinforcing them with his own will and siphoned energy, making his entire frame feel like it was carved from ironwood. At fifteen, he possessed the physical structural integrity of a veteran knight who had spent decades in the field.
He stood up, the frost melting instantly around his feet from the sheer metabolic heat his body was radiating.
The Performance Review
Phase B—the "Drain" phase—had evolved. A month ago, it was a clumsy, eight-hour marathon of recoil and nausea. Now, it was a five-hour, high-intensity tactical gauntlet.
He had learned the physics of his inflexible spells. He didn't just cast the [Towering Tornado]; he braced for it, using the massive recoil to reposition himself on the battlefield. He had turned the [Chain-Dance Slasher] into a mobility tool, firing the heavy, iron-grey links at distant trees to pull himself through the forest at speeds that defied human reaction time. It was artless, ugly, and terrifyingly effective. He wasn't a "Wind Mage" or a "Chain Mage"—he was a technician using high-output industrial tools.
Phase D—"Dual-Casting"—had become a mundane, nightly ritual. Every evening, Lencar sat at his small wooden desk, his grimoire open to the pages he had siphoned from his parents and the rogue knight Revchi. In his left hand, the [Magic-Sealing Chain] would be wrapped gently, silently, around his bedpost, maintaining a steady, low-drain suppression field. In his right, the [Tiny Fireball] from his father's magic would hover, stable and unwavering. He would sit there for an hour in the flickering orange light, reading a dry, technical book on agricultural mana-distribution he'd borrowed from the village elder. The goal wasn't just power; it was the ability to partition his mind, managing multiple data streams without a system crash.
But his greatest achievement was the "Toggle." The one-second "reboot" that had once left him vulnerable and nauseated was now instantaneous.
Click. The world went silent. The mana vanished. His body became light and agile in Heretic Mode, a ghost in a world of ghosts.
Click. The ocean of siphoned mana rushed back, flooding his veins with high-pressure power, ready to be weaponized.
The nausea was gone. All that remained was a dull, thrumming headache—a minor processing fee he was more than willing to pay. He had become a perfect, two-mode weapon.
Lencar finished his morning routine and headed toward Hage. He carried a small sack of his family's surplus flour tucked under his arm—a delivery for the church. It was a good cover; it kept him integrated with the community and provided him with a legitimate reason to be near the "Chaos Variables" that were Asta and Yuno.
As he approached the village center, the atmosphere shifted. Usually, the early morning in Hage was a quiet affair of livestock and chores. Today, a crowd had gathered by the ancient Grimoire Tower. It was a sea of nervous teenagers and whispering parents. In the center of the throng, he spotted the familiar shock of Asta's grey hair and the tall, aloof silhouette of Yuno.
"What is this?!" Asta's voice, a sonic weapon in its own right, pierced the morning air. "A battle before the exam?! That's not fair!"
Lencar's analytical mind went on high alert. He moved through the crowd, his face a mask of calm, commoner curiosity. The old Tower Master, Drouot, looked visibly flustered as he pinned a fresh, official-looking parchment to the village notice board. The paper bore the wax seal of the regional magistrate.
"Ahem! Silence! By decree of the regional magistrate, Lord Fungen!" the old man announced, his voice trembling slightly. "Due to the... ahem... 'unprecedented number of hopefuls' from the Sosie-Hage region this year, we have been instructed to hold a preliminary qualification tournament!"
A murmur of panic swept through the crowd. In the Forsaken Realm, the Magic Knights Entrance Exam was the only ticket out of a life of dirt and potatoes. For many, the journey to the Royal Capital was a massive financial and physical undertaking.
The Tower Master continued, his eyes avoiding the disappointed faces of the teenagers. "The capital believes it is a 'waste of resources' to have so many commoners travel to the exam, only to fail. They wish to maintain the 'prestige' of the main event. Therefore, a qualification battle will be held in Hage in exactly one week's time!"
Asta grabbed the edge of the parchment, his eyes scanning the lines frantically. "It says... it says it's an elimination tournament! And only the top two finishers will be granted travel passes and official recommendation for the Entrance Exam!"
The air went still. Lencar did the calculation instantly.
Data points:
* Total Contestants: ~50.
* Available Slots: 2.
* Primary Contenders: Asta (Anti-Magic), Yuno (Four-Leaf Wind), Lencar (Replica/Anti-Magic).
This was a "System Update" his meta-knowledge had not provided. In the original timeline, every hopeful had been allowed to travel. But this reality was reacting to the presence of three high-potential outliers in a single, backwater village. The "System"—the noble-dominated hierarchy of the Clover Kingdom—was attempting to filter the "impurities" before they could even reach the gates of Kikka.
Three protagonists. Two slots.
This wasn't just a formality. This was a zero-sum game. Yuno, with his legendary four-leaf clover and natural talent, was a statistical lock for the first slot. That left the second, and final, slot as a free-for-all. Every other hopeful—including Asta with his new, unknown black grimoire and Lencar with his hidden library of siphoned power—would be fighting for a single chance to exist.
"A tournament... a real fight," Lencar whispered to himself.
His pulse didn't quicken. His breathing didn't change. Kenji Tanaka, the data analyst, simply re-calibrated.
He looked at Asta, who was already screaming at Yuno about how he would be the one to win the second slot. Yuno, for his part, remained unbothered, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon, already looking past Hage.
Analysis: Lord Fungen is likely under pressure from the central nobility to reduce the number of commoners at the exam. By holding a preliminary tournament, they can crush the hopes of forty-eight children in a single afternoon, saving the capital the 'embarrassment' of dealing with them.
Lencar turned and walked away from the crowd, his mind already running millions of simulations. This was a hassle, yes. It was an added layer of risk. But as he walked, a cold, predatory light began to shimmer in his eyes.
Correction: This isn't just a hassle. It's a perfect testing environment.
Until now, Lencar had been training in a vacuum. He had siphoned data, but he hadn't tested the "Live Version" of his system against active opponents. He needed to know how Asta's Anti-Magic sword interacted with his own siphoned Wind Magic. He needed to see the upper limit of Yuno's four-leaf output without the safety of a friendly spar.
He reached the edge of the village, looking back at the Grimoire Tower.
"One week," he thought. "One hundred and sixty-eight hours until the first stress test."
The nobles wanted to filter the peasants. They wanted to ensure that only the "worthy" made it to the capital. They were trying to protect their status quo by building a wall of fire.
Lencar Abarame wasn't afraid of the fire. He was the one who had spent fifteen years learning how to siphon the heat.
"Asta is a variable of high volatility," Lencar mused as he headed back to his training clearing. "Yuno is a constant of high efficiency. And I... I am the system administrator."
He reached his fallow field and dropped back into his horse-stance. The "Mage Mode" mana flared around him, more intense than it had been only minutes before. He didn't care about "honor" or "destiny." He cared about the two tickets.
If the world only had room for two heroes from Hage, then the data was clear. One of the protagonists was going to have to be deleted from the bracket.
"Phase Five: Tournament Calibration," Lencar commanded himself. "Optimization begins... now."
The wind picked up, howling through the weeds as the Prodigy of Method began to prepare for the first boss fight of his new life. He would not just win the tournament. He would use it to map the entire power structure of his rivals, ensuring that by the time he reached the Royal Capital, he wasn't just a contestant—he was the inevitability.