Walking down the corridor, I spotted a crowd gathered by the wall. Everyone was staring at the freshly posted tournament lists. I walked up, lazily found my name.

  Herbology: Greg.

  Fencing: Greg.

  Combat Magic: Greg.

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “Greg the Everywhere.”

  Suddenly someone grabbed me from both sides.

  “Got you!”

  Lianelle and Alexia attacked from opposite directions and started tickling me mercilessly.

  “Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” I jerked and tried to twist away, but the princesses latched on like clamps.

  “Are you out of your mind?!” Lianelle hissed, digging fingers under my ribs. “You decided to leave us without gold? You signed up for everything!”

  “Greedy!” Alexia chimed in. “We feed you, we pet you, and you—?!”

  “Stop it! It’s funny!” I was already laughing, folding in half. “They just asked me to be competition! So you don’t get lazy and win too easily!”

  “We’re nice to you!” Alexia snapped. “And you do this? A knife in the back?”

  “Don’t worry! Enough!” I finally broke free and hopped back to the wall, breathing hard. “I’ll be serious only in Combat Magic. I swear! The rest is just… me showing up for a walk.”

  The sisters exchanged a look and crossed their arms.

  “Just watch it, Greg,” Lianelle said seriously. “We trained a lot. Don’t think we’ll go easy on you.”

  I looked at their sulky, determined faces and couldn’t hold it in.

  “Wait…” I spread into a wide grin. “Are you seriously scared I’ll beat you all? Even ‘while I’m relaxed’?”

  “WHAT?!”

  “HAAHAHAHAHA!” I burst out laughing—and before a fireball or a textbook could fly at my head, I teleported straight to my room.

  The last thing I heard was Lianelle’s outraged scream: “GREG!”

  Tournament day arrived. The Academy was buzzing. A huge amphitheater was packed with students. In the center stood tables with cauldrons, burners, and piles of ingredients. Stage one: Herbology.

  I stood at my station, yawning. To my right—focused and serious—stood Alexia. She’d already lined up her little knives and scales perfectly.

  “Good luck, genius,” she whispered without looking at me. “Try not to blow up the cauldron.”

  “And you, try not to die,” I answered.

  The head judge stepped onto the platform.

  “Today’s theme: ‘Accelerated Growth Potion’! You have one hour. The winner is whoever grows the tallest, strongest sprout within one minute after applying the potion. Begin!”

  Everyone snapped into motion. Alexia started slicing mandrake roots fast but carefully, checking the weight down to the milligram. Professional as hell.

  I looked at my ingredients.

  “Growth, huh…” I muttered. “Boring.”

  Then I remembered my promise: “Serious only in magic.”

  So here? I could have fun.

  I poured water into my cauldron. Tossed in some herbs. Sniffed.

  “Nah. Too bland.”

  Added dried berries. Threw in a ginger root (why was it even here?). Stirred with a spatula. Tasted it.

  “Mmm. Needs salt.”

  I wasn’t brewing a potion anymore.

  I was cooking soup.

  A good, rich vegetable broth.

  Time passed. Alexia was already finishing. Her potion was a perfect emerald color, glowing with magic.

  In my cauldron, something brown bubbled and smelled like fried potatoes.

  “Greg!” Alexia hissed, eyeing my pot. “What are you doing? That smells like lunch!”

  “Food is sacred, remember?” I winked.

  “TIME!” the judge shouted. “Step away from the cauldrons!”

  Testing began. Judges moved down the line, taking samples and dripping them onto special seeds in little pots. Some got a weak sprout. Some got a flower.

  They reached Alexia.

  She dripped her potion.

  WHOOSH—A powerful vine exploded out of the pot, blooming with flowers. It shot up a full meter.

  The crowd applauded.

  “Magnificent!” the judge cried. “Ninety-eight points! First place so far!”

  Then they came to me.

  The judge stared at my sludge like it insulted his ancestors.

  “And this… is what?” he asked.

  “An author’s recipe,” I said proudly.

  He scooped a spoonful, about to pour it on the seed—when I caught his wrist.

  “Yeah, no. The seed isn’t eating this.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I took the spoon back and… ate it.

  “Mmm. Delicious. Could use pepper.”

  The crowd gasped. The judge dropped his pen.

  “You… cooked soup? At a potion tournament?!”

  “Yep. Want some? I’ll treat you.”

  Alexia covered her face with both hands. Her shoulders shook—either laughing or dying of shame.

  “Disqualified!” the judge barked. “Zero points!”

  “Whatever,” I shrugged. “At least I’m not hungry. Unlike you.”

  I turned to Alexia.

  “Congrats, Princess.”

  She looked at me—understanding in her eyes. She knew I could’ve made anything (after the clotting elixir incident), but I’d done this circus on purpose so she could win.

  “You’re an idiot, Greg,” she said warmly. “But thanks.”

  My fight with Lianelle turned into a farce.

  For two minutes I lazily blocked her furious attacks, yawning into my fist. She got angrier, sped up, but her blade met only air or my parry.

  At one point she made a thrust. Weak. Open. I could read it from a mile away. I could’ve knocked her sword away, dodged, flicked her forehead…

  But I remembered: “Background actor. Don’t stop her from winning.”

  So I acted.

  “Oh no!” I yelled with the emotional range of a chair. “What speed! I can’t keep up!”

  I deliberately didn’t move my torso. The blunt training sword poked me in the ribs. It hit like a mosquito bite.

  But I grabbed my side, dropped my sword, fell to my knees, then flattened out on the floor.

  “Ughhh,” I wheezed at the ceiling. “Right in a vital organ! Light… I see the light! Tell my grandma I loved her pies…”

  I did a couple dramatic “death spasms” and went still, tongue out.

  A deeply awkward silence hung over the arena. The judges stared at me like I’d escaped a clinic. The audience didn’t know whether to laugh or call medics.

  The male trainer covered his face with his hand, ears red with shame. The female trainer drilled me with a stare that promised brutal training later.

  Lianelle stood above me, sword lowered. Her chest rose with anger.

  “Get up, idiot,” she hissed so only I could hear. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Victory… to Princess Lianelle,” the judge announced uncertainly.

  I immediately popped up, brushed off my pants, and smiled like nothing happened.

  “Congratulations! A brilliant strike! I was defeated by your mastery!”

  Lianelle looked at me with such a mix of hate and wounded pride that I almost felt guilty for a second.

  “I’ll remember this, Greg,” she said coldly—and walked off the arena without even bowing.

  In the locker room, I got silence. Guys glanced at me and whispered: “Clown,” “Weakling,” “Shame of Class S.”

  I didn’t care. Program complete: lose two tournaments, have fun, and eat (well… almost). Now the main one.

  Combat Magic.

  That’s where jokes end.

  That’s where I promised to be serious.

  And that’s where my meeting with the Ancient Elf was supposed to be.

  I stepped onto the magic arena. The atmosphere here was different. The air hummed with pressure and ozone. High-tier protective barriers surrounded the field (I hope they’re tougher than Alfus’s nerves).

  Elandr walked up to me.

  “So, actor,” the elf smirked. “Cooked soup, played theater. Maybe enough clowning?”

  I looked him in the eyes. My grin vanished. My gaze went heavy and cold. The right black eye seemed to swallow the light around it.

  “Enough,” I said calmly. “I came here to win. Where’s my opponent?”

  Elandr flinched at the shift in my tone.

  “That’s what I like,” he nodded. “Your first opponent is Reynard. Third year. Explosion magic. Don’t kill him.”

  A guy walked out onto the arena. Huge, muscular, tattoos on his face. He looked at me and laughed.

  “Hey, is that the clown with the soup? Kid, surrender now. I don’t hold back. There won’t be a wet spot left of you.”

  The crowd laughed. The princesses in the stands watched me anxiously. Alexia clasped her hands tight.

  I stood relaxed. Hands in my pockets.

  “Kid?” I repeated quietly. “Alright. Show me your fireworks.”

  “BEGIN!” the judge shouted.

  Reynard didn’t wait.

  “EXPLOSIVE WAVE!” he roared, throwing both hands forward.

  A stream of fire and shock force slammed toward me—enough to knock down a wall. The audience gasped. That was way too much power for round one.

  I didn’t even take my hands out of my pockets.

  I just… stepped.

  Not a teleport. Just a step. Straight through the fire.

  The flame hit me—then curved around like it was afraid to touch me. My aura (the one I finally stopped hiding) simply crushed his magic.

  I walked out of the blaze completely unharmed. Not even soot on my hood.

  Reynard froze, eyes bulging.

  “W-what…? Why aren’t you burning?!”

  I was already right in front of him.

  “Because your fire is cold,” I said bored. “And weak.”

  I pulled one hand out of my pocket and flicked his forehead.

  Just a normal flick.

  But powered with mana.

  BAM—The giant flew like a rag doll, crossed the entire arena, slammed into the protective barrier, and slid down unconscious.

  Silence.

  A dead, absolute silence that sounded louder than any explosion.

  Nobody laughed. Nobody joked about soup anymore.

  I looked up at the stands where Elandr sat and said loudly:

  “Next.”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  Next onto the arena came Alfus.

  I almost felt sorry for him.

  He was shaking, but in his eyes burned a strange, fanatical confidence.

  “Begin!”

  Alfus yelped and threw up that Water Dome I taught him. Spun it up.

  “I’m ready!” he squeaked from inside. “My defense is unbreakable!”

  I sighed.

  “Seriously?”

  I walked up to the spinning water.

  “Physics, bro. Water freezes.”

  I placed my hand on the flow.

  Crack.

  The whole dome became an ice shell instantly, trapping Alfus inside like a fly in amber.

  I squatted next to it and waited.

  For about three minutes he struggled in there, trying to break out. Finally the ice cracked. Alfus crawled out blue-faced, shaking, with a little icicle on his nose. He stared at me like I was death itself.

  I walked up and gently—purely symbolically—flicked his forehead.

  Tap.

  Alfus dropped.

  “Don’t catch a cold, neighbor,” I said, walking away.

  After that it went like a conveyor belt.

  Lianelle—I just blew her out of the ring with wind in five seconds.

  Alexia—she didn’t even try. Hands up. “I surrender. I know I can’t beat you.” Smart girl.

  I was rushing. I needed the old man.

  FINAL. Greg vs. Marla.

  Fifth-year student. Academy legend. Three-time champion.

  She walked out confident, surrounded by fire orbs.

  “You’re strong, freshman,” she said. “But your experience is—”

  She didn’t finish. She threw a barrage of fireballs at me.

  I didn’t move.

  A lazy sweep of my hand—and a gust of wind launched her fire into the sky, where it exploded like fireworks.

  “Boring,” I said. “Let’s finish.”

  I lifted my head and looked her straight in the eyes. My hood slipped back.

  Today my eyes were fully black.

  Two abysses.

  Marla froze. Her pupils tightened. She stared into my darkness and saw something—something awful. Her nightmares? Her death? Or just endless cold nothing.

  Her hands trembled. The fire died.

  The great champion dropped to her knees.

  Tears burst out of her eyes. She started sobbing, covering her face, whining from raw animal fear.

  “Stop… please, stop… I don’t want to…!”

  The crowd went silent.

  “Uh…” I quickly yanked my hood back up, hiding my eyes. “So… that’s a win?”

  I shot like a bullet to the judges’ box where Elandr sat.

  “Well?!” I demanded. “I won. Where’s the Ancient Elf? Take me to him.”

  Elandr looked at me coldly, even warily.

  “Everything in its time, Greg. First—the award ceremony.”

  “Oh come on!” I exploded. “How long are you going to drag this out?! Fine. Give me the cup and let’s go.”

  We lined up on the podium. The announcer began calling winners.

  “Winner of the Herbology Tournament… Princess Alexia!”

  Applause. I clapped lazily. She earned it. (With my soup.)

  “Winner of the Fencing Tournament… Princess Lianelle!”

  More applause. Lianelle shone. I yawned.

  “And finally… winner of the Combat Magic Tournament…”

  I stepped forward, ready to grab the prize and demand my meeting.

  “MARLA!”

  I froze mid-step.

  The crowd erupted. Marla, still tear-streaked, walked up to the podium.

  “WHAT?!” I screamed so loud it cut through the cheers. “Are you deaf or blind?! She was crying on the floor! I crushed her!”

  Elandr stood and announced across the whole stadium:

  “Student Greg is DISQUALIFIED.”

  “For what?!” My fists clenched.

  “For the use of forbidden Dark Magic. Mental attacks of this level—driving an opponent into madness—are prohibited by the Academy Convention. We train heroes here. Not monsters.”

  I stood there staring at them.

  They played me.

  Used me as a clown for the show—then threw me out behind “rules.”

  “Dark magic, huh?” I said quietly. “Monster, huh?”

  Something clicked inside me.

  Enough playing a good boy.

  I felt the air around me start to vibrate.