The ultimate one of Gaia

The opening gong of the Wargames thundered across Varncrest's floating island like an earthquake, its resonance rippling through rune-reinforced marble and bone alike. Spell-laced banners flared to life, each category illuminating in sequence with pulsing gold.

Combat Prowess.

Strategic Acumen.

Magical Aptitude.

Problem-Solving.

Leadership.

Sportsmanship.

As the teleportation array activated, a low hum filled the air. Runes embedded deep beneath the courtyard glowed in perfect synchrony, weaving together in an intricate mesh of spell geometry.

Students standing in rank formations were engulfed in a momentary white-out, as if swallowed by the sun itself.

Then the world snapped back into focus.

"What is this madness?" Martin muttered under his breath.

He stood in the middle of a ruined cathedral. Broken arches rose like ribs around him, fractured stained glass crunching beneath his boots. The moss-eaten stone felt humid and cold, as if the structure had been reclaimed from a sunken city.

Martin retrieved his medallion. Glyphs surfaced across its surface, flickering through spectrum scans and elemental detection protocols.

"Tch." Martin clicked his teeth. "Anti-analysis wards."

He looked out from a collapsed section of the cathedral wall. Beyond sprawled a labyrinthine landscape of fractured streets, half-submerged towers, and skeletal domes that glowed faintly with mana decay.

"An artificial environment, on this scale at that," Martin muttered, scratching his cheek absently. "They don't call him Magus Supreme for nothing… but seriously, they could have used that money somewhere else."

In the Observation Hall

Dozens of scry screens hovered in perfect formation before tiered rows of carved obsidian seats. Each screen displayed a participant's perspective, their vitals and mana levels rendered in tactical overlays. Faculty members, nobles, and military envoys watched in rapt silence, taking notes on rune-etched tablets.

"He's doing okay," Belisarius said, eyes scanning Martin's feed.

"You know," Roen replied, leaning back in his chair, "by the time he actually starts, you'll be the one answering to His Majesty."

"This event is being broadcast to every province in the Marlo Empire," Belisarius replied. "I am confident even Martin won't do anything too drastic."

"It won't work," Roen scoffed, shaking his head. "Martin is smart, but politically inept. Not a people person. He'll end up insulting half the empire before lunch."

"I hope you're wrong," Belisarius said, exhaling slowly. He turned to Bellarine. "How is Diemo doing?"

"She's scouting," Bellarine answered calmly, her gaze steady on her private feed. "And Martin?"

"He's not activating any spells," Roen said, frowning. "He's… thinking."

"You should prepare the documentation for property damage claims," Bellarine added absently.

"Don't jinx it," Belisarius growled under his breath.

Back in the Ruin

Martin moved in deliberate silence, testing each step before committing his full weight. The cathedral gave way to a broad hallway lined with statues—warped humanoids, their faces melted into grotesque masks of agony or ecstasy. Every few meters, brass incense braziers sat unlit, coated in green corrosion.

"Creepy design choice," he muttered, sliding his fingers across the base of one statue. Dust coated it thickly and undisturbed. "No forced illusions… This really is old construction. Or an excellent mimicry."

He ducked just as a crossbow bolt whistled past, embedding itself with a metallic thunk into a pillar behind him. A mana-pulse rippled from the impact site, detonating in a flash of blue-white light that scorched a neat hole through the stone.

"Oh?" Martin tilted his head, scanning the shadows near the collapsed windows. 'A sniper. Manual crossbow. Enchanted bolts. House Ilmaren craftsmanship by the alloy hue. Accurate, too.'

"Alright, let's have it."

Martin flicked his wrist, summoning a floating node that resembled a translucent marble laced with micro-runes. He rolled it along the dusty floor, tapping its core.

Ping.

Mana pulsed outward in a silent ripple, mapping immediate terrain and marking bio-signatures. An illusionary schematic projected before his eyes, overlaying walls and hidden heat signatures.

"Only one attacker in this wing," Martin exhaled. "Then let's not waste time."

Outside, the sniper—a boy with ash-blonde hair tied in a braid under his hood, wearing the sigil of House Ilmaren—steadied his crossbow. He inhaled slowly, tracking the broken window where his target had disappeared.

Wait for movement, he told himself, steadying his mana flow to feed the bolt's detonation glyph. Don't miss. Don't—

The air warped beside him.

A rapier pierced out from an impossibly narrow gap in the wall, moving like liquid shadow. The blade stabbed through his hood, touching his temple with precise, surgical grace.

Before blood was drawn, the boy vanished in a flicker of pale light, teleported away by the arena's safety glyphs.

"Safety glyphs…" Martin sighed, stepping out from behind the crumbled wall he had blown apart with a silent force rune. He flicked dust from his shoulders. "I keep forgetting they don't want corpses on broadcast."

He glanced around the exposed sniper nest, noting the spare quiver of glyph-bolts. His fingers brushed them lightly, absorbing the structural rune sequence into memory.

"House Ilmaren's engineering has improved since last year," he mused, pocketing one for later analysis. "Good alloy blend, minimal glyph resistance drift."

Below him, an echo of footsteps rose from deeper in the ruins. Martin's head turned, eyes sharpening as he detected three distinct mana signatures approaching in triangular formation. One was dense and flickering—probably a kinetic user. Another was layered with fine filaments, an enchanter or saboteur. The third was broad and stable—a standard shield caster.

Martin exhaled once, slow and steady, his breath visible in the cold ruin air. The rapier in his hand hummed softly as his mana spiked, flowing into the blade's microchannels until it glowed with subdued violet light.

"Three more warm-ups," he murmured, rolling his neck with a series of small cracks. "Then… maybe I'll try using my left hand."

In the Observation Hall

"He's engaging now," Roen said, voice tight.

Belisarius crossed his arms, his eyes cold with calculation. "Let's see what he shows the world today."

Bellarine remained silent, but a faint smile curved her lips. "And what he chooses to hide."