Sylas Vermund—correction, I—was going to die tomorrow. Or, at least, that was the most probable outcome if I didn't do something incredibly clever, incredibly fast, or preferably both.
Let me backtrack a little.
Apparently, this world ran on equal parts logic and lunacy. Magic was real. Dueling between students was legal. And the faculty? Emotionally checked-out at best, mildly homicidal at worst.
The guy I was supposed to duel—some muscle-bound sophomore named Caelan Dren—had a personal vendetta against Sylas. Why? Because apparently, "I" had once set his robes on fire during a mana manipulation class and then blamed it on a first-year. Charming. The Sylas before me really made friends the same way porcupines made hugs—painfully.
And now, Caelan wanted payback. In front of half the academy.
In the dueling arena.
Because humiliation wasn't complete unless you had an audience.
I spent most of the morning pretending to review spell theory while secretly planning my escape route. And by escape, I meant "how to not get turned into roast villain on a platter."
The first idea I had was simple: play dead.
I even tested it by falling out of bed dramatically and groaning. My roommate, whose name I still didn't know but had the vibe of a bored librarian with trauma, just looked at me and said, "You're not fooling anyone, Vermund."
Plan A, trashed.
Plan B involved faking an illness. Fever potion? Mana imbalance? Unstable aura? Unfortunately, none of those would work because—surprise—magical diagnostics were a thing. A quick scan from the academy nurse would reveal I was perfectly fine. Or worse, that I was faking it.
Plan C was drastic. Disappear. Vanish. Run into the mountains, change my name to Greg, become a mushroom farmer, and never look back.
Tempting, honestly.
But Sylas Vermund's magical signature was on record, and if I tried to disappear without proper leave, the academy's search wards would drag me back faster than you could say unauthorized desertion.
So that left Plan D. The stupidest one of all.
Go to the duel.
And somehow… win.
Except I couldn't use magic. Or fight. Or even stand in the sun too long without getting dizzy because this body was apparently built for dramatic collapses and spite, not athleticism.
Still, I had one advantage: I wasn't Sylas.
I wasn't proud. I didn't have an ego. And I was willing to look pathetic if it meant I could breathe another day
So I came up with the only plan that might work. A terrible, cowardly, brilliant plan.
The dueling arena was an open circle carved into the earth, surrounded by floating glyphs that shimmered like warning signs. Students gathered on the stone bleachers, buzzing with excitement. Word traveled fast in the academy—especially when violence was involved.
I stood at the edge of the arena, draped in robes slightly too big for me (thank you, Cloak of Concealment, borrowed from the supply closet), and tried not to sweat through my shirt.
Caelan Dren stood opposite me, arms crossed, expression smug. The dude looked like he drank protein shakes infused with testosterone. His mana flared around him in fiery bursts.
"Vermund," he sneered. "Didn't expect you to show up."
"Neither did I," I mumbled.
He blinked. "What?"
"Nothing. Just… trying to be present in the moment." I smiled weakly. "You know, mindfulness."
The officiating professor—a stern woman with iron-gray hair and zero tolerance for nonsense—stepped into the circle.
"Participants, prepare."
My heart pounded like a kettle drum. This was it.
Caelan raised his hands, mana gathering at his fingertips. Fire. Of course it was fire. He probably practiced incinerating scarecrows for fun.
I, on the other hand, knelt down and began… wheezing.
Loudly.
"Wait," I gasped, clutching my chest. "My—my mana! It's unstable!"
Gasps echoed from the crowd. The professor's brows drew together.
"I—I feel faint! Oh no! Not again!"
And then I collapsed. Right onto the dirt. Face first. Like a sack of dramatic flour.
Silence.
Utter, absolute silence.
Then murmurs.
"Is he dying?"
"Again?"
"I heard he faked a fainting spell last semester to avoid exams…"
"Classic Vermund."
The professor stepped forward, lips tight. "This is a formal duel. If you are unfit to fight—"
"I—I want to fight," I croaked, not lifting my face from the ground. "But I fear… I might explode."
"…explode?"
"Mana instability. You've read the papers, right? Arcane rupture syndrome. Highly contagious. Highly volatile."
Now, was Arcane rupture syndrome real?
Technically, yes.
Was it contagious?
No.
But did most of the students here know that?
Absolutely not.
The professor narrowed her eyes. "Stand up and demonstrate mana flow. If you're stable, we proceed."
Damn. She was sharp.
I stood—wobbly, shaking—and extended my palm. Just enough to show a flicker of mana. The key was to act like I was trying not to cast too much, lest I detonate.
She stared.
I gave a tiny whimper.
She sighed. "Caelan, do you wish to proceed?
He scowled. "He's faking it."
"Possibly," she agreed. "But if he explodes, it's on you."
He hesitated.
I added a cough for good measure. A fake, dramatic one that would've made soap opera actors proud.
"Fine," Caelan growled. "I'll duel him next time. When he's not about to blow up."
And just like that, the duel was postponed.
I lived.
Back in the dorm, I collapsed onto the cot, arms spread wide, grinning like a madman.
"I. Am. A. Genius."
My roommate glanced up from his book. "You faked a magical disease."
"I prefer 'strategically leveraged public ignorance.'"
He snorted. "Enjoy your genius status while it lasts. You bought yourself a few days. Maybe a week. Then Caelan will be back. With friends."
I waved him off. "That's future-me's problem. Present-me deserves a nap and maybe a sandwich."
But even as I closed my eyes, one thought lingered:
This world wants me dead. And it's very, very creative about it.
If I wanted to survive here, I'd need more than cheap tricks.
I'd need to become the most unpredictable, unkillable bastard the academy had ever seen.
Or at least, the
most annoyingly slippery one.
Either way… step one: don't die.
Step two?
Profit.