Professor Varen's voice cut through the morning combat practice like a blade.
"Attention, freshmen!"
Elias lowered his practice sword, grateful for the interruption. His sparring partner—Thomas, still as clumsy as ever—looked equally relieved. Around the training grounds, ninety-eight other first-year students turned toward the scarred instructor.
"The Academy's Freshman Ranking Tournament will be held two weeks from today," Varen announced, his amplified voice carrying easily across the packed-dirt arena. "This is your first official evaluation beyond entrance exams. Performance will affect your class placements, training opportunities, and academic trajectory for the remainder of the year."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Elias felt his stomach tighten—not from nerves, but from memory. He'd lived this moment before, seven years ago. Remembered every detail of the tournament he'd failed spectacularly.
Dead last. Ninety-ninth out of one hundred freshmen.
"Tournament structure," Varen continued. "Single elimination bracket. Three-minute rounds, supervised combat, victory by submission or clear dominance. You'll be seeded based on current performance assessments." He paused, scanning the students with his one good eye. "This isn't about raw power. It's about strategy, adaptation, and mental fortitude. Remember that."
The instructor dismissed them with a wave. Conversation exploded immediately.
"Finally, a chance to prove ourselves properly," someone said near Elias.
"Think they'll reseed after this? I'm tired of being in the lower practical groups."
"Two weeks isn't enough time to improve significantly. You either have it or you don't."
Elias moved away from the chatter, his mind already racing. Two weeks. In the original timeline, he'd spent those two weeks panicking, over-training on basics he already couldn't execute well, and psyching himself into paralysis. The result had been predictable.
But this time...
This time he knew exactly who he'd face. Knew their techniques, their weaknesses, their favorite strategies. Knew which bracket positions would be easiest to navigate. Knew the tournament bracket would be rigged—not maliciously, but predictably. The academy always seeded promising students to avoid early elimination.
He could win the whole thing if he wanted.
The thought was intoxicating for exactly three seconds before reality crushed it. Winning would be disaster. A freshman predicted for bottom-tier suddenly dominating the tournament? Aldric would investigate. Seraphine would dissect every move. The unknown observer who'd started the spy rumors would have confirmation Elias was... something abnormal.
No. Winning was out.
But so was losing. Not after working this hard to establish competency. Not after the spy rumor had forced him to explain his abilities as "pattern recognition" and "tactical analysis." If he suddenly placed dead last again, that explanation would crumble. His allies would question him. His enemies would smell weakness.
He needed the Goldilocks zone. Good enough to be respectable. Not so good as to be suspicious.
Mid-tier. Somewhere between twentieth and thirtieth place. High enough to maintain his improved reputation, low enough that nobody would look too closely at how he'd achieved it.
Strategic mediocrity. The most difficult performance of his life.
_
"You're thinking too hard."
Elias looked up from his lunch tray to find Lyra settling across from him, her own plate balanced precariously. The cafeteria buzzed with tournament speculation around them.
"Just planning my approach," he said.
"Let me guess." She stabbed a piece of roasted potato with her fork. "You're trying to calculate exactly how well to perform without attracting too much attention."
Sometimes her perceptiveness was inconvenient.
"Everyone's trying to figure out their strategy," Elias deflected.
"Everyone else is trying to win." Lyra's green eyes studied him with that unsettling intensity she had. "You're trying to manage perception. Again."
"Is that a criticism?"
"An observation." She ate the potato, chewing thoughtfully. "You do it constantly. The duel with Marcus—you held back at first. Combat practice—you perform just well enough. Even in Magical Theory, you give answers that are insightful but not revolutionary." She leaned forward. "Why?"
Because I'm twenty-three years old pretending to be sixteen. Because I've seen what happens when people notice me too much. Because I'm trying to save lives without destroying the timeline in the process.
"I don't like attention," Elias said instead. It wasn't even a lie. He'd gotten plenty of attention in his original timeline—all of it negative.
"Liar." But she was smiling slightly. "You crave attention. Just specific kinds of it. Respect without scrutiny. Acknowledgment without investigation." She paused. "Like you're hiding something but want credit for your achievements anyway."
Elias's mouth went dry.
Lyra laughed at his expression. "Relax. Everyone hides things. I'm just better at spotting the patterns than most." She returned to her food. "For what it's worth, I think your approach is smart. This academy eats prodigies alive. Better to be underestimated."
"Speaking from experience?"
Her smile faded. "Every day. Scholarship student, remember? I'm brilliant enough that they can't ignore me, but poor enough that they never let me forget my place. I've learned to hide capabilities too." She met his eyes again. "Maybe that's why I recognize it in you."
The moment stretched between them, understanding and caution mixing equally. Then Finn dropped into the seat beside Elias with his usual nervous energy.
"Did you hear about the tournament? Two weeks! That's not much time, but I've been thinking—I could create some equipment enhancements, nothing illegal but within regulations, just optimized weapon balance and grip materials that—"
"Finn," Lyra interrupted gently. "Breathe."
He did, then continued more slowly. "I'm saying I could help. If you want. Engineering advantages are perfectly legitimate."
Elias felt warmth in his chest. "Thanks. I'll take you up on that."
"Really?" Finn brightened. "Excellent! I have so many ideas. We can start tonight. I'll need to measure your hand grip, stance weight distribution, preferred balance points—"
As Finn launched into technical specifics, Elias caught Lyra's eye. She was smiling again, but something in her expression suggested she understood exactly what had just happened. He'd just accepted help, created a legitimate reason to improve performance, and given his friend a project that would make him happy.
Strategic. But also genuine.
Maybe that was the real trick—finding where strategy and sincerity overlapped.
_
That evening, Elias sat in his dorm room with a stolen notebook and began planning.
The tournament bracket would seat one hundred freshmen. He'd been predicted for bottom placement, which meant an initial seed around ninety-fifth. His improved rankings would bump him up slightly—maybe to eighty-eighth or so. Still bottom quarter.
From that position, winning the first round would be expected. Anyone in the bottom sixteen would be seen as beatable. The second round was where careful calibration began.
He wrote names from memory:
First round opponent: Likely Marcus's friend Tyler Venn—competent but uninspired, favors defensive water magic, weak against sustained pressure.
Second round: If I win first, probably face Jennifer Kaine—middle-tier talent, aggressive fire magic style, predictable patterns.
Third round: This is the sweet spot. Face someone in the 25-30 range. Lose honorably. Final placement: 25th-30th.
Perfect. High enough to maintain respect, low enough to avoid intense scrutiny. He'd need to win two rounds convincingly, then lose the third to someone respectable.
But which opponent should eliminate him?
He flipped through his mental catalog of students, matching current freshmen to future memories. Most were minor players in the grand scheme. A few would become notable. None would—
Wait.
Elena Thrace. Currently ranked around twenty-sixth. Combat-focused student with unusual strategic thinking. In the original timeline, she'd become... actually, Elias wasn't entirely sure. She'd graduated successfully but he'd lost track of her after his expulsion.
More importantly for current purposes: she was legitimately skilled, well-regarded by peers, and her style would provide a believable match. If he lost to her in the third round, it would look like he'd simply been outmatched by superior strategy rather than superior power.
That kept his "pattern recognition and tactical analysis" cover intact while achieving the placement he needed.
Decision made.
The problem was getting to that third round matchup required winning the first two. And winning required...
Elias grimaced. It required showing techniques he wasn't supposed to know yet. Combat patterns that first-year students typically took months to develop. The kind of experience that came from years of practice, not weeks.
But he couldn't win with raw power—his magical stats were average at best, locked at age-sixteen baseline. The System had made that limitation crystal clear. So technique was all he had.
Which meant he needed a cover story for why a predicted-failure freshman suddenly demonstrated advanced combat technique.
Think.
What explanation would Aldric accept? What would Damien believe? What would satisfy Lyra's suspicions without revealing too much?
The answer came from an unlikely source: his own fictional cover story from the spy rumor crisis.
Pattern recognition.
What if he'd been studying combat recordings? Analyzing tournament footage from previous years, identifying patterns in winning techniques, memorizing successful strategies? That was something any dedicated student could theoretically do. Time-consuming but possible.
It would explain knowledge without requiring impossible skill. He'd still need to execute the techniques, but execution could be rough. Imperfect. Like someone who'd studied theory but lacked practice reps.
That actually worked better. Studied-but-imperfect would explain winning against weaker opponents while losing to stronger ones. It avoided the prodigy trap.
Elias wrote more notes:
Cover story: Spent weeks studying historical tournament recordings. Memorized common patterns and counters. Theory-heavy, practice-light. Should demonstrate knowledge but rough execution. Allow opponents to land hits. Win through strategy, not dominance.
First round: Win clearly but not perfectly. Take damage. Show I'm learning on the fly.
Second round: Win with visible improvement. Demonstrate adaptation. Still rough around edges.
Third round: Lose to Elena after close match. Go down fighting. Respectable defeat.
It was a tightrope walk. But most of his life had become tightrope walks.
A knock interrupted his planning. Elias opened the door to find Damien standing in the hallway, arms crossed.
"Study group is in ten minutes," Damien said. "You're coming, right?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Good." Damien hesitated. "Also, about the tournament. I assume you're preparing seriously?"
"As seriously as two weeks allows."
"Then you'll want a strong sparring partner. Someone who can push you." Damien's expression was neutral but his eyes were sharp. "Life debt, remember. I help you succeed. Tomorrow morning, before breakfast. Training grounds three. I'll show you some techniques."
Elias's first instinct was to refuse—accepting help from someone as perceptive as Damien was dangerous. But refusing help he desperately needed would be suspicious in its own right. And Damien was offering legitimate training that would explain improved performance.
"Thanks," Elias said. "I appreciate it."
"Don't thank me until you've survived the session." Damien smiled without humor. "I don't go easy on people, even freshmen I owe. See you tomorrow at dawn."
He left before Elias could respond.
_
Study group that night was distracted. Everyone wanted to discuss the tournament. Cassandra and Viktor traded strategies. Ryan demonstrated techniques. Leah quietly took notes on everyone's methods.
And Damien watched Elias throughout, evaluating.
"You're quiet tonight," Damien observed during a break in the magical theory discussion.
"Just thinking about matchups," Elias said honestly.
"Smart. Most people will focus on training harder. But tournament success is ninety percent bracket navigation." Damien leaned back in his chair. "You know what I noticed? The academy always seeds students to create 'interesting' matchups. They want close fights, unexpected outcomes, dramatic moments. It makes the tournament better theater."
"Theater?"
"Everything here is theater. Rankings, evaluations, even the tournament itself. They're not just measuring ability—they're creating narrative. The underdog story. The prodigy's fall. The rivalry rematch." Damien's eyes locked onto Elias's. "Question is: what narrative are you trying to create?"
The words hung in the air. Everyone else had stopped talking, listening.
Elias chose honesty. "The one where I'm better than predicted but not threatening to the top students. Respectable middle tier. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Boring," Cassandra commented.
"Safe," Viktor countered.
"Strategic," Damien concluded. "Boring, safe, and strategic. Which means you've thought this through more carefully than most." He nodded slowly. "Good. I can work with that tomorrow. We'll focus on fundamentals that look impressive without being extraordinary. Bread and butter techniques executed well."
"That's... exactly what I need, actually."
"I know." Damien smiled. "I'm very good at reading what people need. It's why I'm tenth-ranked and rising."
The study session continued, but Elias couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just been evaluated and filed away in Damien's mental catalog. The rival-turned-ally was helping him, yes. But also cataloging his choices, building a profile, trying to understand him.
Everyone was trying to understand him.
Lyra with her pattern recognition. Finn with his loyal friendship that masked deeper questions. Sarah with her suspicion tempered by gratitude. Adrian Castellan watching from a distance. And now Damien, methodically analyzing his every decision.
The attention was exhausting.
But it was also necessary. He needed these people—their skills, their knowledge, their resources. Couldn't prevent disasters alone. Couldn't save lives in isolation. Had to build a network, even if that network constantly threatened to expose him.
The price of changing fate was living under scrutiny.
As he walked back to his dorm that night, Elias reflected on the tournament ahead. Two weeks to prepare. Two weeks to perfect a performance that was neither too good nor too bad. Two weeks to fool everyone into thinking he was exactly what he appeared to be.
And after that, assuming he succeeded? One hundred and ten days until the Dungeon Collapse. The second catastrophic event. Eight lives on the line. And unlike the Festival disaster, he couldn't just reinforce a structure secretly. Dungeon disasters required active intervention during the crisis itself.
He'd need to be inside the dungeon when it collapsed.
Which meant he needed to be invited on the expedition.
Which meant he needed to establish himself as competent enough to be included.
Which meant the tournament wasn't just about maintaining cover—it was about positioning for the next save.
Everything connected. Every choice rippled forward.
Elias reached his dorm and looked at his reflection in the small mirror above his desk. Sixteen years old on the outside. Twenty-three inside. Student by day, time-traveling disaster-preventer by night.
"Two weeks," he told his reflection. "Win twice. Lose once. Place around twenty-fifth. Don't attract attention. Don't raise suspicions. Just... be good enough."
His reflection stared back, looking as tired as he felt.
Tomorrow, dawn training with Damien. Then two weeks of calculated performance. Then the tournament itself. Then...
Then he'd start preparing for Dungeon Collapse. For saving eight more lives. For paying whatever cost the System demanded.
But tonight, he had a tournament to plan for. One crisis at a time.
Elias pulled out his notebook again and continued mapping strategies, while outside his window the academy slept, unaware that one of their freshmen was simultaneously the least and most qualified student they had.