Dawn came early when Damien Cross was involved.
Elias dragged himself out of bed at five in the morning, body protesting. His muscles ached from yesterday's combat practice, but he'd promised to meet Damien at Training Ground Three. Life debt or not, the rival-turned-ally took punctuality seriously.
The training grounds were empty, frost still clinging to the packed earth. Elias spotted Damien already there, running through warm-up forms. Precise. Controlled. Every movement purposeful.
"You're late," Damien called without breaking rhythm. "Three minutes."
"It's five in the morning."
"Which is when we agreed to meet." Damien finished his sequence and turned, dark eyes assessing. "If you want to succeed in the tournament, casual won't cut it. Two weeks isn't much time."
Elias joined him in the center of the grounds, suppressing a yawn. "I appreciate the help."
"Life debt." Damien's tone was matter-of-fact. "Besides, you're... interesting. Most students predicted for bottom tier accept their ranking. You didn't. Either you're stubborn or you know something others don't." He tilted his head. "Which is it?"
"Can't it be both?"
"Probably is." Damien smiled without warmth. "Show me your stance."
Elias fell into a basic combat position, deliberately leaving small flaws visible. Not too many, not too few. Strategic mediocrity meant showing enough competence to be respectable while hiding his actual capabilities.
Damien circled him like a predator studying prey. "Your balance is off. Weight too far forward." He adjusted Elias's stance with quick, professional movements. "Tournament matches are short. Three minutes. You need explosive power, not endurance. Understand?"
Elias nodded, mentally cataloging Damien's teaching style. Direct, efficient, no wasted words. In the original timeline, Damien had been
one of the most effective combat instructors after graduation. Made sense that his teaching instincts showed early.
"Again," Damien ordered. "Attack me."
Elias moved, throwing a combination he'd practiced yesterday. Damien blocked effortlessly, countered with a strike that stopped inches from Elias's throat.
"Predictable," Damien said. "You telegraph every move. Against someone who knows basic patterns, you're dead. Against someone like me?" He lowered his hand. "You wouldn't land a hit."
"Hence the training."
"Hence." Damien stepped back. "Tournament opponents won't be at my level. Most will be competent but not exceptional. Your advantage isn't strength or speed. It's here." He tapped his own temple. "Strategy. Pattern recognition. You're good at reading people. I've seen it."
If only you knew, Elias thought.
They drilled for an hour. Damien pushed hard but not cruelly, correcting form with clinical precision. By the time the sun crested the eastern buildings, Elias was drenched in sweat and his muscles screamed.
"Enough for today," Damien decided. "Tomorrow, same time. We'll work on counters to common freshman techniques." He paused. "You know, if you applied this work ethic to everything, you'd be top ten easily."
"Not interested in top ten."
"Why not?"
Because top ten attracts attention I can't afford. Because I need to be good enough to matter but not so good that people like Professor Aldric dissect every move. Because strategic mediocrity is harder than actual excellence.
"Personal reasons," Elias said.
Damien studied him for a long moment. "You're full of secrets, Elias Thorne. I haven't decided if that's admirable or suspicious." He turned to leave, then stopped. "One more thing. I'm not the only one watching you. Seraphine, Aldric, that third-year Adrian Castellan. Even Lyra Ashwyn, though her reasons are different. Whatever you're hiding, be careful. This academy eats secrets and spits out consequences."
He walked away before Elias could respond.
_
Breakfast was a quieter affair. Finn sat across from him, sketching equipment modifications in a worn notebook. Lyra joined them midway through, looking more rested than Elias felt.
"You look terrible," she observed, settling into her seat with a tray.
"Dawn training with Damien."
"Ah." Lyra bit into her toast. "That explains it. He's intense."
"That's one word for it."
Finn looked up from his sketches. "I've been thinking about your tournament equipment. Standard academy-issue weapons are fine, but I could optimize them. Better balance, grip materials that absorb sweat, minor weight adjustments. Nothing illegal," he added quickly. "Just... refined."
Elias felt warmth in his chest. "You'd do that?"
"Of course!" Finn's enthusiasm was genuine. "I've been wanting to test some theories about weapon ergonomics. You'd actually be helping me by providing practical data."
"Then I accept. Thank you, Finn."
The shy genius beamed.
Lyra watched the exchange with that sharp, assessing look she got sometimes. "You've surrounded yourself with useful people, Elias. Damien for combat training, Finn for equipment, me for magical theory. Almost like you're building a team."
"Or making friends," Elias countered.
"Friends who happen to cover your weak points perfectly." But she smiled. "I'm not complaining. Just observing. You're more tactical than you pretend."
She had no idea how right she was.
_
The next ten days fell into a brutal routine.
Dawn training with Damien, pushing his body to its limits while carefully showing improvement without revealing his mental advantage. Combat practice during the day, where Elias drilled against other students using techniques he knew from seven years of future memory. Evening study sessions where Lyra helped him understand the theoretical foundations he'd never properly grasped in the original timeline.
And throughout it all, Finn worked on his equipment.
"Try this," Finn said on day seven, handing Elias a practice sword that looked identical to standard issue but felt subtly different. "Shifted the balance point three centimeters toward the hilt. Should give you faster recovery between strikes."
Elias tested it. The difference was marginal but real. "It's perfect."
"Really?" Finn's face lit up. "Because I also modified the grip texture based on your hand measurements, and I was worried it might feel weird, but if it's working then I can document the changes and maybe apply the principles to other—"
"Finn." Lyra interrupted gently. "Breathe."
He did, then grinned. "Sorry. I get excited."
"Don't apologize," Elias said. "This is incredible work."
The praise made Finn duck his head, but Elias caught the smile.
During these two weeks, Elias also positioned himself carefully among the other students. He befriended those he remembered being helpful later, maintained polite distance from those who'd betrayed trust, and avoided entirely those whose fates were sealed by choices they'd already made.
Sarah, the auburn-haired girl he'd saved twice now, approached him during one practice session.
"I wanted to thank you," she said. "For the riser collapse, the training dummy. You've saved me twice now."
"Just lucky timing," Elias deflected.
"Twice?" She raised an eyebrow. "That's either really lucky or really observant." Before he could respond, she continued: "Either way, I owe you. If you need help in the tournament, let me know. I'm decent with defensive wards."
Another ally, added to the growing network. Not through manipulation but through genuine saved lives creating genuine gratitude.
The tournament brackets would be posted tomorrow. Elias already knew the seeding system, knew approximately where he'd fall, knew which opponents he'd face in each round. But he spent hours reviewing historical tournament footage anyway, making notes, discussing strategies with Lyra and Damien.
"You're overthinking it," Damien observed during their morning session on day twelve. "Tournament matches are chaos. Plans fall apart. The ones who win are those who adapt fastest."
"I know," Elias said. "But preparation gives me something to adapt from."
"Fair point." Damien executed a complex combination that Elias barely blocked. "You've improved significantly these two weeks. More than I expected."
"Good teaching."
"Good student." Damien's eyes narrowed. "Or pre-existing skill you were hiding. I haven't decided which."
Elias said nothing.
"Doesn't matter," Damien continued. "Tomorrow the brackets post. You'll fight for real. All this preparation becomes reality. Ready?"
Was he? Elias ran through his mental calculations. First round opponent would likely be Tyler Venn, Marcus's former friend, water magic specialist with defensive focus. Winnable with the right approach. Second round would be Jennifer Kaine if predictions held, aggressive fire mage with predictable patterns. Also winnable. Third round against Elena Thrace, assuming bracket alignment, where he'd need to lose convincingly.
Strategic mediocrity. Win twice, lose once. Place around twenty-fifth to thirtieth. Respectable improvement without triggering suspicion.
"Ready," Elias confirmed.
_
That evening, Finn presented the final equipment modifications.
"I've optimized everything," he explained, spreading the pieces across Elias's desk. "Practice sword with adjusted balance, grip modified for your hand size, leather arm guards with enhanced flexibility, boots with better traction. Nothing magical, nothing illegal, just... better."
Elias examined each piece. The work was meticulous, obsessive even. Finn had poured himself into this project.
"This is beyond anything I expected," Elias said honestly. "You're brilliant, Finn."
The shy genius turned red. "I just... I wanted to help. You helped me. With the Marcus situation, with being my friend when others weren't. This is the least I could do."
Lyra, who'd been reading in the corner, looked up. "You've made him into an actual threat, Finn. If Elias wins his early rounds, it'll be partly because of your work."
"That's the goal," Finn said, nervous energy making him fidget. "Though I admit I'm curious how he'll do. The brackets post at dawn, right?"
"Right." Elias gathered the equipment carefully. "I should get some sleep. Tomorrow everything changes."
After Finn left, Lyra lingered.
"Something on your mind?" Elias asked.
She studied him with those sharp green eyes. "You know, I've been watching you these two weeks. The way you prepare is... methodical. Like you're following a plan only you can see. You drill specific counters to specific techniques before knowing who you'll face. You befriend certain people while avoiding others with no apparent pattern. You train intensely but always stop just short of showing your full capability."
Elias's chest tightened. "Just being thorough."
"Too thorough." She stepped closer. "It's like you're playing a game where you already know the rules. Where you've seen how it ends and you're working backward to change the outcome." She paused. "I'm not accusing you of anything. Just... observing. Whatever you're doing, whatever you're hiding, you have your reasons. I trust that."
The statement hung in the air between them. Trust. Despite her suspicions, despite the questions she could ask, she was choosing trust.
"Thank you," Elias said quietly.
She smiled. "Don't thank me yet. Win your matches tomorrow and I'll consider us even for all the study help." She moved toward the door, then stopped. "And Elias? Whatever happens in that tournament, whatever you're trying to accomplish... I hope you succeed."
The door closed behind her.
Elias sat alone in his room, surrounded by Finn's carefully crafted equipment, with Lyra's words echoing in his mind. His allies were perceptive, loyal, suspicious, and trusting all at once. They knew something was different about him but chose to help anyway.
In the original timeline, he'd been alone. Now, he had a team.
He pulled out his notebook and reviewed his tournament strategy one final time. Tyler Venn in round one: aggressive opening, defensive mid-fight, exploit overcommitment. Jennifer Kaine in round two: bait her fire magic, counter with precision strikes, controlled victory. Elena Thrace in round three: respectable showing, strategic loss, twenty-fifth to thirtieth placement.
Simple plan. Difficult execution.
Everything had to go perfectly. Too good and he'd attract the wrong attention. Too bad and his positioning for the Dungeon Expedition would fail. Strategic mediocrity demanded precision.
His reflection in the window showed a sixteen-year-old preparing for a tournament. But inside, twenty-three years of experience calculated every variable, planned every contingency, prepared for every outcome.
Tomorrow, the Freshman Ranking Tournament began.
Tomorrow, he'd walk the razor's edge between competence and suspicion.
Tomorrow, strategic mediocrity would be tested in front of the entire academy.
Elias closed his notebook and tried to sleep. But his mind kept running through scenarios, adjustments, possibilities. Seven years of foreknowledge were both weapon and burden.
Two weeks of preparation.
Three rounds of calculated performance.
One goal: position himself for the disasters ahead without exposing the truth.
The tournament brackets would post at dawn.
Everything was ready.
Everything except the doubt that crept in during quiet moments, whispering questions he couldn't answer: Was he really good enough to pull this off? Could strategic mediocrity work against students who'd trained their whole lives? What if his mental calculations were wrong?
Elias pushed the doubts aside. Second-guessing led to hesitation. Hesitation led to failure. He'd died once from inadequacy.
This time, he'd succeed through precision.
The night passed slowly, sleep coming in fragments. When dawn finally arrived, Elias rose feeling more determined than rested.
Time to prove that foreknowledge, careful planning, and two weeks of brutal preparation could create the perfect performance.
Time to show the academy a mediocre victor.
Time to play the game only he knew existed.