"Shoot... I knew I shouldn't have joined this academy! Maybe I should've just stayed in that damn room!" George's mind raced with regret as he stretched his hand outward, trying to calm himself while maintaining the confident exterior he'd mastered so well.
On the outside, he appeared composed, and oddly enough, the other prospects seemed impressed, even though they couldn't quite pinpoint why. There was something about the way George moved, the way he held himself. He exuded an aura of quiet confidence.
"He seems like an experienced Empire Guard," the Prince muttered under his breath, watching George stretch, his movements fluid and controlled.
The other prospects exchanged glances, sharing the same thought. The reason for their perception was simple, yet difficult to execute: George's body language. It was a skill he had honed from his previous life, one that made all the difference in this world as well.
Back on Earth, George had been one of the last human lawyers, relying not just on his knowledge of the law but on how he presented himself. In courtrooms, confidence was half the battle. His clients needed to believe he was the best, and the simplest way to achieve that was through body language—projecting an air of control and authority. He had studied lawyers in movies and television shows, mimicking their theatrical flair and larger-than-life personas. These fictional representations often carried more weight with clients than the real-life best lawyers, who behaved far more conservatively.
Now, in this strange new world, George wondered if the same trick could work. Would the bravado, the practiced ease of a professional performer, carry him through the academy? He had spent his week in the library, not just reading about the world's greatest warriors but trying to understand how they carried themselves. Words on a page couldn't fully convey their presence, though, especially in a world where most people were illiterate.
That's when he'd had a realization.
Leaving the library, still disguised as a detective, George had wandered the streets of Emerald City, watching the guards as they patrolled. Their presence was magnetic, particularly to the commoner children who followed them like adoring fans, much as kids on Earth idolized superheroes or professional wrestlers. George studied their posture, their subtle movements—how they stood for long periods with their hands naturally stretched from constant weapon handling, and the effortless way they shifted their feet, always ready to spring into action.
Now, standing among the academy prospects, George adopted these very habits. His body language mimicked that of an experienced member of the Emerald City Guards, even though he had none of their combat skill. And it was working. Instead of being dismissed or underestimated, his calm, collected stance intrigued the others. They mistook it for confidence born of experience.
But as George maintained his composed facade, his mind was screaming. 'How am I going to survive this?'
"I will now explain the rules of this fight," the instructor called out, drawing everyone's attention. "The goal is simple: eliminate your opponents. You can do this by forcing them to submit until they give up or faint, or by knocking them out. No weapons are allowed." He paused, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. "However, if you manage to avoid elimination for five minutes, you pass automatically."
George's heart sank. Five minutes? That might as well have been an eternity.
Gideon Cross, the headmaster, interjected. "And, to make things more interesting, the last prospect standing will receive personal training from me." He smiled, a challenge gleaming in his eyes. "So, do your best."
The room tensed as the realization hit—the stakes had just skyrocketed. Training under Gideon Cross, one of the greatest knights in Emerald City and a World Championship contender, was a dream opportunity for any aspiring fighter. The prospect of being personally mentored by him added a fierce new motivation to the already eager fighters.
Madrath, standing with his fists clenched, whispered to himself, "If I win, I'll be one step closer to matching you, brother."
George's stomach churned as he glanced around. The excitement was palpable, but for him, it was a nightmare. He watched the gleam in the eyes of his competitors—the Barbarian Princess Stulgra, her two formidable companions, her brother Heigdeirr, and the Prince of the Empire, all ready to tear into one another for the chance at victory.
Outside the tent, Donovan and Mason Wolfe stood watch. Donovan, unaware of the growing tension inside, leaned toward Mason. "I must say, this plan of putting all ten of these kids in the same group? Genius. Makes our job of protecting them so much easier."
Mason gave him a sidelong glance, barely suppressing a sigh. It wasn't that clever, he thought, just common sense. Donovan's enthusiasm, while endearing, sometimes highlighted his lack of critical thinking.
Back inside, Gideon rose from his seat, towering over the prospects. He held a stopwatch in one hand, raising the other high above his head. "Prepare yourselves," he commanded.
The fighters assumed their stances, spreading out across the tent, readying for battle. George hesitated, unsure of what to do. He didn't know the proper fighting stances, so he defaulted to the posture he'd observed from the Emerald City Guards.
His mind was in overdrive. 'Five minutes? How am I supposed to survive for five minutes? Maybe I should just surrender now...'
But before he could raise his hand to admit defeat, Gideon dropped his arm, signaling the start of the fight.
Chaos erupted. The other prospects launched into battle with fierce intensity, moving with precision and power. George stood frozen for a moment, caught off guard by the suddenness of it all, his heart racing.
Around him, the Barbarian Princess squared off against her brother, while her two companions immediately targeted the elves. Their mutual disdain was evident in the ferocity of their blows.
'Madrath', meanwhile, looked lost in the chaos, unsure of whom to fight first.
Directly in front of George, the Prince of the Empire assumed an imperial stance, poised and ready, while Bryne, missing his sword, struggled to maintain a proper fighting stance. His movements were awkward without a blade, but at least he had some form of defense.
'What the hell am I doing?' George thought, instinctively turning away from the fight. He moved to distance himself from the immediate danger, hoping to avoid attention. But the Prince and Bryne, who had been sizing him up, exchanged a glance. They had expected more from George, and now they began to wonder if they had misjudged him.
Their doubts evaporated when George, acting purely on instinct, kicked the back of one of the barbarians' knees, sending the massive warrior stumbling forward. As the barbarian fell, he collided with the nearest elf, throwing both of them off balance. The elves quickly recovered, but the damage had been done—the barbarians were distracted.
The Prince raised an eyebrow at George's maneuver. "Ah! A strategist, then," he said, before joining the fray alongside Bryne, who seemed eager to prove himself.
But in truth, George hadn't planned anything. His move had been pure survival instinct—an attempt to make it look like he was fighting without actually having to engage directly. 'Just act like you belong. Let them do the heavy lifting.'
For now, at least, it was working.