Wrapped in the cocoon of his blankets, Oliver had spent yet another day sprawled in bed, the inertia of rest weighing down his limbs. Today marked the fifth day of the competition, and unlike the previous mornings, today's first game did not beckon his presence on the field.
"Let's see... my match isn't until the second game this afternoon. Might as well catch some more sleep," he murmured to himself, eyelids drooping in anticipation of further rest. Just as slumber was about to reclaim him, the distinct sound of footsteps nearing his room sliced through the quiet, halting his descent into dreams.
Now fully alert, Oliver questioned silently, "Who could that be? It's certainly not one of the students." With practiced swiftness, he rose, draped his clothes over his sleep-warmed body, and faced the door with a mix of curiosity and caution. The footsteps paused, a momentary silence, before a knock echoed through the room, "Is student Oliver awake?"
"Awake, please come in," Oliver called out, his voice a mixture of wariness and welcome.
The door creaked open to reveal the vice-Principal, a towering figure whose presence filled the doorway. The middle-aged man's head shone baldly under the overhead light, his stature imposing yet oddly comforting in the familiar confines of the school environment. In this academic realm, his authority was only surpassed by the elusive dean, who rarely managed the school's day-to-day affairs, effectively making the vice-Principal the true wielder of power.
"What brings you here?" Oliver inquired, his mind racing through possible reasons.
The vice-Principal closed the door behind him and said, "We've had a discussion with the Principal and came to a decision. Should you secure a top ten finish in this competition, we will grant you one request, anything within the bounds of the law."
Oliver's eyebrows arched in surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked, his initial alarm now morphing into intrigue.
"Just as I said," the vice-Principal continued, his voice firm yet earnest. "We believe that relying solely on blessings without physical preparedness is a disservice to our students. Triumph over your peers and prove that strength and skill are as crucial as any boon. It's better they learn this truth under our guidance rather than face harsher lessons outside these walls."
"So, anything I ask for, as long as it's legal?" Oliver's voice dropped to a murmur, his mind already weaving through possibilities.
"Exactly," affirmed the vice-Principal.
"Then, to be direct, I'd like some financial support," Oliver declared with a hint of audacity.
The vice-Principal blinked, taken aback. "And why is that?"
Oliver leaned forward, his expression earnest. "It's practical. I'm an archer, and maintaining my equipment isn't cheap. Arrows, longbows, they all cost money and wear out. Having extra funds would mean I could sustain my practice and compete more effectively."
The vice-Principal paused, processing the request, then nodded slowly. "I see. How much do you think you'll need?"
Oliver's equest, rooted in the practicalities of his sport, seemed to resonate with the vice-Principal, who now appeared more relieved than surprised. The conversation that began with tension had shifted towards negotiation, opening a pathway for Oliver to possibly secure not just victory in the competition, but a more stable future at the academy.
"Less is more, after all, I'm just a simple student..." Oliver began hesitantly, about to request a modest sum.
"Then, ten thousand..." he trailed off, but the vice-Principal quickly interrupted with a hearty laugh.
"Ten thousand gold coins? Not a problem at all, my boy! We can easily handle such an amount. Just focus on your preparation for the competition," the vice-Principal boomed, clapping Oliver on the shoulder with such enthusiasm that he didn't notice Oliver's stunned silence.
Oliver had meant to say 'ten thousand copper coins,' a far less significant amount. His mouth fell open as the implication of the misunderstanding dawned on him. Ten thousand gold coins could change his entire situation.
"Perhaps I should have added a zero?" Oliver muttered to himself, half in jest, half in disbelief.
Unbeknownst to him, even with several more zeros, the request would not have strained the school's resources. Rich benefactors and lavish funding were common here, though Oliver, always rushing off after classes and living off-campus, had little exposure to such opulence.
The vice-Principal, missing Oliver's quiet contemplation, moved on with a final encouraging nod and left the room. Time slipped swiftly forward, and soon it was afternoon, the arena buzzing with anticipation.
The competition's format was straightforward but unpredictable. Initially, students from the same class squared off, escalating to randomly arranged duels. Thus, Oliver wasn't surprised when he recognized his next opponents, though the setup was unexpected.
"Why are there two people?" Oliver queried the referee, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"The rules allow for team entries. You'll need to face twice the number of duels as others," the referee explained with a nonchalant shrug.
Oliver sighed. In his eagerness at the beginning, he had overlooked the finer details of the competition's structure.
The duo facing him were Sandra and Lesley, renowned among their peers as childhood sweethearts whose mutual affection was the envy of many. Today, however, Oliver found no room in his heart for envy, only the strategic calculations of how to overcome them in battle.
Lesley, blessed by the goddess of ice, wielded the power to manipulate frost, while Sandra, favored by the goddess of flowers, possessed healing abilities and could cultivate hypnotic or hallucinogenic flora on any surface. Together, they formed a formidable team capable of both relentless assault and resilient defense.
The prospect of a drawn-out battle against such a pair was daunting. The arena could soon become a field of ice and entangling blooms, turning the fight into a survival challenge against elemental forces.
"Hello, Oliver," Sandra greeted with a polite smile, her demeanor calm and friendly despite the upcoming conflict.
"Hello," Oliver replied, mirroring the courtesy. Inside, he steeled himself for the challenge ahead, his mind racing through tactics and counters. The duel was not just a test of strength but of wits, and Oliver was ready to prove his mettle.
At the referee's command, the air crackled with tension as declarations were made and both sides sprang into action. Oliver, with a swift and practiced motion, nocked an arrow and took aim at the wooden sign hanging precariously on Lesley's waist. The strategy was clear: targeting Lesley was critical since his partner, Sandra, though adept at conjuring floral barriers, was vulnerable at the onset before her blooms could take root. With no defenses up, her reliance on Lesley's ice-crafted shields was total, making him the primary target to neutralize.
Yet, no matter how deftly Oliver released his arrows, they were no match for the speed of Lesley's chilling craft. With a flick of his wrist, Lesley conjured six towering walls of ice, encasing himself and Sandra in a fortress impregnable but for a ribbon of air left for breathing, a flawless shield against any assault.
From the outside, the ice seemed to crawl across the battlefield like a slow, relentless tide. Oliver, undeterred, channeled his magic into another arrow, letting it fly with a twang. But the arrow, despite its enchantment, merely chipped the surface of the ice wall, sending a spray of frost into the air without making a dent in the formidable barrier.
The field was now a quarter covered in ice, the chilly expanse growing by the second.
"Do you think he stands a chance?" whispered an onlooker to his neighbor, eyes fixed on the icy spectacle.
"It's unlikely," his companion replied, shaking his head with a mix of pity and skepticism. "He's grounded, and those arrows won't make it through Lesley's ice walls, they tower over everything, impenetrable as the mountains themselves. Climbing them is out of the question; the ice would claim him before he made it halfway. His arrows are mere wood and feather, not nearly magical enough to defy such sorcery. The best he could do is shoot them skyward, hoping they might arc over and strike from above but without the keen senses of an elf or the brute strength of an demi-human, how could he pinpoint their location? Random shots in the dark, and even if by some miracle he hits, Sandra's healing is instantaneous. It's a mismatch, a man without blessings against one who wields them like second nature."
A pause, then a chuckle, "How can one unaided hope to beat a blessed one?"
The analysis was brutally thorough.
"What about his first day?"
"Let's not dredge up past failures," the other hissed, irritation flickering across his face as he took a swig of water. "That's personal, and irrelevant here. Let's leave it be."
"Understood," came the subdued response.