The mid-terms loomed on the horizon like an ominous storm cloud, casting a shadow over every student's nerves. Whispers about the written exams—merciless gauntlets of theory, mana equations, and historical trivia—buzzed through the corridors. But it wasn't the written exams that truly terrified anyone. No, the real nightmare lay in the practical evaluation, a beast of its own making, carrying a staggering seventy percent of the weight in determining our rank.
Nero, ever the master of calm yet somehow soul-crushing announcements, stood before the class with his usual air of effortless authority. "For the mid-terms," he began, his voice as smooth as polished steel, "we will be conducting a non-elimination battle royale. No beasts this time."
The room stiffened. No beasts? That meant one thing: every threat on the battlefield would have a human face.
"Essentially," Nero continued, clasping his hands behind his back, "it's the same as your first practical evaluation—minus the fangs, claws, and snarling wildlife. Points are your currency, as always. But this time, the only way to accumulate them is by hunting other students."
Hunting. A charming choice of words. As though this were some lighthearted game of tag and not a calculated free-for-all designed to separate the strong from the faint of heart.
Nero smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes and only made you question your life choices. "Not all students are worth the same amount of points," he went on. "The value assigned to each of you has been predetermined by the academy. And—pay attention to this—the more students you 'hunt,' the more your point value inflates. Think of it as a bounty system. The higher your score, the more you're worth to everyone else."
The implications settled over us like a lead blanket. Hunting wasn't just about gaining points—it was about becoming a target. The better you did, the harder the rest of the trial would become. A perfectly designed, upward-spiraling nightmare.
"And if you're taken down by another student," Nero added, his voice pleasant in a way that somehow made it worse, "you lose all the points you've accumulated. They'll be transferred to the one who defeated you. You'll revert to your base value."
A faint murmur rippled through the room. It wasn't outrage; it wasn't even fear. It was the grim realization that this was going to be as ruthless as it sounded. No beasts. No distractions. Just students pitted against one another, their scores and strategies laid bare for all to exploit.
"Questions?" Nero asked, though it was less of an invitation and more of a rhetorical flourish.
'Ah, so they're sticking to the script,' I thought, my brain clicking into gear as Nero's explanation sank in. The Academy's motives were as transparent as a pane of glass. In the first practical evaluation, most students had done everything in their power to not fight one another. Instead, they'd chased after beasts like children hunting holographic easter eggs, avoiding confrontation like it carried a particularly nasty disease. On the rare occasion two groups crossed paths, it almost always ended in uneasy truces or impromptu team-ups.
This time, the Academy clearly wasn't having it. No beasts, no distractions, no excuses. Just students versus students. Because, as any fool with half a brain in this world knew, the greatest threat wasn't from slobbering monsters—it was from things that walked, talked, and plotted as well as you did. The other humanoid species. Beasts? Beasts were predictable. Humans, and their ilk? Absolutely not.
In the novel, Class A had been the prime target during this exact scenario, like a herd of fattened cattle surrounded by hungry wolves. The other classes had ganged up on them with ruthless efficiency, chipping away at their strength until even the so-called elites had fallen. I imagined the same would happen this time. Why wouldn't it? Class A had the biggest bounties and the most egos to bruise. It practically painted a target on your back the moment you stepped into the field.
'And then there's the ranking,' I thought, my mind ticking forward like a finely tuned clock. This was the first evaluation that truly mattered. The previous practicals had been warm-ups, amuse-bouches to whet the Academy's appetite. Sure, my performance in those had temporarily earned me the top spot on the leaderboard, but that was just window dressing. Officially, I was still Rank 8. Mid-terms, however, were the great decider. Seventy percent of the weight in determining rank. In this world, that was the difference between being a hero or a nobody.
In the novel, Arthur Nightingale hadn't fared well. He'd been outmaneuvered, outgunned, and ultimately outdone. By the end of the mid-terms, he'd lost Rank 8 and had been unceremoniously kicked out of Class A, replaced by Luke Orden—the current Rank 9. Arthur had faded into obscurity after that, his name forgotten in the dust of more dazzling stars.
But that wasn't going to happen to me. No, thank you. I wasn't the Arthur Nightingale of the novel, stumbling through the chaos like a deer in a plasma storm. I was stronger, sharper, and far more aware of what was coming. The whole "fade into obscurity" narrative? Not on my watch.
Still, strength wasn't the only factor here. My goal wasn't just survival; it was domination. I needed to climb as high as I could, to cement my position at the top. Not just for the rankings but for what they symbolized. In this world, power wasn't just a matter of pride—it was survival currency.
"So, you just want us to fight each other?" Cecilia asked, raising an eyebrow with the kind of skepticism only she could pull off. "Lucifer will just take out most of them himself, then."
A ripple of unease moved through the room, but Nero seemed completely unbothered, as though the prospect of Lucifer singlehandedly dominating a battlefield was a particularly dull footnote in his lecture. "That is a possibility, of course," he said, his tone calm and measured. "But you're forgetting one key detail: stamina. While the students who are knocked out will recover and be teleported back into play within an hour, even Lucifer will run out of energy eventually."
Lucifer, standing near the back with his usual quiet intensity, didn't so much as flinch. He didn't argue, either. He simply crossed his arms, a subtle gesture that could've meant anything but somehow communicated agreement. Nero's words were undeniable. No matter how strong Lucifer was, he wasn't a perpetual motion machine.
Nero let the silence hang for a moment before he added, almost as an afterthought, "There's also something extra this time."
The room collectively leaned forward, curiosity overtaking caution.
"There will be a neutral ground in the center of the island," Nero explained, pacing with deliberate slowness. "A zone you can enter to gain 10,000 points instantly. No strings attached."
That, of course, was a lie. There were always strings. Everyone in the room knew it.
"You'll be on the island for just 24 hours," Nero continued, ignoring the growing murmurs of speculation. "Plenty of time to test your endurance, strategy, and, of course, your ability to fend off every other lunatic trying to claim that sweet, sweet bounty in the middle." He paused to glance at the clock, his tone shifting to something lighter but no less dangerous. "And before anyone gets too excited about the practical evaluation, let me remind you: this will take place after the written exams. Your grades still matter. Don't think you can scrape by on brute force alone."
The reminder was about as welcome as a thunderstorm at a picnic, but Nero delivered it with the kind of finality that made arguing pointless. He stopped pacing and gave the class one last look, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if daring someone to raise a hand and question his judgment. No one did.
The stakes were set. The rules were clear. And the promise of chaos hung thick in the air.