CHAPTER 124: GAME OF STUDENTS

From Nolan’s distant vantage point—high above the battlefield, interface window open like a canvas of moving life—he watched it all unfold in silence.

The sounds had died down. The fog of bloodlust had begun to settle. Yet, Nolan could see it—clearer than anyone else. The tension was far from gone. It clung to the trees. It hid in the mist. It waited, quiet and patient, beneath every footstep.

Then, one of the attendants stepped out from the carriage. A young man, face speckled with dust and dried blood, eyes sharp and voice calm despite the chaos that had just ended.

"Sir Varros," he called.

The armored commander turned his head, blinking as if woken from a long dream. His armor was stained, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. When the attendant waved again, Varros staggered forward, feet moving on instinct rather than intention. He passed through the blackened ground littered with mana crystals and melted flesh, and stepped up into the carriage like a man entering a chapel of the unknown.

And what he saw—

Nolan sat forward slightly, narrowing his eyes. "There they are," he whispered to no one in particular.

Inside the carriage, gathered with surprising calmness, were the students of the Silver Blade City Academy.

Selin. Ruvin. Erik. Calien.

And a few others Nolan didn’t immediately recognize by name, but their faces were burned into his memory. The same brats he had observed not three days ago—barely formed mages, full of reckless arrogance and untested theory.

But now?

Now they were sitting in a circle, legs folded, cloaks draped casually over one shoulder, surrounded by what looked like weapon fragments, ropes, odd mechanical tools... and glowing blue crystals piled neatly in bags and corners.

They weren’t afraid. Not even shaken.

They were... talking.

Arguing, actually.

Loudly.

"And I told you, the angle matters! You can’t just throw it from above and expect the head to split open," Ruvin said, eyebrows furrowed as he waved a small dagger-shaped device in the air.

"It worked last time," Erik snapped, crossing his arms.

"Because last time, I distracted it first!" Selin retorted. "You always forget the part where I pull aggro."

"Why don’t we just test it again, huh? Let me go next—"

"No. No. No." Calien’s voice cut in, calm and decisive. "It’s my turn now. You already had your shot."

"Only because I let you—"

"I said—" Calien stood, his expression shifting from calm to almost gleeful, "—that it’s my turn."

The others fell quiet, like squabbling siblings deferring to the older brother. Calien rolled his shoulders, stepped forward, and as he did, he waved a hand at the still-stunned Varros.

"Come in, Commander. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Varros blinked slowly, the sound of Calien’s voice pulling him deeper into the surreal. He hadn’t even realized how far into the carriage he’d stepped. He looked around—saw the faces of the young students, the calmness in their eyes, the sheer absurdity of their situation—and asked, voice hoarse, "What... happened here?"

One of the attendants stepped forward with a tired smile. "Sir Varros, are you injured? Where are your men?"

Varros clenched his jaw. "Gone. Scattered. I told them to. If we stayed grouped, we would’ve been surrounded. There were... too many. We couldn’t kill them. No matter what we did. They wouldn’t die."

"Wouldn’t die?" Ruvin repeated, confused.

"They burned. Split. Crushed. But they reformed—they reformed!" Varros said, raising his voice as if trying to convince himself more than them. "Nothing worked. Nothing."

Just then, a low growl echoed from outside the carriage.

Nolan’s interface zoomed in.

Another humanoid octopus stepped into view, lurching from the woods, tentacles twitching, eyes glowing with that eerie sea-born light.

The students turned.

Calien grinned.

"Perfect timing," he said, stepping toward the door. "I told you it’s my turn."

Selin sighed. "Make it quick. I still want one more."

Varros, wide-eyed, turned to stop him—but the boy was already sitting in the middle of the floor. Everyone else gathered around, leaning in like an audience before a stage.

Then, from within his cloak, Calien pulled a blade.

Nolan’s eyes widened the instant he saw it.

That knife.

The pathogen blade.

Thin. Flexible. And tethered to a rope.

It was his throwing knife.

Nolan stood up abruptly from his perch. "What the hell?!"

He had only demonstrated that technique a few times—and not in full detail. A simple exercise in quick-tether returns. Maybe twice. Three times at most. They weren’t even supposed to try it yet.

But Calien?

Calien flicked the knife in his hand like it was a toy.

Outside the carriage, the creature drew closer.

"Alright, let’s see if the new grip improves the torque," Calien muttered.

Then, without hesitation, he threw.

The knife cut through the air with a sound Nolan knew too well—a whiplash hum, followed by the satisfying shlkk! of penetration.

Right between the creature’s eyes.

The beast collapsed instantly.

Melting into that familiar red liquid, dissolving into the earth... and leaving behind a deep blue mana crystal.

Varros didn’t move.

Nolan’s mouth dropped slightly. "No... no way. That throw was perfect. The rope pull... the recovery speed... How the hell did they learn this in three days?!"

The kids erupted in cheers.

"Bullseye!"

"That was cleaner than your last one!"

"Did you see how it folded? That’s new!"

They laughed, clapped Calien on the back, and passed the blade around like it was a lucky charm.

Then Selin stood. "My turn."

Another humanoid creature appeared in the treeline.

Without ceremony, Selin stepped out, hair tied back, her movements clean and focused.

She drew a second blade—also Nolan’s design, no doubt. She flicked her wrist, aimed, and launched.

Dead.

Another crystal.

The group roared in celebration again. Nolan watched in growing disbelief. This wasn’t just mimicry. This was mastery. Raw, intuitive, adaptive skill.

And they were treating it like a game.

Varros could only stand there, silent. His eyes drifted to the melting body, then the cheering students, then the weapon, then back to the blue crystals.

He didn’t understand.

Not fully.

But something was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

"How... are you all doing this?" he finally asked, voice trembling.

No one answered. Not really. They were already preparing the next throw.

Another creature appeared.

Another death.

Another crystal.

The process repeated.

Over and over.

Until the floor of the forest behind the carriage was scattered with corpses and glowing gems.

Varros could only stare.

His knees weakened.

"What... the hell is happening?" he muttered.

The carnage didn’t end.

It just kept going.

Again and again and again, the students of Silver Blade Academy launched their coordinated attacks, as if it were some sort of grim dance recital. From Nolan’s view above, it was baffling—and frustratingly hypnotic. His sharp eyes followed the rhythm with building tension, each movement a stroke of arrogance and efficiency.

Selin shifted left. Her foot grazed a small pouch of collected mana crystals—deep ocean blue, all of them—and she didn’t miss a beat. She twisted her body with fluid precision, knife in hand, rope coiled around her wrist. The throw came fast. It landed faster. A humanoid octopus collapsed, its body writhing and then liquefying into the earth with a slow, syrupy hiss. The others barely blinked.

Calien was next. He didn’t even stand up. He sat back with one leg bent, elbow propped against his knee, eyes scanning the woods like a bored hunter. The moment another creature emerged—its misshapen tentacles quivering in the soft mist—he snapped his hand forward, and the pathogen-tipped rope-dagger left his palm. The creature hadn’t taken two full steps before collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut.

Then Erik. Then Ruvin. Then Selin again. It was mechanical. Choreographed. And yet disturbingly casual. They didn’t cheer now. They didn’t laugh. Not anymore. They were in sync—focused, even relaxed. As if their bodies had adapted beyond instinct and moved only by repetition. There was no tension in their shoulders, no panic in their eyes.

They killed.

And killed.

And killed.

And the creatures kept coming, but it didn’t matter. The students responded every time. Nolan could only grit his teeth behind his interface screen.

From within the carriage, Varros finally broke the silence, his voice cracking from exhaustion and disbelief. "How... how are you doing this?" he asked, breathing shallow. "Aren’t the petals inside the knife’s poison chamber supposed to be ineffective against them?"

He looked at the students, hoping—praying—for some logical answer.

"They didn’t work for us," he continued, his voice growing louder, more frantic. "We tried burning them. Dismembering them. Nothing worked. Nothing. But you..."

He stared at Selin, then Calien, then the others. "You’re just... killing them?"

Selin exchanged glances with Ruvin and Calien, and then Ruvin shrugged. "We don’t know, sir," he said with an odd innocence. "But it works."

"If you really want to know," Erik added, idly tying his rope back around the hilt of his knife, "you’d probably have to ask Teacher Nolan."

Varros blinked. "Nolan?"

Calien smirked. "Yeah. Greedy old man. That stingy bastard doesn’t like sharing, but—well, we all learned his technique anyway."

Ruvin chuckled. "We weren’t supposed to practice it, actually."

"I mean, technically, he only showed it once or twice during that morning drill," Erik chimed in.

"But we all memorized it," Selin said. "Because—obviously—he was hiding something useful."

The students burst into laughter.

"He was so pissed when he saw us copying the form," Ruvin wheezed. "Said we were ’unauthorized thieves of technique!’"

"Didn’t stop us though," Calien added, grinning wide. "We just wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face."

"But he’s still a good teacher," Selin said quickly, the laughter fading just slightly. "A greedy, scowling old teacher... but still good."

Nolan, watching from above, nearly flipped the entire interface off his lap.

"You little bastards!" he yelled. "I knew it! You copied it behind my back, you goddamn smug brats!"

He stabbed his finger toward the screen as if the motion would somehow reach through the feed and flick their foreheads. "I told you it was advanced! You’re not supposed to be able to use that yet! And now look at you! Making a mockery of it!"

He rubbed his temples, seething. "I should drop a boulder on all of you. And who are you all calling an old man?!!"

Back below, Varros slowly regained his composure. He exhaled, then tightened the straps on his shoulder armor.

"Can I try?" he asked.

The students fell silent for a moment.

Then, like a pack of mind-linked wolves, they all turned toward one another—wordlessly debating.

Erik gave a hesitant shrug.

Selin tilted her head.

Calien rolled his eyes.

Suddenly, from the shadows of the treeline, another octopus-headed creature emerged. It was slower than the others, tentacles dragging lazily across the mossy ground.

Ruvin gestured toward it. "Well... guess that’s your chance, sir."

Varros stepped forward.

He mimicked what he had seen: the grip, the stance, the throw.

The dagger spun.

But it missed.

It veered slightly to the left, embedding into the creature’s shoulder rather than its head. Worse yet, before Varros could yank the rope back, one of the creature’s writhing tentacles coiled around it.

"Damn—!" Varros grunted, yanking on the rope.

"Sir," Erik called politely, "I’m afraid to tell you this but... you’re not trained to throw knives."

A second flash.

The creature’s head exploded as Selin casually sent her blade flying from the carriage window.

Varros stood still.

Speechless.

He was a battle-hardened veteran. A knight commander. A decorated warrior of three campaigns.

And yet... a teenager had just cleaned up his mistake.

Without breaking a sweat.

As the creature’s body dissolved, another crystal fell onto the forest floor with a soft clink. The students didn’t gloat. They didn’t even tease him.

They simply resumed.

Another creature.

Another student’s turn.

Another throw.

Another kill.

And so it went on.

They killed.

And killed.

And killed.

The endless tide of octopus-like humanoids was reduced to puddles of red and trails of glowing blue gems. It was almost serene in a morbid, ritualistic way. No screams. No shouts. Only the rhythmic sounds of knives slicing the wind, ropes snapping taut, and bodies crumpling to earth.

Varros stood there, stunned.

He watched Selin flick her wrist like a violinist tuning her strings. Watched Calien slouch with a devil-may-care grin, never missing his mark. Watched Erik reload his rope like he was stringing a bow.

These weren’t children anymore.

Not in that moment.

They were predators.

Unyielding.

Precise.

Deadly.

"...Why don’t we go out instead?" Varros muttered at last.

The words were barely above a whisper. Maybe he thought they wouldn’t hear. Maybe he was speaking to himself.

But they all turned to look at him.

And not with admiration.

Not with confusion.

But with something else.

Their eyes twitched just slightly. Their brows barely lifted. The corner of Selin’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile.

Then, as one, they all whispered under their breaths.

"...Fool."