I scanned the packed arena, spotting Patter and Copelan in the front row. Their enthusiastic cheers for "Gutter House" rang out above the general roar, drawing dirty looks from nearby nobles. The sight warmed something in my mechanical chest.

Twenty-four teams filled the arena floor, sizing up potential opponents. The Academy fielded eight teams, including all five chapter houses' best members under level 30. House Dragon's group caught my eye first. Lyman Redflight stood front and center, his posture rigid with barely contained aggression.

Beside him, Bethani Morne tried masking her deterioration with expensive cosmetics. The effect failed; dark circles still showed beneath her eyes, her cheeks gaunt despite the powder. My Analyze ability revealed her current status: Level 20 Elementalist. The jump in power surprised me; she'd gained nearly as many levels as our group through our secret Hellzone training. What had driven the elven queen to push herself so hard?

House Swords' team clustered near the western gate, Arctur's towering form impossible to miss. His crimson spear gleamed oddly in the morning light. Another quick Analyze showed he'd reached level 24. The lizardman was catching up to my own level 28, though he likely didn't know it. Unlike the other teams' matching uniforms, his armor showed real battle damage, with scrapes and dents earned in genuine combat.

I searched House Lance's members for Konrad but found no trace of him. A movement in the stands caught my attention, and there he sat, watching the proceedings with keen interest. Strange. With his level and skill, I'd expected him to compete. But then, Konrad had always seemed more comfortable observing than participating.

He noticed my attention and offered a friendly wave, smiling down at our group. The gesture seemed genuine enough, though experience had taught me to be wary of noble courtesy. Still, Konrad had proven himself different from most Academy bluebloods.

"First match begins in five minutes!" Principal Hilltuck's voice boomed across the arena. "Team captains, approach the platform for assignments!"

My tendrils shifted beneath my robes as I moved forward with the other leaders. Time to see who we'd face first in this tournament. Whatever came next, Gutter House would show them all exactly why underdogs were the most dangerous opponents.

I joined the other team captains around a metal pot at the platform's base. Reins and Hilltuck towered above us, their expressions unreadable as we jostled for position.

"Draw your numbers," Reins commanded. "Matching pairs will face each other in three one-on-one matches. Best of three advances."

One by one, captains reached into the pot. Some drew their numbers with flourishes, others snatched them quickly as if the paper might bite. When my turn came, I extended my organic hand inside. The paper felt rough against my pale fingers.

Number nine. I scanned the crowd, searching for my opponent. A massive young man from the Institute caught my eye, his own slip held high. His dark skin gleamed with health, and his grin stretched wide beneath close-cropped brown hair.

"Looking forward to it," he called out, accompanying the words with an exaggerated wink.

I inclined my head in acknowledgment, though the casual familiarity set my gears humming. His confidence suggested either foolishness or genuine skill. Given the Institute's reputation for practical experience, I'd bet on the latter.

The trek back to my team felt longer than it should have. Genta bounced on her toes while Loland tried maintaining his usual stoic expression. Both failed to hide their eagerness.

"Well?" Annes demanded. "Who'd we draw?"

Team Nine from the Institute. I gestured toward our future opponents. Their captain seems... enthusiastic.

"Good." Sven cracked his knuckles. "Means they won't hold back."

Yulios nodded agreement, though his fingers wouldn't stop fidgeting with his axe hilt. Our weeks of secret training had built his confidence, but tournament nerves clearly affected him.

I understood the feeling. My own systems thrummed with anticipation, my wires and gears spinning up despite my attempts to remain calm. We'd trained hard for this moment. Now it was time to show everyone exactly what Gutter House could do.

I watched the first match with growing disappointment. Teams 1 were both composed of Institute students: a dwarf squad against a mixed group of sapiens and elves. Their levels averaged around twelve, but their movements betrayed a lack of refinement that even our C-rank training had surpassed.

The dwarf swung his axe in wide, telegraphed arcs while his sapien opponent stumbled through basic defensive footwork. Despite their weathered gear and calloused hands marking them as experienced adventurers, they fought like tavern brawlers rather than trained warriors.

"Is this really the best they can do?" Annes whispered beside me. Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on her sword hilt.

I shook my head. They've survived real combat, but survival doesn't equal mastery.

The dwarf finally landed a clumsy overhead strike that sent his opponent sprawling. The crowd's tepid applause spoke volumes about the performance quality.

The second match proved equally uninspiring. More flailing attacks, more basic mistakes. My mechanical components whirred in irritation at the waste of time.

Everything changed when an Academy team stepped into the ring. Though only B-rank students, their fluid movements and precise techniques immediately commanded attention. Each strike flowed seamlessly into the next, their stances shifting with practiced ease.

The Institute team they faced might as well have been children swinging sticks. Academy sword forms cut through wild attacks. Practiced shields absorbed and redirected amateur charges. Even Shawe's basic drills proved devastatingly effective against untrained opponents.

"Now that's proper fighting," Loland declared, his usual aristocratic airs dropping in excitement.

"Makes you wonder why they bothered including the Institute at all," Genta added.

I kept silent, mental eyes tracking each exchange. The vast skill gap worried me, but not for the obvious reasons. If the Institute's best fighters performed this poorly, why host the tournament at all? What purpose did such a one-sided display serve?

My assessment shifted as Team Five from the Institute demolished their Academy opponents. Their Archer, the level 24 I'd spotted earlier, moved with deadly efficiency. Each arrow found gaps in her Academy opponent's defensive stance, disrupting his carefully practiced routines.

"Now that's more like it," Annes murmured, leaning forward.

I nodded, mechanical components whirring as I analyzed their performance. The Institute fighters lacked polish, but their movements held purpose. Every strike aimed to end the fight, not score technical points. They fought to win, not to look good doing it.

Team Seven's Institute victory proved even more decisive. Their hydromancer turned the arena floor into a treacherous mess, negating the House Lightning captain's sophisticated footwork. When the noble slipped and stumbled, the Institute mage closed in with brutal effectiveness. Not pretty, but undeniably practical.

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My tendrils shifted beneath my robes as I watched the fights continue. Academy training emphasized perfection of form, but these Institute fighters understood something equally vital: survival rarely looked elegant. We'd need both precision and pragmatism to succeed here.

Team 8's round pitted Dragon House against an Institute group. Lyman, Bethani, and an older student named Pimms were chosen to fight.

I watched Dragon House take their positions, noting the tension in Lyman's shoulders. His movements betrayed lingering stiffness from our previous encounters. Still, he dispatched his opponent with textbook precision, his broadsword work as crisp as any instructor could demand.

Then came Pimms' embarrassing defeat. The Institute mage's spell was childishly simple, a basic telekinetic trick that tied his bootlaces together. Pimms sprawled face-first into the dirt with an undignified yelp, the tumble knocking out the Academy student. Loud, thunderous laughter followed.

Lyman's face flushed crimson. His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt as he glared at the crowd. The rage in his eyes reminded me of our duel, that same mixture of wounded pride and murderous intent.

"Guess even Dragon House can fall flat on their face," Annes whispered, barely containing her own amusement.

Bethani's own match lasted seconds. The crack of lightning split the air, leaving her opponent twitching on the ground. Her magic held raw power but lacked her usual finesse. The dark circles under her eyes seemed more pronounced as she stalked back to her team.

I remained silent, mechanical eyes fixed on the elf queen. Something about her violent display troubled me. This wasn't the calculated noble I remembered from our first days at the Academy.

Our turn arrived with Copelan and Patter's enthusiastic cheers echoing from the stands. "GO TEAM GUTTER HOUSE!" Their voices cut through the general murmur of the crowd.

I activated Analyze as our opponents approached the ring. The team captain, Larrs, registered as a level 19 Swordsman with decent stats across the board. Behind him, a wiry woman with a recurve bow showed as level 18 Archer. Their third member, a lanky youth clutching a well-worn spear, came in at level 16.

To my surprise, the Spearman stepped forward to face me. My mechanical components whirred in confusion; surely they wouldn't use their lowest-level fighter against me?

He caught my reaction and shrugged, offering a self-deprecating laugh. "Look, none of us can match a level 28." His casual mention of my true level startled me. I suppose one of their other team mates was a mage with Analyze. "Might as well sacrifice the lowest level first, yeah?"

Smart strategy, I acknowledged. Save your stronger fighters for more even matches.

Reins' voice boomed across the arena. "Begin!"

My tendrils uncoiled from beneath my robes with liquid grace. Before the Spearman could even set his stance, the blunted claws had him pinned against the packed earth. His weapon clattered uselessly beside him.

"I yield!" The words burst from him immediately.

The match ended as quickly as it began. Victory was mine, but it felt hollow. My systems hummed with unused power, gears spinning down from their combat readiness without having faced any real challenge.

The crowd's reaction was mixed; some cheered at the display of overwhelming force, while others muttered about unfair matchups. I helped the Spearman to his feet, noting how he kept careful distance from my visible tendrils.

I watched Annes stride into the arena, her movements precise and controlled. Larrs matched her step for step, his weathered blade held in a casual guard that spoke of countless real battles.

The clash began without preamble. Steel rang against steel as Annes launched into an aggressive series of strikes. Each blow carried enough force to stagger Larrs, but the Institute captain's footwork kept him just out of reach. His counters flowed naturally, born from survival rather than drills.

My mental eyes tracked their exchange, noting how Larrs read Annes' Academy-trained patterns. He slipped past her guard twice, scoring light hits that would have been lethal in real combat. But Annes adapted quickly, mixing Langdon's Titan Slaying techniques with standard forms.

A particularly vicious exchange left both fighters breathing hard. Sweat darkened Annes' short red hair while Larrs' arms trembled slightly. Though he was level 19 to her 21, the gap in raw power seemed negligible.

"Not bad for a school kid," Larrs called out between breaths.

Annes answered with a lightning-fast combination. High cut, low sweep, followed by a brutal pommel strike. Larrs blocked the first two but the third caught him in the shoulder. His sword went flying.

The Institute captain raised his hands in surrender, a genuine smile crossing his face. "Should've known better than to underestimate one of the Six Blades. I was sorry to hear about-"

"Don't." Annes' voice cut like ice. She turned sharply away, leaving Larrs with whatever words of sympathy he'd planned to offer.

My gears whirred in confusion as I watched her stalk back to our group. I'd known Annes was part of an adventuring party before joining the Academy, but this was the first hint that something had gone wrong. The way she'd shut down at the mere mention of her old companions suggested a wound that hadn't healed.

I made a mental note to ask Copelan about the Six Blades later. If something had happened to Annes' former teammates, it might explain her drive to grow stronger. For now though, we had one more match to win.

I watched Loland step into the arena, his copper scales gleaming in the morning light. His opponent, the Institute's level 18 Archer, towered over his diminutive form. She nocked an arrow with practiced ease, her weathered bow speaking of countless real battles.

The match began with a blur of motion. The Archer's hands moved faster than natural, arrows launching in rapid succession. Some kind of skill enhancement, I noted, my mental eyes tracking the projectiles' paths.

But Loland proved impossible to hit. He dropped to all fours, his noble bearing forgotten as instinct took over. His serpentine movements carried him between arrows with primal grace, closing the distance in seconds. My systems whirred in appreciation of his raw speed; perhaps this was why monsters leveled faster than humans. Their bodies remembered older, wilder ways of moving.

The Archer backpedaled, trying to maintain range, but Loland's smaller frame gave him too much advantage in maneuverability. He darted past her guard like a striking snake. His rapier flashed once, precise and elegant despite his bestial charge.

The bow's string parted with a sharp twang. Before the Archer could process what happened, Loland's blade rested against her throat. Despite his victory, he maintained perfect form: feet properly spaced, arm extended just so. Every inch the nobleman, even on all fours.

"I yield," the Archer managed, her voice tight with frustration.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Loland straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his armor. His usual pompous demeanor returned as he offered the Archer a formal bow.

"A fine match," he declared, pitching his voice to carry. "Your skill does the Institute credit."

More cheers followed. The kobold practically glowed under the attention, his copper scales flushing a deeper red. This was what he'd always wanted, recognition based on merit rather than prejudice.

I smiled with satisfaction. Three matches, three victories. Gutter House had proven itself worthy of respect. Now we just had to maintain that momentum through the next stages of the tournament.

I watched the remaining matches with detached interest, my mechanical systems cataloging each fighter's strengths and weaknesses. Most proved unremarkable, their techniques either too rigid or too sloppy to pose any real threat.

Then came House Swords' match against the Institute's most experienced team. Their first bout went to the Institute when a level 24 Axeman managed to overwhelm his Academy opponent through sheer brute force. House Swords evened the score in the second match with a precise display of magical prowess that left their Institute challenger unconscious.

The final match should have been the day's highlight. Arctur towered over his opponent, a slight woman whose confident stance suggested significant combat experience. My Analyze ability confirmed her as a level 21 Duelist with impressive dexterity scores.

But we never got to see those skills in action.

Arctur took one step forward, his massive frame casting a shadow across the arena. The woman's eyes went wide. Her practiced stance crumbled as primal terror overtook her features.

"I yield!" she shrieked, already backing away. "I yield!"

She turned and fled, her boots kicking up dust as she sprinted from the arena. Even her teammates couldn't contain their laughter, their earlier pride forgotten in the face of such a spectacular collapse.

The crowd's laughter echoed off the arena walls, but I kept my attention on Arctur. His expression remained carefully neutral, but the slight droop of his shoulders told a different story. This wasn't the reaction of someone enjoying an easy victory.

I watched Reins raise his hand for silence, his white armor gleaming in the morning sun. "The first round is complete!" His voice carried easily across the arena. "Twelve teams advance, six from each school. A remarkable showing from our Academy students."

My Mind Sight tracked the remaining teams as they gathered their equipment. Despite the Institute's real-world experience, Academy training had proven superior in most matches. Even their highest-level fighters struggled against proper stances and disciplined techniques. Of the eight Academy teams at the start, they managed to win all but two of their matches.

Dragon House huddled near the eastern wall, Lyman's rigid posture betraying lingering frustration over Pimms' embarrassing defeat. House Swords stood apart from the others, Arctur's massive form drawing fearful glances from Institute students. The remaining chapter houses who had won their matches, Lance and Tome, clustered together, their matching armor creating islands of order amid the crowd.

"One hour break before the second round begins," Reins announced. "Use this time wisely."

The spectators burst into enthusiastic clapping, anticipation building for the upcoming bouts.

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