The crowd's excited murmuring fades as Reins called for the remaining captains to come forward. Twelve of us approached the battered metal pot, its dents and scratches telling stories of countless tournament draws.

I reached in, metallic fingers brushing against folded papers. On it was one simple number: six. Scanning the other captains, I caught House Swords' leader, a thin noble with perfectly coiffed hair, holding up his matching slip.

His lip curled when our gazes met. Without acknowledging me, he turned and strode back to his team where Arctur's massive form dominated their huddle. The lizardman's presence made their captain look almost comically small in comparison.

The arrangement struck me as inefficient. Arctur clearly outclassed everyone on their team, his raw power evident even at rest. Yet he stood behind their noble captain, a physical representation of House Swords' prejudices. They'd rather have an inferior leader than let a monster command their team.

Their loss. I'd learned long ago that effectiveness mattered more than appearance. My mechanical body proved that daily.

I settled into the stands with my team to watch House Dragon face House Tome in the first match. Lyman had swapped out Pimms after his earlier embarrassment, bringing in Thorton Steelbar, a dwarf noble whose war hammer looked almost as wide as he was.

The House Tome captain stepped forward, her brown hair swaying as she tested her rapier's balance. According to Analyze, she was Lady Marina Vark, a level 21 Swordsman. Her teammates both flanked her: Elara Marweave, an elf whose fingers already sparked with frost magic, and Danton Pierce, a sapien whose perfect sword form screamed "noble training."

My gaze fixed on Bethani as she paced behind Lyman. Her silver hair had lost its sheen, hanging in limp strands around hollow cheeks. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Even her previously immaculate enchanted robes showed wrinkles and stains.

"She's gotten worse," Annes whispered beside me.

I nodded. Whatever drove Bethani to this state went deeper than tournament pressure. The way she gripped her staff, the knuckles white; she wasn't here to compete. She was here to hurt someone.

The first match began with Lyman pressing his advantage against House Tome's captain. Each swing of his broadsword sent shockwaves through the arena floor, forcing Marina to dance away from his crushing blows. Pure strength against practiced technique.

I tracked their movements, noting how Marina adapted to Lyman's pattern. She'd studied him, knew his tendencies. When he brought his blade down in a particularly vicious overhead strike, she didn't retreat. Instead, she stepped inside his guard, her rapier finding gaps in his enchanted armor with surgical precision.

Blood spotted the sand. Not much, but enough to make Lyman's face redden with rage. His next series of attacks grew wilder, less controlled. Marina exploited each opening, her blade a silver blur as she struck his shoulder, thigh, forearm. The crowd gasped at her speed.

"She's got him," Genta whispered.

I wasn't so sure. Lyman's growing frustration reminded me of our duel; how rage had made him sloppy but also more dangerous. Like a wounded animal backed into a corner.

The pattern held for several minutes. Marina would score two or three hits, then retreat before Lyman could counter. Blood dripped from a dozen small wounds in his armor. His breathing grew labored.

Then Marina made her first mistake. She lunged just a fraction too deep, her rapier seeking Lyman's exposed neck. His broadsword came up faster than seemed possible, catching her blade and driving it wide. Before she could recover, he stepped forward and swung.

The flat of his blade caught Marina's ribs with a sickening crack. As she stumbled, gasping for breath, Lyman reversed his grip and brought the pommel down hard against her temple. She crumpled without a sound.

Lyman stood over her unconscious form, chest heaving. When the headmaster declared his victory, he didn't acknowledge the crowd's applause. He simply nodded once and limped from the arena, leaving a trail of blood droplets in the sand.

I watched him go, noting how his left leg dragged slightly. Marina's precise strikes had done more damage than he wanted to admit. A weakness we could exploit if we faced House Dragon in the finals.

The next match began with Elara's graceful bow to Bethani. "My queen, it honors me to face one of our own people."

Bethani didn't acknowledge the gesture. Her face remained blank, devoid of the nobility I remembered from our first days at the Academy. As soon as Reins called start, lightning erupted from her unicorn horn wand.

The crackling energy met a wall of mist that seemed to drink in the electricity, dispersing it harmlessly. Bethani's response was immediate and brutal, as she shot out a compact fireball that forced Elara into a desperate roll. The elf mage retaliated, launching a barrage of ice shards that should have pinned Bethani in place.

Instead, wind whirled around the queen's form, deflecting the icy projectiles. My Mana Manipulation senses detected the precise control in her barrier spell. Not a single spec of mana was wasted, just enough force was used to redirect each shard. She'd grown significantly stronger since I last analyzed her abilities.

Earth magic pulsed through Bethani's wand. The arena sand shifted, swallowing Elara's legs to mid-shin. A clever trap, but Elara proved equally resourceful. Water flooded the ground beneath her feet, turning solid sand to slurry. She wrenched herself free, but the delay proved costly.

Bethani closed the distance with unnatural speed. Electric energy coursed down her arm, crackling between her fingers. Her silver hair stood on end from the power she was gathering.

"I yield!" Elara's cry echoed throughout the arena.

Bethani didn't stop. Her electrically charged fist slammed into Elara's chest. The impact launched the elf mage across the arena like a rag doll. She hit the wall with a sound that made even my mechanical parts resonate unpleasantly.

Silence fell as Elara's body slumped to the ground. Professor Harmony rushed to check her vitals while the crowd held its collective breath. Only when she signaled that Elara lived did the tension break, replaced by shocked whispers.

"Winner: Bethani Morne!" Reins announced, his tone sounding remarkably jovial.

The queen turned away without celebration, her shoulders hunched as if carrying some invisible burden. As she passed our section, I caught a glimpse of her face. There was anger there. And shame.

"That was excessive," Annes muttered beside me.

I nodded, still processing Bethani's display of raw power. Her mana control had evolved beyond mere efficiency; she wielded it like a weapon, precise and deadly. The way she'd layered those spells, each one building on the last... it spoke of obsessive practice.

The final match between Thorton and Danton proved anticlimactic after Bethani's performance. Thorton's war hammer shattered Danton's sword in three strikes, forcing him to yield or face serious injury. House Dragon advanced to the next round, their victory marred only by the continued whispers about Bethani's brutality.

"We should be careful if we face them," Genta said, her yellow eyes tracking House Dragon as they left the arena. "That elf isn't stable."

The following matches blurred together, each one following a predictable pattern. Academy students demonstrated their superiority in single combat, their refined techniques overwhelming the Institute fighters' practical experience.

My mechanical fingers drummed against the railing as I watched another Institute student yield to avoid serious injury. Their scrappy fighting style, born from real combat situations, proved ineffective against years of dedicated training.

"At least they're smart enough to know when they're outmatched," Annes commented as a burly Institute warrior conceded to House Lance's champion.

She had a point. These Institute students understood their limitations, unlike many Academy nobles who'd fight until their bodies gave out. Their survival instincts remained sharp, unhampered by pride or politics.

By the time they called the sixth match, only two Institute teams remained standing. Team Wolfhound, whose Archer captain had impressed me with her tactical retreats, and Team Breaker, whose Hydromancer showed remarkable creativity with limited mana reserves.

Our turn soon, I told my team, already calculating how to best utilize our unorthodox fighting styles against House Swords' traditional approach.

I rolled my mechanical shoulders as we approached the arena floor, my three auric steel tendrils causing me to slither smoothly across the sand. Patter and Copelan's cheers cut through the general murmur of the crowd.

"Kick their fancy butts!" Patter's voice boomed across the stands. I lifted my hand in acknowledgment, the golden joints catching the afternoon light.

Parker Sathos, captain of Swords House's team, stepped forward, his perfect posture and immaculate armor a stark contrast to our mismatched group. His lip curled as he looked us over. "The mongrel team sends their monsters to fight us. How fitting."

Arctur's massive form moved beside him, scales gleaming like polished copper. Our gazes met across the sand. No words passed between us, but I understood. This wasn't about House politics or Academy rankings. This was monster against monster, a test of what we'd become since arriving here.

"I'll take the pretty boy," Loland announced, adjusting his ceremonial vest with exaggerated care. "Show him what a 'mongrel' can do."

Genta's yellow eyes fixed on the third member of House Swords: a halfling Rogue named Elko Sayertooth, who was checking the edges of his twin daggers. "Guess that leaves me with the stabby one."

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I watched Elko's movements carefully. My Analyze ability revealed him as level 22, higher than expected for a halfling rogue. The way he handled those blades spoke of real combat experience, not just Academy training.

Remember, I told my teammates through Mind Speech, they'll underestimate us. Use that.

The first bout was between Loland and the Swords House team captain.

The match opened with what could only be described as theater. Loland and Parker circled each other, rapiers held with identical flourishes. Their footwork mirrored perfectly, one step forward, one back, like some elaborate dance.

"My dear kobold," Parker drawled, "that vest is absolutely criminal. Did you raid a merchant's garbage heap?"

Loland sniffed, adjusting said vest with his free hand. "At least I chose my own attire. Your mother still picks your clothes, doesn't she?"

"How dare you! This is tailored Silkweave from-"

"From Master Thennin's shop, yes. I can tell by the provincial stitching. Honestly, if you're going to pretend at nobility, at least shop in the capital."

My jaw clicked in disbelief. The kobold who'd initially distrusted me for supposed village murders was now engaged in a battle of fashion critique with House Swords' captain. Even more surprising was that he was winning.

Parker's face reddened. "Well, I never! At least I don't have to polish my scales with common sand!"

"My dear Parker," Loland's tail swished dramatically, "these scales are treated with imported oils from the Southern Isles. Something you'd know about if you ever left your father's crumbly estate."

The display continued, each barb more refined than the last. Beside me, Genta stifled a laugh while Annes openly rolled her eyes. Even Headmaster Reins seemed to be losing patience, his fingers drumming against his chair's armrest.

When the actual fighting finally began, it proved as precisely matched as their verbal sparring. Loland's natural agility complemented his rapier work perfectly, while Parker's textbook form showed why House Swords earned their name. Their blades met in flowing sequences that looked more like art than combat.

Strike, parry, riposte. Back and forth they went, neither gaining advantage. When they separated, they'd exchange another round of increasingly elaborate insults before clashing again. The crowd's initial amusement gave way to restless shifting as minutes stretched into a half hour.

"Your footwork is almost adequate," Parker called after another stalemate. "For someone raised in a cave."

"Better a cave than that dreary mansion of yours. Really, gray stone? How pedestrian."

My attention drifted to their mana patterns. Both fighters were channeling energy through their weapons, but neither seemed interested in pressing for a killing blow. This wasn't about winning anymore; it was about style.

The end came suddenly. Both lunged simultaneously, their perfect form carrying them past each other's guards. Twin hits landed, drawing blood from sword arms. Their rapiers each clattered to the sand.

Both turned, clutching at their wounds, and shared a look of... respect?

"I suppose," Parker admitted, "your technique isn't entirely primitive."

"And your fashion sense might be salvageable. With proper guidance, of course."

Reins' exasperated sigh echoed through the arena. "Match drawn! Both fighters are unable to continue."

As they left the field, I noticed them already deep in discussion about proper sword grip aesthetics. Some battles, it seemed, transcended House politics.

The arena fell silent as Arctur and I took our positions. My auric steel tendrils lifted me to match his towering height, the golden metal gleaming under the afternoon sun. He unfurled his strange red spear, the segments clicking into place with mechanical precision.

"Begin!" Kalder shouted.

My first strike whistled through the air, the tendril extended like a striking serpent. The clawed tip met his spear shaft with a resounding crack. Instead of splintering as expected, his weapon held firm. I studied it more closely and saw that it was not metal at all, but some kind of crimson carapace, jointed and segmented like an insect's shell.

Another tendril lashed out. Again, he deflected it with practiced ease. Each block brought him a step closer, eating away at the distance between us. His strategy became clear: get close enough and my tendrils would lose their advantage.

When he entered sword range, I struck with Kolin's estoc. As predicted, his spear rose to parry. The moment our weapons connected, Eyarna's enchantment activated. Blue electricity arced between the blades, coursing down his weapon.

Arctur snarled a curse, leaping backward with smoking hands. The acrid smell of burnt scales filled the air. I pressed my advantage, sending a tendril whipping toward his exposed flank.

His recovery shocked me. Despite burned palms, he brought his spear around in a brutal arc that batted aside my strike. The impact left a visible scratch in the auric steel, damage that should have been impossible. Even with my enhanced strength from thirty-eight mechanical "children," his raw power matched mine blow for blow.

My Analyze ability confirmed what I already suspected; although his level was lower than mine, his innate physical capabilities defied those numbers. Each clash of our weapons sent tremors through my frame. The tendrils that could punch through stone barely fazed him.

I needed to end this quickly, before he could fully adapt to my fighting style. Already his movements were becoming more precise, learning the patterns of my attacks. Time to change tactics.

His spear moved like a living thing in his hands, its segments flowing with unnatural grace. Something about its construction nagged at my Assembly abilities; the way it collapsed and extended reminded me of my own mechanical innovations. Who had crafted such a remarkable weapon? He had told me once that the spear had been a gift from some prophet, but what type of holy man could create such a strange gift?

Another exchange left us both exerted, though for different reasons. My mechanical systems strained to keep up with the physical demands while his scales gleamed with sweat. We circled each other, seeking openings, probing each other for weaknesses.

The crowd's roar faded to white noise as I calculated my next move. Standard combat forms wouldn't work here. I needed something unexpected, something that would catch even this seasoned warrior off guard.

My tendrils coiled tighter, preparing for what came next. One chance to end this before his superior strength could overwhelm my technical advantages.

The red spear became a crimson blur, launched with devastating precision. My Mind Sight barely registered its movement before the impact occurred. The weapon found the exact point where mechanical met organic, at the vulnerable junction of my right shoulder. Steel crumpled, and raw agony erupted through my remaining flesh.

The sound that tore from me wasn't human. A metallic shriek that sent spectators recoiling, hands clasped over ears. Only Arctur remained unmoved, his scaled hand extending with casual grace. The spear ripped free of my wound and flew back to his grasp as if drawn by some unseen force.

I staggered, systems frantically recalibrating. That moment's weakness was all he needed. Arctur's massive form launched skyward, his trajectory carrying him straight toward my damaged chassis. His feet and left hand found purchase on my frame while his right drove the spear deep into my torso.

Regular steel didn't stand a chance. The red weapon punched through layers of armor and components, sending cascading failures through my systems. Hydraulic fluid sprayed from ruptured lines.

My tendrils responded on pure reflex. One coiled around his thick neck while the other snared his tail. With a savage twist, I ripped him away from my chassis and slammed him into the arena floor. The impact would have broken a human's bones.

Arctur rolled with practiced grace, springing back to his feet despite blood streaming from a gash above his eye. His scaled features showed no sign of pain or fatigue. That emotionless focus terrified me more than any battle rage.

His hand extended once more. The spear trembled in my chassis, then tore free with a shower of sparks and fluid. It flew back to his waiting grip, its crimson segments gleaming with my hydraulic leakage.

What are you? I wondered as we squared off again. His weapon's ability to damage auric steel, its strange method of returning to him; none of it should have been possible. Yet here he stood, ready to continue despite injuries that would have felled most warriors.

Thinking quickly, I channeled mana through one tendril, concentrating it at the clawed tip while keeping Arctur occupied with the other two. Each strike he deflected brought him closer, his scaled form moving with deadly grace. The tendrils whipped and snapped, but his spear found every attack, its crimson segments flowing like water.

When he closed to striking distance, his weapon darted toward my damaged chassis. Perfect. The mana-charged tendril shot forward, its golden claw meeting his armored chest. I suddenly released the energy gathered there in a single devastating burst.

The explosion rocked the arena. Though the blast itself did minimal damage due to the lack of a launched projectile, the intense shockwave sent his massive form hurtling backward. His scales left gouges in the wall where he struck. Before he could recover, I was there, all three tendrils driving into his now-exposed chest. The armor, weakened by my mana blast, offered no protection.

Something, likely his ribs, cracked beneath the impact. Arctur's eyes widened, a pained gasp escaping his throat. The red spear slipped from his fingers as he crumpled forward onto the sand.

Professor Harmony rushed down from the stands to check him, her hands grasping at his neck, looking for a pulse.

"He's alive!" she yelled out.

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause. Even Headmaster Reins looked impressed as he declared my victory. But I barely registered any of it, my focus fixed on Arctur's unconscious form. The way his spear had scratched auric steel, how it returned to his grip like a living thing… those mysteries would have to wait.

I observed House Swords students struggle beneath Arctur's massive weight as they rushed to transport their fallen companion to the medical wing for treatment.

My damaged systems screamed for maintenance, but there was no time. Genta still had her match against Elko, and I needed to observe. House Swords might have lost their strongest fighter, but that made them more dangerous, not less. Wounded pride had a way of sharpening lesser blades.

I retracted my tendrils, noting how the golden metal showed signs of stress from blocking that strange red spear. Even with my "children" enhancing my capabilities, Arctur had pushed my frame to its limits. If we faced each other again, I'd need significant upgrades.

The arena attendants swept away our battle's debris while I moved to rejoin my team. Blood, both metaphorically mine and literally Arctur's, stained the sand, telling the story of our clash in black and crimson patterns. Tomorrow I'd analyze every moment of this fight, but for now, we had a tournament to win.

My companions swarmed around me as I approached our team's corner. Annes clapped my shoulder while Loland whistled, gesturing at the damaged sections of my chassis.

"That was incredible," Yulios said, his broad face unusually animated. "I mean, Arctur's always been scary, but you just..." He shook his head. "You're way scarier now."

A strange warmth spread through my systems at their praise. My tendrils curled inward, an unconscious gesture of... embarrassment? Pride? These emotional responses still confused me.

Good luck out there, I told Genta, who bounced on her toes, practically vibrating with eagerness. Her green skin seemed to glow with gathered mana, orange freckles bright against her nose.

"Please." She flashed me a sharp-toothed grin. "After what you just pulled off? I've got to make this good." Her small hands twisted through a practice gesture, frost crystallizing in the air. "Just watch! I'll give them a show they won't forget."

The confidence in her voice left no room for doubt. As she strode toward the arena, head high despite the whispers and stares, I felt oddly proud to call this fierce little goblin my friend.

I watched through Mind Sight as Genta faced off against Elko, her small form taut with anticipation. The Rogue struck first, daggers flashing in rapid arcs. Genta met each strike with her blade, the clash of steel ringing across the arena.

Suddenly Elko blurred into motion, his form seeming to split as he darted around her. My analysis showed his speed attribute had activated, boosting his movements beyond normal limits. But Genta had trained for this.

Frost spread from her feet in a rapidly expanding circle, transforming the sandy floor into a treacherous sheet of ice. Elko's enhanced speed worked against him as his feet slipped, forcing him to slow or risk losing control.

When he retreated to find better footing, I saw Genta's orange freckles flash, which was her tell when gathering mana. The fireball erupted from her hands with devastating force. Though Elko managed to twist away from the direct blast, the explosion's shockwave caught him mid-dodge. His body tumbled across the frost-covered sand before lying still.

"Victory to Genta of Gutter House!" Headmaster Reins' voice boomed through the arena. "Team Gutter House advances to the penultimate round!"

The crowd's roar was deafening. I spotted Patter standing on her seat, bellowing in triumph while Copelan pumped his fists beside her. My tendrils coiled with satisfaction at our team's success.

Genta sprinted back to us, practically glowing with victory. Before she could reach our group, Annes scooped her up and launched her skyward. The goblin's delighted laughter rang out as she spun through the air, green hair flying wild before Annes caught her again.

"Did you see?" Genta demanded, hanging upside down in Annes' grip. "Did you see how I got him with the ice? Just like we practiced!"

Perfect execution, I confirmed through Mind Speech. Though perhaps next time you'll try not to singe your own eyebrows.

She just grinned wider, patting at her smoking brows. "Worth it!"

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