The two weeks leading up to the Academy Placement Tournament were a period of intense, focused refinement for Daemon. He had used the limited time to push his core to its newest, highest baseline, integrating the newly discovered Steam affinity into his combat repertoire. The tournament was not just a competition; it was the perfectly engineered opportunity to shed his meek persona and become the full, terrifying embodiment of the analytical, augmented genius he truly was. The time for calculated underperformance was over; now was the time for strategic dominance.
The first-year students were gathered in a staging area near the perimeter of the vast forest surrounding the Academy. The lead instructor explained the initial challenge: Stage One would divide the students into groups of four for a specialized hunt. The objective was simple: venture into the forest—an area specifically seeded with low-level Goblins and Demonic Beasts for the tournament's purpose—and hunt down as many as possible. Each successfully subjugated beast or spawn was worth ten points for each member of the team. Daemon's team was a study in contrasts, consisting of Julian, who could sustain metal transformation with constant magical drain; Corleys, a lean student with the Wind attribute; and Sheila von Lancaster, a haughty noble wielding the aggressive Lightning attribute. Daemon met his teammates, presenting his final, carefully constructed public image. He introduced himself with his established meek persona—a slightly hunched posture, polite but hesitant speech, and an air of deferential nervousness. He was functionally dressed for combat: brown trousers, black boots, and a simple brown shirt. For protection, he wore his own creation: a cuirass made out of blackened, quenched steel, his prized Ninjatō was strapped across his back, and a formidable dagger was secured to his thigh.
As Daemon's group prepared to enter the tree line, Sheila von Lancaster acted on her worst instincts. She was accustomed to commanding servants and seeing commoners as tools. She stopped, looked dismissively at Daemon's frame, and pointed imperiously at the sword and shield she had casually leaned against a nearby crate. "You, commoner," Sheila commanded, her voice sharp with inherited authority. "Pick up my equipment. You'll be my shield bearer and fetcher. Just stay behind me and follow orders." Daemon stopped moving. The meekness, which had taken months to cultivate, vanished in the space of a single breath. His entire posture shifted—the slight hunch straightened, his shoulders broadened, and the fearful deference drained away, replaced by an unnerving stillness. His eyes, usually cast downwards, locked onto Sheila's with a cold, absolute intensity. He took a slow, deliberate step toward her. His voice, stripped of all practiced hesitation, was low, steady, and dangerously quiet.
"Do you think me a slave, Noble Lancaster?" Daemon asked, the question delivered not as a query, but as a statement of fact that demanded correction. Sheila, caught completely off guard by the tonal shift, began to stammer a reply, her noble composure momentarily dissolving. "I—I said pick up the gear, you insolent—" Before she could finish the insult, Daemon moved with the blinding, augmented speed that none of the instructors believed he possessed. His hand shot out, bypassing her guard completely. His fingers clamped around Sheila's neck, not squeezing to crush, but locking her instantly in place, cutting off her breath and her ability to channel magic. The movement was so swift that her two companions were frozen mid-reaction. Julian, watching the commoner's impossible speed, internally wrestled with the realization that the meek facade was a lie; that speed isn't just training; it's magic! He kept his hands steady, frozen by fear and the tactical demand to conserve his metal transformation energy. Corleys instinctively took a step back, the cold, lethal intent radiating off Daemon confirming that this was a completely different person than the one who always lost sparring matches. He recognized the danger of interfering—a wind blade might hit Sheila, and this was an act of calculated intimidation, not panic.
Daemon applied just enough pressure to make Sheila acutely aware of her vulnerability. He pulled her slightly closer, his face inches from hers, his gaze utterly devoid of the fear she had expected to find. "You will watch yourself, Noble Lancaster," Daemon continued, his voice maintaining that perilous, even tone. He spoke not of Academy rules or social hierarchy, but of brutal consequences. "I am here to ensure my own success, and I have no masters. You will not address me as a slave, nor will you issue me orders outside of a tactical necessity that benefits this entire team. Understand this: You will respect my autonomy, or I will paint the academy's forest with your blood." He held the silence for one agonizing moment longer, letting the shock and the terrifying, cold promise settle over the three witnesses. Then, Daemon released her, his hand withdrawing as quickly as it had struck. Sheila stumbled backward, coughing violently, her face pale with a mix of shock and magical denial. She was a powerful Lightning mage, but she had just been utterly dominated by a commoner with no visible combat magic. Daemon didn't wait for a reply. He simply turned, adjusted the sheath of his Ninjatō, and walked toward the forest boundary, his gaze already focused on the hunt. The meek persona was dead, incinerated by cold resolve. The tournament had begun, and Daemon had just ensured that he would be treated not as a resource, but as a threat.