The bracket board went up at dawn.
Two full sheets of parchment, pinned to the old stone dueling post in the Academy courtyard. Fresh ink. Golden wax seals. A dozen instructors watching the crowd like they expected someone to draw a blade just for being ranked too low.
They probably weren't wrong.
By the time Renard arrived, students had gathered in clusters—half gossiping, half glaring. Most came in formal coats and polished boots. Some wore armor like they expected to fight that day. A few had entourages that moved the crowd aside for them.
Renard had none of that.
Just his usual worn coat, boots half-dusted from the ruins, and a paper in his pocket with last night's training notes.
No one noticed him at first.
Then someone did.
A boy near the edge squinted.
"Wait. That's…"
"Renard Valtierre?"
"Didn't he drop out of sword track?"
"I thought he failed out."
"He's actually on the board?"
Renard stepped through them without a word. They moved, not out of fear—out of confusion.
At the base of the board, names curled in black ink. Each pair was numbered.
#1: Rodric Faelin vs. #64: Renard Valtierre
Of course.
Renard stared at it for a moment, calm and quiet. Then a voice slid in from his left, silken and far too pleased with itself.
"Well. You really did sign up."
Rodric Faelin stepped into view, grinning like a man who believed the crowd already loved him.
"I'll admit, I didn't think you'd have the nerve."
Renard didn't look at him.
Rodric went on, louder now—just enough for the people behind to hear.
"Don't worry. I'll keep it short. A graceful loss still counts as a noble death."
Renard shifted his weight, finally turning his eyes to meet Rodric's.
"No one's dying."
Rodric's grin twitched. "Just you, then."
Renard walked past him, quiet as ever.
He found Elric later in the east ruins, lying on top of a broken column, flipping a coin between two fingers.
"Figured you'd show," Elric said, not looking. "Word got around quick. Bracket's official. Rodric's got the first kill."
Renard sat on the stones beside him and unfolded a scribbled replica of the full bracket.
"I want the full read," he said.
Elric took it. His expression changed almost immediately.
"Oof."
"What?"
"You've got the worst pool in the tournament."
Renard raised an eyebrow.
"Six matches to win the title. You only need to care about the five before finals." Elric tapped the path. "But every single one in your line-up is a hammer."
He pointed to the names.
"Marius Velcross—the wall with arms. Cracked a dummy's ribs last term."
"Sienna Caldriss—tempo perfectionist. Cold enough to freeze a mana flare."
"Corwin Drenhault—duke's heir. Fast, vicious, and arrogant enough to get creative."
"And then…"
He tapped the name quietly sitting in round three.
"Seraphina Brael. No records. No stats. Just… Royal seal. She might be the worst of them all."
"And Rodric?"
Elric smirked. "Rodric's the appetizer."
They spent the next hour reviewing the pool.
Not just names.
Styles. Patterns. Politics.
The Academy wasn't fair. Never had been. The bracket wasn't drawn—it was arranged. Nobles requested early eliminations. House alliances lobbied behind the scenes. A victory in the tournament could earn a commission or even raise a House title.
"Rodric pulled strings," Elric said. "He wanted you first so he could laugh. The rest? That's a gift-wrapped climb to finals—if you somehow survive."
Renard didn't comment. He sat in silence, back against a wall, hands steepled.
Elric watched him for a moment.
"You're slipping into it again," he muttered. "The war-face."
Renard blinked. "What?"
"You've gone quiet," Elric said. "Eyes go still. Breathing slows. You're running scenarios in your head."
Renard tilted his head.
"I'm planning."
S-Class Commander skills weren't flashy.
They didn't manifest like magic. Didn't shout with stats. They were subtle.
They slipped in through silence.
Renard didn't just think about who he would face—he started simulating them.
Each name became a layout.
Each fighter, a rhythm.
He predicted habits based on training halls, postures, performance reports. Marius wouldn't faint. Corwin would overreach. Sienna would react to delay, not force.
It wasn't foresight.
It was pattern logic—deep structure mapping through limited data. A skill only the best commanders had ever been born with.
And even then, few ever applied it to a single duel.
[Commander Skill – Predictive Combat Mapping: Active]Processing target: Rodric Faelin
Known Data: Public dueling sessions, weapon form, crowd behavior
Projected Tempo: High-performance show combatWeakness Detected: Recovery phase / off-tempo edge correction
Risk: Overconfident engagement window – exploitable on third sequence repeat
That evening, Renard walked alone to the upper courtyard where Rodric trained.
He kept to the shadows, arms folded, hood down.
The scene was exactly what he expected.
Rodric stood at the center of a cleared circle, surrounded by a half-dozen admirers and three instructors. His coat was tailored, polished sword catching torchlight just so. He bowed before each mock match and performed with a flare only nobles could turn into a technique.
Renard watched every move.
Rodric's blade danced.
But it wasn't clean.
Not to him.
Every flourish ended with a pause—an unguarded moment to let the crowd cheer.
Every parry came with a half-step back to pose.
His resets were built for rhythm, not recovery.
They weren't battle habits. They were stage habits.
Renard's eyes narrowed.
He doesn't expect pressure. He expects applause.
He watched the second sequence.
Feint, flick, reset, turn—standard.
Third sequence. Same start. Same flourish.
Fourth—slight delay.
His balance shifted just enough. His weight was always wrong on the fourth pass.
There.
Renard blinked once.
That was it.
He turned without a word and walked into the dark.
No smile.
No commentary.
Just one quiet phrase echoing in his mind:
Got you.