Return of the Runebound Professor Chapter 876: Clashing personalities

Mordred retracted his senses, his consciousness pulling away from the immediate conflict to survey the other combatants. It would be profoundly awkward if he returned with intel on only a single adversary, a prospect he doubted Spider’s associates would appreciate, regardless of the individual’s unique nature.

A lamentable number of individuals possess no inclination for seeking novel knowledge.

Yet, the arena teemed with fascinating magic. Mages at the zenith of their Ranks were deeply engaged in battle. Mordred observed with little surprise that larger congregations were achieving the greatest success; their formidable numbers deterred challenges and minimized their losses.

He was somewhat taken aback to discover that those faring the worst were not the lone combatants, but rather the mages organized into small cadres of three or four. It did not take him long to ascertain the reason behind this unfortunate predicament.

While some solitary mages were indeed weak or socially inept, a substantial portion—around twenty to thirty percent—were concealed powerhouses. These were mages of such formidable strength that they disdained any need for alliances. Facing such a potent force drastically amplified the likelihood of a group’s decimation, irrespective of its size.

The same could not be asserted for the smaller mage fellowships. Though a few demonstrated considerable skill, and some groups were clearly seasoned collaborators, the overwhelming majority comprised mediocre mages who had coalesced as a Hail Mary to bolster their chances of advancing in the tournament.

Consequently, and to their detriment, these smaller contingents became targets for nearly everyone. Larger factions sought them out, assuming a lack of an hidden apex-mage within their ranks, while solitary mages found them easier prey than larger formations—eliminating three individuals being far simpler than vanquishing ten or twenty.

Mordred’s awareness swept across all five unfolding arenas, his mind diligently cataloging individuals of genuine interest. He consciously refrained from lingering too intently on any single mage, prioritizing the acquisition of comprehensive information.

Despite the allure of intense focus, this broader approach was demonstrably the most advantageous for the tournament’s later stages, a fact readily apparent from its very structure. Five colossal arenas, each densely packed with an unknown multitude of mages, were in play.

Considering the sheer volume of participants, numerous preliminary rounds, akin to the current contests, would undoubtedly ensue. This still represented an excessive number of mages to permit participation in conventional one-on-one duels, allowing too many undistinguished practitioners to progress. Further culling was inevitable.

Those advancing from this initial stage comprised individuals fortunate enough to align with potent factions or adept at maintaining a low profile. Only after the subsequent round would the field narrow sufficiently for Mordred’s meticulously gathered intelligence to truly prove its worth.

Moreover, it was highly probable that many of the genuinely powerful mages were currently exercising restraint. Exposing one’s full capabilities so early in a tournament was generally imprudent. Unless a mage possessed absolute certainty of their invincibility within their competitive bracket, securing a victory by a minimal margin represented the most prudent course of action.

Mordred's singular objective at this juncture was to identify potential subjects for future, concentrated observation. This process was merely the establishment of a foundational network. However, even amidst this strategic survey, his attention found itself inexplicably drawn more than intended.

The first instance that truly diverted him from his task, following his observation of Bird, involved a spectacle unfolding in a completely separate arena. His senses issued a subtle alert as a significant reservoir of magical energy was summoned. His focus shifted, and he found himself observing what appeared to be one of the largest aggregations he had yet encountered.

An estimated thirty mages formed a dense cluster at the heart of their arena. Other groups clashed around them, yet none dared—out of foolishness or courage—to assail this formidable collective. The group remained largely passive, observing the desperate struggles of others, occasionally launching desultory attacks from the security of their overwhelming numbers.

Mordered’s lips would have thinned were he physically present. This wasn’t the point of the tournament at all. Forming into a huge clump like this and just sitting around doing nothing… it defeated the purpose. Such a thing proved nothing.

He was about to pull back when he caught a flicker of white dancing through the air in the very center of the large group of mages. It almost looked like a mirage. There was a faint, distant click, like the sound of flint striking steel.

A haze warped the air all around the massive gathering of combatants. Mordred’s brow furrowed. The haze itself wasn’t actually magical as far as he could tell. It was simply the air warping under extreme—

Mordred’s eyes widened.

A massive blast rolled through the air as brilliant white flame erupted in the very center of the mages. It expanded outward in an instant with a crackling roar, furious tongues of near-silver magic swallowing the entire group within an instant.

Bodies warped. Flesh practically exploded, torn away in chunks and melted to cinders before it could even hit the ground. The sheer force of the magic threw a number of other mages that had been unlucky enough to be anywhere near the blast site from their feet.

Dozens of yellow beams crashed down from the sky before the angry white fire even had a moment to dissipate. But, when it did, all that remained was a huge ring of blackened ground surrounding a lone woman. Her long blonde hair fluttered in a manner eerily similar to the white fire still licking across her fingers.

There was a crazed grin pulled across her lips, made wider still by a burn scar on the right side of her face. A chunk of the flesh near her lips had been lost in some accident, leaving two extra columns of teeth visible where they should have been covered by her cheek.

“Whoo!” The woman let out a delighted laugh, spinning in a circle and holding her hands out like a little girl dancing in the snow. Motes of ash danced in her wake. “That felt great! Gods, it’s been far too long. This tournament was just what I needed to blow off a bit of steam.”

One of the mages that had been knocked to his backside by her magic scrambled upright, the hems of his clothes still smoldering. He stared at her in horror, likely realizing that he had very heavily overestimated his abilities. His hands lifted into the air.

“I sur—”

A gout of white flame exploded out from the woman’s palm. Mordred could have sworn he spotted furious red light burning like the eyes of an angered dragon deep within the magic. Almost as if it was alive.

The streak of molten magic crashed down on the man with an earth-shaking hiss, and his words were swallowed by a terrified scream. The magic enveloped him, scorching the ground black in a large circle around where he’d been sitting.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m monologuing,” the woman said, the grin never leaving her lips. She closed her hands, dismissing the molten white fire.

Then the smile slipped from her lips.

A circular wall of ice glistened before the man, who had screwed his eyes shut and lifted his hands desperately before himself in terror. Water dripped from it in thick rivers as the magic melted away, but it had completely stopped the attack.

And standing behind the man, her hand raised, was a woman clad in frosty silver and white armor patterned and embossed with a scene of falling snow. Tendrils of ice twisted in the air around her as white frost spread beneath her feet. Her breath came out in faint puffs of white mist that did nothing to conceal the scorn carved into her sharp features. Even the woman’s eyes were flat and the color of glaciers.

“Finish your line,” the woman barked. Her voice was that of someone who didn’t just expect to be obeyed but demanded that they would be. “You are too weak to remain here.”

The man’s eyes opened. He stared at the ice creeping across the ground around him, then glanced to the woman that had nearly flash-fried him. Then he snapped to his senses.

“I surrender!” The man yelped.

A beam of yellow light flashed down, swallowing and whisking the man away from the arena.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The fire mage asked, her scarred smile now nothing but a memory. “This is a tournament. He’s your enemy. Why get in my way?”

“Because you disgust me.” The frost-covered woman pressed her palms together, then pulled them apart. Frost gathered into the shape of a wicked-looking sword in the air before her. She grabbed the weapon and readied it before herself.

“Oh? Crying about fighting when you’re participating in the tournament? That’s cute. I haven’t fought an ice mage in a while. Your lot is always fun. Most other mages just die too fast. Just keep your mouth shut while we fight. I don’t want to hear a bunch of virtue whinging about how people who came to fight in a tournament deserve to be babied. They came here to fight. This is what they signed up for.”