rpbooks Chapter 113: You’re dead
Chapter 113: You’re dead
Now though, things were different.
The system had changed what he was, and what he was had changed what was possible, and what was possible now included standing in that arena he had looked toward as a child and written off as a child and quietly mourned as someone who had understood, eventually, that certain things weren’t going to happen for him.
They were going to happen.
He was going to participate in the world academy tournament.
He was going to step into that competition with every other continent’s best students across from him and find out what that felt like from the inside rather than the outside.
The childhood dream that had collapsed under the weight of apparent reality was still there, it turned out — it had just been waiting under everything else for the circumstances to catch up to it.
The excitement in his chest was real and he didn’t try to contain it.
Kael, predictably, had his own take.
The dragon’s sigh moved through the link with the particular quality of someone who was genuinely happy for another person while also finding that person’s enthusiasm mildly disproportionate to the actual situation.
’It’s nice that you’re excited about this, master,’ Kael said, his tone carrying the warmth he reserved for moments when he wasn’t performing and was simply being direct.
Then the warmth settled into something drier. ’But honestly... this tournament will probably be a breeze for you.’
Noah’s brows pulled together.
A wry smile formed on his face at the same time, the two expressions coexisting in the slightly contradictory way they did when something was both mildly annoying and accurate enough to not be worth arguing with.
’Yeah,’ he thought back, the word arriving with the easy honesty of a private acknowledgment he wouldn’t have made out loud. ’I’m already too strong.’
That was simply the truth of it, assessed without ego and without false modesty.
The gap between where he currently sat on the trajectory the system had put him on and where the tournament’s best participants were likely to be sitting was not a gap that left the outcome genuinely uncertain. He knew that. Pretending otherwise would have been a different kind of dishonesty.
But.
’Still,’ he continued, his internal voice shifting slightly, softening into something more genuine, ’it’ll be fun. To see the different magi from the four other continents. To fight with them.’
That part was real in a way that the outcome wasn’t.
The result of the tournament — the competitive arc, the question of who would win — was perhaps already answered by the math of his current development.
But the experience of it, the actual texture of standing across from practitioners who had been shaped by entirely different magical traditions, different continental philosophies, different understandings of what mana was and how it could be used — that was something he couldn’t replicate through any other means.
He wanted that.
His eyes shone slightly as the thought settled.
For a moment he was something closer to the version of himself that had first looked at the tournament as a child and felt the pull of it, just someone who found the prospect of something genuinely compelling.
’Yeah,’ Kael said through the link. ’Of course.’
Noah let the moment be what it was for exactly as long as it lasted.
Then he turned back to the room.
Taz was still on the floor.
The principal had apparently decided, somewhere during the stretch of time that Noah and Kael had spent in their silent exchange, that maintaining his position was the safest available strategy until explicitly told otherwise.
He was muttering, low and continuous, the words carrying the quality of someone processing out loud rather than addressing anyone in particular.
"If all you want is for Noah to participate," he was saying, his voice threadbare but present, "consider it done... consider it done, of course, absolutely..."
The repetition had the rhythm of a man reassuring himself as much as anyone else.
Noah looked at him for a moment.
"Get up, principal."
Taz froze.
The muttering stopped. His body, which had been in some form of lowered position since he had first gone to the floor, went still with the completeness of something that had received a signal it didn’t know how to process immediately.
Several seconds passed in which he neither rose nor responded, suspended in the gap between the instruction and whatever his nervous system was trying to work out about whether complying was safe.
Noah’s frown returned.
"Do you want me to repeat myself?"
The effect was immediate.
Taz came off the floor like a man who had been waiting for exactly that particular phrasing to resolve his paralysis — upright in a single motion, his legs finding their function with an urgency that overrode whatever residual weakness the mana pressure had left in them.
He was standing before the motion had fully registered as intentional, his body having made the decision considerably faster than his mind had.
He stood.
But his gaze went to the floor in front of Noah’s feet, then to the wall beside the door, then to a point somewhere at the level of the masked man’s collarbone — anywhere that wasn’t the mask itself.
His head was up in the technical sense, the way a person’s head was up when they had been told to rise and had risen, but the eyes were doing their own navigation, finding every available surface that wasn’t the white face looking back at him.
Noah’s brow twitched.
"Look at me," he said.
Taz’s eyes moved upward in increments, like a man climbing something steep, each degree of elevation costing more than the one before it.
They traveled past the collarbone, past the chest, up the line of the neck — and then arrived at the mask.
He looked at it.
His shivering, which had settled into something almost manageable while his gaze had been directed elsewhere, came back fully the moment eye contact was established.
Not a single tremor but a sustained, full-body thing that moved through him from the shoulders down and back up again, his jaw working slightly against it.
But he held the gaze.
Noah nodded.
"That’s not all," he said. "There’s one more favour I need from you."
Taz’s throat moved. The swallow was audible in the quiet of the office, a thick and involuntary sound that preceded his voice by a moment.
"What’s... that...?"
The question came out with the specific quality of someone who genuinely wanted the answer and was simultaneously not sure they were prepared for it — each word arriving carefully, as though he was checking the ground ahead of him before putting weight on it.
Noah looked at him steadily.
"Noah Whiteheart," he said, "as well as his little sister, Amelia."
He let that establish itself before continuing.
"Make sure no one bullies them. Or even so much as lays a finger on their hair."
The instruction was simple. It was clear. It had none of the complexity or the layered implication of what had come before it in this conversation — just a directive, stated plainly, with the expectation of compliance built into the delivery rather than argued for.
Taz nodded before Noah had fully finished speaking, the movement beginning somewhere in the middle of the sentence and continuing after it ended, rapid and committed.
"Yes, Sir White." His voice had found slightly more volume than it had been managing for most of the conversation, pushed upward by the urgency of demonstrating agreement quickly and completely.
"Consider that done. Any form of b-bullying towards them... will lead to an expulsion — yes, an expulsion, immediately, without question, I’ll make sure of it personally, I’ll put measures in place, I’ll speak to the staff directly and make clear that—"
"Deal with it however you want to," Noah said.
The words were even and final, cutting through the principal’s building elaboration without force but with the complete authority of someone who had already moved on internally and was simply closing the loop on his way out.
He turned toward the door.
His footsteps were unhurried, carrying the same measured quality that everything about Mr. White carried — not slow, but deliberate, the pace of someone who had accomplished what they came for and was leaving on their own terms rather than anyone else’s.
He reached the door.
His hand found the frame, and he paused.
It was a brief pause — a second, maybe slightly more — the kind that had weight in it despite its brevity.
Then he turned, partially, enough that his masked face was directed back toward the room and the man standing in it.
Taz, who had been in the process of composing himself, went still.
"And if I learn," Noah said, his voice carrying the same even tone it had carried throughout, neither raised nor hardened, simply present in the particular way that made even quiet words feel like they occupied significant space, "that even a hair on their heads was affected."
He held the pause for a moment.
"You’re dead."