Surviving the Magic Academy With Just Intelligence Stats

The crystalline display board illuminated with the final matchup, bathing the arena in azure light. Ambrose Rothschild and his team rose with practiced composure as their names appeared, creating a ripple of movement that drew every eye in the crowded colosseum. Despite being the tournament’s culminating battle, a curious atmosphere pervaded the stands—not the electric anticipation one might expect, but rather the resigned acceptance of a foregone conclusion.

Spectators exchanged knowing glances and half-hearted wagers. Leon Steelheart had captivated the audience with his improbable victory over Lysander Blackvale, a triumph of technique and determination over aristocratic talent. Yet that inspiring narrative seemed destined for an abrupt conclusion. Against Sun Hualing—whose mere presence had prompted immediate surrenders—what hope could any freshman possibly harbor?

Even Leon himself harbored no illusions as he gazed at the glowing display. The swordsman’s weathered face betrayed no fear, only clear-eyed acceptance of the challenge before him. He squared his shoulders and advanced toward the platform with unwavering strides, his sword hanging comfortably at his hip.

"We’ve come this far," he murmured to his teammates as they followed behind him. "Let’s give them something to remember."

His companions nodded with grim determination. Though victory seemed impossible, they would face their fate together, as they had throughout the tournament. Kai’s hand rested on his weapon, Maya’s fingers traced subtle support patterns at her side, and the remaining teammates maintained perfect formation as they approached.

When both teams had taken their positions on opposite sides of the platform, Professor Lancaster raised his enchanted staff. The crystal tip flared with magical energy as his amplified voice carried across the hushed arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at the championship match of our freshman ranking tournament!" he declared, emerald robes billowing slightly with magical resonance. "Team Rothschild versus Team Steelheart—a confrontation that will determine not only our champion but also confer a distinction I’ve yet to reveal."

Lancaster’s eyes twinkled with theatrical mischief as he surveyed the crowd. "The student whose performance stands most exemplary throughout the tournament shall be appointed Head of the Freshman Class—a position carrying considerable privileges and responsibilities throughout your academic journey! This position can only be assigned once and can’t easily be changed!"

A wave of surprised murmurs swept through the freshman section. Students leaned toward one another, whispered conversations breaking out across the stands as they processed this unexpected revelation. The senior students, however, merely nodded in knowing confirmation—this tradition was no surprise to those familiar with the academy’s hierarchy.

Lancaster cleared his throat pointedly, the sound magically amplified to recapture wandering attention. When suitable silence had been restored, he raised his staff high overhead.

"Without further delay, I declare the championship match... begun!"

The protective barriers shimmered into existence around the platform, sealing the competitors within. Yet contrary to expectations, neither team launched into immediate action. The platform remained eerily still, both sides seemingly locked in strategic assessment.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, movement caught the audience’s attention. A collective gasp rippled through the stands as Ambrose Rothschild—the meditative strategist who had remained seated throughout previous matches—rose to his feet and began walking toward the platform’s center.

"What’s happening?" "Is he surrendering?" "Has the Rothschild heir lost his mind?"

Speculation erupted throughout the arena as Ambrose continued his unhurried advance. His slight frame and calm demeanor created a striking contrast against the backdrop of anticipated combat. Behind him, his team remained in position, Hualing watching with unblinking intensity, her body tensed as if ready to intervene at the slightest indication of threat.

Leon observed Ambrose’s approach with visible confusion. After a moment’s hesitation, he seemingly interpreted this as a leader’s parley and began his own advance to the center. His posture remained guarded, suspicion evident in his measured steps.

When the two leaders converged at the platform’s center, the audience fell into hushed silence, straining to catch any fragment of their exchange.

"What do you want?" Leon asked without preamble, his tone direct but not disrespectful. Though lacking aristocratic polish, his speech carried the straightforward dignity of someone who had earned his position through merit rather than birth.

Ambrose showed no reaction to Leon’s blunt address. Instead, a thoughtful smile curved his lips as he regarded the swordsman. Under that penetrating gaze, Leon shifted uncomfortably, struck by the unsettling sensation of being thoroughly analyzed—as if Ambrose could see through flesh and bone to the very core of his being.

"How about we switch up some things?" Ambrose suggested, his voice carrying the cultured cadence of nobility but none of the typical condescension.

Leon’s brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Instead of fighting as a team, which might cause unexpected injuries," Ambrose elaborated with casual precision, "why don’t you have a duel against my teammate to determine the winner?"

Wariness flickered across Leon’s features as he parsed Ambrose’s words. Was this a veiled threat? A suggestion that refusing would result in their deliberate harm? Yet pragmatism quickly asserted itself in his calculation. His team had already endured a grueling semifinal against Lysander—they were exhausted, not just physically but also mentaly. A single duel might actually favor them.

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His gaze shifted past Ambrose to where Hualing stood with predatory stillness. Leon squared his shoulders, determination hardening his expression.

"Sure, tell her to bring it on," he declared with hard-won confidence.

To his surprise, Ambrose shook his head. "No, you misunderstood." He turned slightly, gesturing toward his team. "You’ll be facing him, he’s our team’s swordsman."

Marcus Turner detached himself from the group, approaching with measured strides. The way he moved spoke volumes to Leon’s experienced eye—the balanced footwork, the natural hand position ready for a draw, the controlled economy of motion. Leon could tell that he wasnt just a kid with a sword cosplaying as a swordsman, but rather a proper swordman.

Yet compared to the overwhelming dread Hualing inspired, this opponent seemed... manageable. A genuine smile spread across Leon’s face as understanding dawned. What he had anticipated as a hopeless slaughter might instead become a true test of skill—swordsman against swordsman, technique against technique. If it was really a battle of pure swordsmanship, Leon didnt believe he’d lose to anyone, at least not in their freshman year group.

For the first time since the matchup had been announced, Leon felt a genuine spark of possibility ignite within his chest.