Chapter Sixteen: Many People Beat Me

At noon, in the trial grounds of the Necromancy Academy.

Bryant swept the floor absentmindedly, his mind turning over Professor Jean’s morning lecture on necromancy, his brows slightly furrowed in concentration.

Suddenly, a plump figure burst in through the doorway. Jack, panting heavily, rushed over and blurted out, “Bryant, it’s bad! Carey and Borg are coming to settle the score with you!”

Interrupted from his thoughts, Bryant frowned in irritation. Seeing Jack’s panicked face, he asked, “What’s happened? Those two idiots, Carey and Borg—didn’t I teach them a lesson last time? Why are they looking for trouble again?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Jack replied anxiously. “I just heard they ate something this morning that made them really sick. Their faces are green! Anyway, they’re shouting that they want to get even with you. Even the little witch, Lisa, is looking for you!”

Bryant reached back to touch his spine, still feeling a dull ache, though much improved since last night. The deep indigo battle energy left by Eric was still wrapped in his own magic power, now gradually shrinking away, which gave Bryant some relief.

“If they’re looking for death, they can’t blame me,” Bryant muttered coldly, gripping his broom tighter and fixing his gaze on the door.

Jack, still flustered, wrung his hands and urged, “Bryant, this time is different from last! Carey and Borg have brought some backup. They aren’t from our necromancy division’s laborers—some are tall and strong. You’d better run!”

“Damn you, Bryant! How dare you trick us! I’ll make you pay today!” Carey's voice rang out just as Jack finished speaking, and a gang of them blocked the entrance to the trial grounds.

Carey and Borg both looked genuinely sick, their faces tinged green. As soon as they entered, Borg let out a groan, clutched his stomach, and convulsed, spewing a mouthful of blackish water that filled the air with a bitter, sour stench.

Seeing what Borg vomited, Carey’s already pale face darkened further, and he gagged, trying to retch something up but only dry-heaving.

“Bryant, what did you have Lisa brew for us? You’re trying to kill us! I’ll have your head today!” Borg shouted, his body weak, clutching the door with one hand and his stomach with the other, pointing at Bryant with hatred.

Bryant nearly laughed aloud. Last time, when Lisa had asked how he’d suddenly become so agile and strong, he’d made up a wild story to brush her off—never expecting Lisa to believe it and actually concoct that disgusting brew, apparently testing it on Borg and Carey. No wonder they looked half-dead.

“I… I didn’t do anything,” Bryant replied, shaking his head with a dazed, innocent look.

“Lisa already told us! Don’t even try to deny it. I’m not leaving until I teach you a lesson!” Carey snarled, signaling to his helpers—six laborers in total, including Borg—who rolled up their sleeves and advanced on Bryant menacingly.

The other four laborers weren’t from the necromancy division, but from the dark arts. Contrary to Jack’s warning, though, they were either tall and skinny or stocky and short—none both tall and strong. Their fighting prowess didn’t look impressive.

Bryant’s grip tightened, his expression still dull and guileless, but inside, a wild urge surged up, an uncontrollable need to vent, as if he could only quell it by beating every one of them down.

The urge struck without warning, overwhelming his mind like a spell, compelling him to act. Usually, Bryant was passive, rarely provoking anyone, never daring to stir up trouble. But now, with his newfound strength and speed, a brawl could cause a serious incident. Though reluctant, his rational mind could not restrain him.

It was just like the last time in the trial grounds, when he’d nearly attacked Lisa, ignoring reason and following the wild impulse—until the battle energy left by Claude had been dissolved by his magic power. Now, the situation was identical: the magic power at his back still wrapped around Eric’s battle energy, and the urge inside him blazed stronger than ever.

Glancing at Jack, who was shivering in terror, Bryant’s face shed every trace of its former dullness; his eyes were sharp as blades, burning with a gambler’s fervor. He thrust the broom into Jack’s hands and said coldly, “Hold this. If anyone tries to hit you, stab them!”

He pointed to the broom’s sharp iron end. “Use this corner.”

Jack was stunned by Bryant’s sudden transformation, gawking at him as his legs trembled uncontrollably. Where was the cowardly, timid Bryant now? The calm, ruthless air radiating from him was unrecognizable.

Stuffing the broom into Jack’s hands, Bryant turned away, his face reverting to a dazed, fearful look as he stammered, “No, please, don’t hit me!”

“Oh, we’re going to hit you!” The six of them rushed at him, fists and feet flying.

Bryant covered his head and staggered back in feigned terror, retreating three steps to Jack’s side. Then, as if triggered, he let out a wild howl like an enraged bull and charged straight at them.

Carey was at the front. Seeing Bryant’s sudden frenzy, he froze—memories of last time’s beating vivid in his mind. His raised leg, poised to kick, hung suspended in the air, never daring to land the blow.

But Bryant didn’t intend to let him off the hook. As he ran, Bryant felt the magic energy on his back spinning rapidly, beginning to absorb Eric’s deep indigo battle energy just like before.

At that moment, only one thought blazed in Bryant’s mind: to knock every troublemaker before him flat, dead or alive.

Both hands shot out. Like lightning, he grabbed Carey’s raised leg and heaved. Carey flipped through the air and crashed to the floor with a howl, his teeth striking stone, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth.

The four helpers who’d come with Carey and Borg recoiled in shock at Bryant’s ferocity. Their menacing leers vanished, replaced by uneasy, uncertain expressions.

“Don’t be afraid! There’s only one of him and six of us. Even a mess of punches can take him out!” Borg tried to rally them, snatching up a four-legged wooden stool and swinging it at Bryant.

His words revived the flagging spirits of the others, who reached behind their backs for wooden clubs and followed Borg in a charge.

So they came prepared, Bryant thought, narrowing his eyes. As Borg’s stool came hurtling toward him, he suddenly sprang aside.

The stool smashed into the flagstone floor, its legs wobbling precariously. Borg blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting Bryant to dodge.

With a cold, low chuckle, Bryant slammed a fist into Borg’s nose, sending a spray of blood blossoming. Borg’s head snapped back and he staggered, dropping the stool in pain.

Bryant snatched up the fallen stool, whirled, and faced a short, stocky red-haired attacker whose club was swinging straight for his head. Bryant raised the stool, blocking the blow.

Gripping a stool leg in each hand, Bryant felt the magic power at his back whirling faster and faster, consuming the battle energy. His arms felt inexhaustibly strong. With a mighty wrench, he tore the stool in half.

With a sharp crack, the stool split cleanly, and Bryant, clutching a piece in each hand, lashed out, his right foot slamming into the red-haired assailant’s abdomen. The man’s face went deathly pale as he doubled over in pain.

But Bryant wasn’t done. Thrilled by a rush of savage energy, he unleashed a flurry of blows with the halves of the stool, battering the man’s head and face until blood spattered across the wood.

“Stop him! That lunatic will kill Alva!” Borg, his nose smashed flat and blood streaming from his nostrils, shrieked in terror.

Carey struggled to his feet, fear in his eyes, but still managed to raise his hidden club and charge with the others toward Bryant.

The air rang with violent blows. Jack, watching from the side, trembled so hard his legs threatened to give way. He stared at Bryant in disbelief. Bryant, clutching half a stool, faced the group’s combined assault without a trace of fear. His frenzied, brutal expression was icy cold, his eyes glittering with a chilling light.

Bryant dodged and weaved, never missing a beat with the stool, smashing it again and again into their faces and noses. In moments, all six attackers were bleeding from the head and face.

Jack was utterly stunned, paralyzed by Bryant’s cold-blooded methods. He had never imagined that the meek, timid Bryant would one day reveal such ferocity.

As Jack stared, the last of Eric’s battle energy was finally dissolved by Bryant’s wild fighting, absorbed into his magic power. Only then did Bryant startle, realizing what he was doing. A chill of fear ran through him.

“Sounds of fighting! What’s going on? Quick, check the trial grounds!” Bryant heard Vannie’s voice in the distance, followed by the rapid approach of footsteps.

Carey, Borg, and the others were still frozen, eyes wide with fear, clubs in hand but not daring to come any closer.

Bryant knew this was serious. His mind raced, and suddenly he had an idea. He dashed toward the door, smearing the blood from the stool across his face and forehead as he ran, then tossed aside the two bloodied halves. He grabbed at the wound on his back where Eric had stabbed him the previous day, tore it open with a cry, and let his blood soak his shirt.

Reaching the door, Bryant abruptly collapsed, crawling “with difficulty” toward the threshold. When he saw Vannie and the others appear, he stretched out bloodstained hands, his face and nose smeared with blood, and whimpered in terror, “There… there were so many of them beating me… help… help me…”