I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 645: Slyvia Asher

’No,’ Rhys replied silently. ’There’s too much attention already.’

’Spoilsport.’

Sylvia released her mana after several more exchanges, and there was something almost playful in her expression now.

She had tested and prodded him, discovering that Rhys was significantly more capable than his rank suggested. But she wasn’t hostile about it. If anything, she seemed amused.

She let her mana fade before speaking.

"Well," she said, stepping back from the training circle, "this is more interesting than I expected."

She walked past Byron without acknowledging him, heading toward the far end of the training hall where other Rank 1-10 students were waiting. But her posture had changed. She was no longer treating Rhys as an inferior. The assessment had shifted.

Byron stared at the space where Sylvia had been, his expression a mixture of anger and confusion. He’d been displaced in less than a minute.

The confrontation he’d started with Rhys had become entirely secondary to whatever dynamic Sylvia had uncovered.

’That was exquisite,’ Sylph said, her amusement almost tangible. ’She played him perfectly. And she saw exactly what she needed to see from you.’

The other students had returned to their routines, though several pure-bloods were still casting hostile glances in Rhys’s direction.

They understood what had just happened. Rank #2 had shown interest in Rank #3.

And that interest was dangerous.

Rhys moved out of the training circle and returned to his isolated section of the hall, his routine continuing as though nothing significant had occurred. But everything had shifted. Sylvia knew something was different about him.

Byron was frustrated and confused. And the pure-bloods were beginning to recognize that their assumptions about Rhys’s capabilities might be wrong.

’What comes next?’ Sylph asked.

​’Training,’ Rhys replied silently. He didn’t let his gaze wander to the exit where Sylvia had vanished, nor did he acknowledge the lingering heat of Byron’s glare.

Instead, he sat cross-legged on the cold stone, his spine perfectly straight.

​’I need to pick up from where Pho’s training left off,’ he continued, his mental voice hardening with a resolve that surpassed his years. ’If I want to surpass the elves, or to fulfill my contract with Jack. I can’t afford to slack off even for a second. These displays are child’s play compared to the efficiency Jack demands.’

​He closed his eyes, visualizing the turbulent swirl of his mana.

​’My potential isn’t measured by a stone board or a pure-blood’s approval, Sylph. It’s measured by the resonance we create. I need to refine my mana until it doesn’t just match theirs, but overwrites it. If I can’t master the baseline frequencies Pho taught me, I’ll never survive the throne Jack is grooming me for.’

​’So, no more holding back?’ Sylph asked, her voice flickering with anticipation.

​’I need to push until the "Vile Blood" they fear becomes a power they can’t even comprehend.’

​As Rhys initiated his deep meditation, the ambient mana within the hall not only circulated around him but also began to converge, absorbing into his being with a silent, intense hum.

-----

The corridor outside the academy’s administrative wing was a minefield of incompetence and desperation.

Sylvia Asher walked through it with the indifference of someone who had long since accepted that being the second most powerful mage in the world of gofted students meant being constantly, relentlessly pursued by people seeking favor.

A boy whose name she couldn’t be bothered to remember stepped into her path, his mana flickering nervously.

Attempting what he probably believed was an impressive display of control. It wasn’t.

His power was competent, functional, utterly unremarkable. She assessed it in the time it took to blink and moved past him without acknowledgment.

This was the burden of genius. Not the cultivation of power, that was almost trivial by comparison.

The burden existed in a world of static. Every student at the Academy, from Rank #5 down to Rank #200, was essentially the same entity with minor variations in magical output.

They all wanted the same things: acknowledgment, advancement, and proof of their superiority. They all performed the same desperate dances, trying to position themselves as interesting, as worthy of attention.

The girls were worse in some ways. They didn’t even attempt subtlety. They clustered in groups, whispering about her training methods, family connections, and potential marriage prospects.

As if any of that mattered. If the contents of Sylvia Asher’s mind could be reduced to her father’s political ambitions or her bloodline’s standing.

She reached the office of Elder Thrace without breaking stride. The old mage maintained his position as Academy instructor through a combination of genuine competence and something less savory.

A deep and abiding loyalty to Duke Asher that transcended any actual commitment to education.

"Sylvia," Thrace greeted her, his voice carrying the warmth of someone speaking to an asset. "Your father sends his regards."

This was the language of their meetings. No pleasantries were ever offered. Immediately to business, because her father’s business was the only business that mattered in this office.

"He also sends concerns," Thrace continued, gesturing for her to sit. "Regarding the upcoming trials."

Sylvia remained standing. Sitting implied this conversation would be lengthy, and she had no intention of extending it beyond necessity.

"The Dungeon Trial is in one week," Thrace said, his tone becoming more measured. "Followed by the Tournament. Then the random assessment." He paused, allowing the weight of this schedule to settle. "During the Dungeon Trial, certain... circumstances may arise. Your father wants to ensure that certain students have... unfortunate accidents."

The phrasing was deliberately vague, but Sylvia understood what was being implied.

Someone would be severely hurt or killed during the trial. Someone whom her father deemed disposable or inconvenient. And by extension, someone Sylvia should allow to die without intervention.

"Which student?" she asked, her tone remaining neutral.

Thrace’s expression shifted slightly. A flicker of respect touched his eyes. "Your father hasn’t specified. He simply wants the opportunity to present itself, and for you to recognize it when it does."

In other words, they didn’t yet know who to target. This was intelligence gathering disguised as an assignment.

They wanted to see which student Sylvia would naturally sacrifice, which one she viewed as expendable. And through her response, they could gauge Duke Asher’s true intentions.

It was elegant in its way. Cruel, certainly, but elegant.

"I understand," Sylvia said, and she did. She understood perfectly. Her father wanted someone dead, and he was using her as the instrument, counting on her genius to identify the correct victim without explicit instruction.

"Excellent," Thrace replied. "Your father also wanted you to know that the Tournament rankings will determine much about the Academy’s future structure. There are several students whose advancement needs to be managed."

This was the other game. Politics dressed up as academics.

Certain bloodlines needed to rise, others needed to be suppressed. And the mechanism through which this would happen was the Tournament, where students would face one another in controlled combat, and outcomes could be nudged through clever bracket placement and subtle rule interpretations.

Sylvia excused herself and left the office without further pleasantries. The conversation had provided exactly what she needed: confirmation that something significant was being orchestrated, and that she was expected to participate in its success.