Bond Master

The Closing Net

Tucked away inside a comfortable, stone-walled observation cottage situated on the high grassy ridge overlooking the southern training fields, an elderly academy proctor sat deep within a cushioned leather chair, his weathered hands resting gently on either side of a large, swirling scrying orb. The translucent surface of the crystal ball glowed with a vibrant, shifting purple light, projecting a perfectly clear, miniature reflection of the swamp simulation grid unfolding hundreds of meters below.

"That new first-year student flag carrier is remarkably sneaky," the old proctor noted, a slow, appreciative smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes as he watched the tactical movements in the water. "I quite like the fluid, unconventional way that the boy thinks under pressure. However, looking at his current trajectory, one could argue he might simply be too afraid of engaging in a traditional, frontline elite combat match."

Standing just behind his right shoulder, Sergeant Rita Corvina let out a sharp, dismissive snort, shaking her head as she kept her slate-grey eyes locked on the scrying orb. Her arms were crossed tightly over the gold-and-green fabric of her military uniform, her expression entirely unbothered by the proctor's assessment.

"No, sir, he isn't terrified of a vanguard fight at all," Corvina countered smoothly, a hint of sharp amusement sparking in her voice. "Ren Barrett is simply avoiding any unnecessary physical work. Do you see that young hound sitting stationed up in the high canopy of the weeping cypresses?

The two of them share a continuous, instinctive thought link. He is purposefully playing an extended game of cat and mouse with the offensive team because he is perfectly aware that there is a strict countdown timer running on this exercise.

He knows the attackers are desperate, and his survival instincts tell him that an aggressive search party will almost never double back to re-examine a section of terrain they have literally just finished sweeping.

If those upperclassmen don't catch onto the misdirection within the next few minutes, the clock is going to completely run out with his entire squad just sitting comfortably on dry ground while the offense drowns in the swamp."

Standing on the opposite side of the scrying table, a younger assistant proctor clad in flowing indigo robes nodded his head in firm agreement, his fingers tracing the rune-carved parameters of the leather matrix board.

"His explicit operational task for today's grid was to protect the golden standard for the entire duration of the match, not to systematically eliminate the attacking practitioners," the younger mage noted with a soft, reminiscent chuckle. "From a strategic perspective, it is a perfectly valid, high-efficiency defense. Honestly, watching him hide his phalanx behind those mossy roots reminds me exactly of our third-year deployment to the ancient Thaliana Temple ruins.

Once our squad successfully collected that forbidden elemental Grimoire from the altar vault, we didn't waste our energy fighting the regional guardian packs; we just marched down to the western beach, hid our tracks under the cliffs, and sat in the shade drinking cold fruit juice for an entire week until the high-tier temple search teams completely gave up and moved on to the next sector."

The old proctor laughed softly at the shared military memory, his gaze drifting momentarily toward the heavy, iron-bound history manuals lining the cottage walls.

Their world possessed an exceptionally rich, volatile history of magic, a legacy that ran parallel to the ever-present, terrifying threat of the wild magical beasts that dominated the untamed frontier lands. As the centuries had passed and human cultures had slowly shifted across the continent, the naturally gifted, magically adept elites of the ancient eras had systematically gathered into their own isolated, hyper-wealthy enclaves.

In doing so, they had callously abandoned vast, low-income portions of the global human population, leaving the common workers to rely entirely on developing crude mechanical technology just to survive the daily horrors of the wilderness.

When those unprotected commoner communities were inevitably eliminated during major monster migrations, the ancient magical societies hadn't lifted a single finger to prevent the catastrophic disasters.

That bloody segment of history was always heavily glossed over and scrubbed from the modern academy textbooks, routinely described by state historians as a tragic "failure of allied diplomatic nations" rather than what it truly was—a coordinated pact of powerful magic users banding together to protect their own private hunting preserves and rare alchemical reagents to the absolute exclusion of the working class.

The only reason a civilization like the Golden Dragon Nation existed today was because a handful of powerful, pragmatic magic users had chosen to break away from those selfish enclaves, embedding themselves directly within the human military infrastructure to protect the citizens while the foundries and factories developed enough industrial technology to let humanity finally stand on its own two feet.

Down within the suffocating moisture of the swamp grid, Ren Barrett was completely unaware of the proctors' historical reflections.

He was currently leading his nine-man defensive squad silently through the southern quadrant of the fen, his newly broadened shoulders pressing against the rough bark of a giant cypress tree as they navigated the shallow edges of the marsh.

Vesper waded right beside him, her face caked in dry mud as she carefully maintained the thin, continuous flow of blue Mana from her focus wand, keeping the massive, lopsided cloud of artificial fog perfectly stabilized to their north.

Through their shared telepathic connection, Ren could feel Grim’s hyper-focused, nocturnal senses tracking every single vibration rolling across the northern ridge. The four surviving members of the offensive team were currently wading deeper into the center of the empty fog bank. It was a remarkably well-balanced, lethal unit of survivors—comprising two second-year offensive warrior leaders who commanded high-velocity ranged skills, and two disciplined first-year student casting mages.

However, despite their advanced combat ranks, the attackers were heavily outnumbered by Team Five's compressed iron phalanx, and they couldn't afford the tactical risk of being caught from behind if they accidentally miscalculated a lane and missed a hidden defender in the dark.

"They have officially shifted their movement vectors,"

one of the offensive warrior leaders whispered through the mist, his boots splashing wetly as he brought his group to a halt near the empty camouflage blanket of vines. He raised a glowing silver focus ring, tracking the immediate radius. "My sensory skill is active, and I don't detect a single biological life force signature in this sector larger than a native marsh bird. The grid is completely dead."

"If your tracking skill says the water is empty, then we can keep moving forward," the second leader replied, his jaw tightening as he looked around the silent, croaking swamp.