Bond Master

The Iron Phalanx (3)

The giant shield-warriors let out a collective, self-deprecating chuckle at the mention of the high-tier military legends. Roger cleared his throat, running his thick fingers along the rune-carved edge of his iron shield. "When we actively channel our Mana into the [Guard] skill, it projects a shimmering, translucent geometric octagon that extends roughly three meters across our immediate front perimeter.

It's solid, and it's fully capable of absorbing two or maybe three direct offensive spell hits from a first-year student mage before the structure completely shatters. But there's a heavy catch—the skill drains our physical stamina reserves exponentially while it's active. If the offensive team leaders—especially those black-badge seniors who know how to time their volleys—coordinate their fire and target a single one of us simultaneously, our stamina will get wiped out in a matter of seconds and we're completely screwed."

Ren’s eyes narrowed slightly as he synthesized the data, his foundry background instantly mapping out a structural solution. Back in the foundries, when a high-pressure steam valve fractured, you didn't have one worker try to hold the iron patch plate down alone; they would form a continuous line, bracing each other’s shoulders and rotating out the moment a man's muscles began to tremble from the heat.

"That's exactly what I figured," Ren said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "Listen to me. Have any of you ever seen the old historical gladiator archives in the district libraries? The classic triple-line formation and the interlocking turtle shell? The exact microsecond of the transport mat drops Team Five into our defensive zone, we are completely abandoning any ideas of running around or playing an open-field skirmish. We move as a single, compressed, unbroken unit. The seven of you will form a continuous, overlapping wall with your tower shields, locking the iron rims together to create a seamless perimeter.

Nobody acts alone. When an offensive caster attempts to drop a heavy, high-tier spell directly onto our front line, the specific defender in that lane will initialize his [Guard] skill to nullify the concussive impact, while the rest of you brace his back. The second his Mana shatters or his stamina begins to dip, he drops back into the center of the shell, and the next warrior slides his shield forward to take his place. We will cycle the stamina cost across a continuous seven-man rotation."

Roger’s eyes lit up with a sudden, deep respect as the tactical weight of the plan settled into his mind. He looked over at the other six giant shield-bearers, and they all nodded their heads in firm, disciplined agreement. "Bracing each other to distribute the physical impact... that actually works perfectly with our build," Roger muttered, a low grin breaking across his broad face.

"Staying packed tight inside an interlocking shell will make us incredibly difficult to flush out or break down, as long as the proctors don't drop us into a completely flat, open field."

"And that's where Vesper and I came in," Ren continued, turning his gaze toward the dark-haired mage. "The seven of them will be our fortress. You and I will act as our sole offensive battery from within the safety of the iron shell.

If any attacker is foolish enough to charge our perimeter directly to try to grab the flag, the front shields will simply open a gap for me to drive my gauntlet spikes through their line. But we need to coordinate your casting carefully, Vesper. What's the output on your magic?"

Vesper let out a heavy, anxious sigh, leaning her shoulder against her focus wand as she adjusted her ponytail. "Just keep in mind, Ren, that my [Magic Missiles] demand a massive, punishing amount of raw Mana output from my channels.

If I start spamming them into the brush blindly trying to hunt down scouts, I'll hit my metabolic limit and pass out cold on the dirt before the first ten minutes of the match are up. The [Chilling Fog], however, is significantly easier on my system; I've spent the last two nights practicing how to stabilize its flow without over-taxing my reserves."

Ren looked up toward the horizon, his silver-crimson ringed eyes sharpening as he caught a vital piece of situational logic. "Let me ask you guys something. Is there any natural mist or environmental fog where the faculty usually drops the teams for this specific simulation?"

The shield-warriors all shook their heads firmly. "No," Roger answered immediately. "The academy simulation grounds are usually completely clear grassland grids, dense forests, or muddy river bogs. Any fog out there is entirely artificial."

"Then you must absolutely save that skill until the exact microsecond we are actively engaged under direct attack," Ren instructed sharply, his voice dropping into an intense whisper. "If you initialize the spell early to try to hide our position, you will create a massive, isolated cloud of supernatural freezing fog rolling across a completely clear zone from a mile away. It will act like a giant, glowing beacon pointing the offensive team leaders straight to our flag. We cannot give away our perimeter for free. How fast does the boundary actually expand once you project the Mana?"

Vesper frowned slightly, performing some rapid mental calculations based on her private library research. "It materializes and stabilizes at a baseline rate of roughly a ten-meter radius per minute, slowing down exponentially as the Mana disperses outward into the ambient air. If we want to utilize it effectively as an architectural screen to blind their casting lines, it will require a substantial amount of defensive setup time."

Before Ren could refine their interlocking formation any further, a booming, thunderous voice echoed across the entirety of the assembly grounds. Instructor Kenneth stood straight at the center of the primary platform, his long, rune-carved indigo robes swirling violently as the complex geometric symbols drawn along the surface of the massive leather transport mat beneath his boots began to hum with a blinding, vibrant purple light. Crackles of residual distortion began snapping through the air, smelling sharply of ozone and scorched paper.

"Your two minutes of tactical preparation are officially up!" the old master mage shouted, his voice carrying a tremendous weight of localized pressure that reverberated straight through Ren's bones. "All odd and even-numbered teams, step directly into your assigned sectors on the matrix and steady your internal focus! Prepare your minds for immediate spatial transport!"