Summoned a Hero But Got a Villain Instead-Chapter 100: The Draw Is Rigged

The day finally came.

The pale, grey light of dawn filtered into their rooms—a quiet, unwelcome messenger announcing that their month of preparation was over.

The air in their building was still and heavy, thick with silent, nervous energy.

Dante stood before a mirror, adjusting the collar of the simple, black combat uniform he’d bought. His face was a calm, unreadable mask. Behind that mask, his mind was a storm of calculation, his new, god-like powers a quiet, humming engine waiting to be unleashed.

He walked out into the common room.

The others were already there—a silent, grim assembly of warriors. They weren’t the same people who’d stumbled out of the trial. Their eyes were hard, their bodies were honed, their spirits forged in the fires of a desperate, unifying purpose.

"Now," Dante said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the morning quiet. "It’s our time to shine."

Masha, who was leaning against the wall, her Grimoire of Hoarfrost held loosely in her hand, looked at him. Her expression was serious, her intelligent eyes full of a strategist’s concern.

"Your fight with that hero, Lucaris, is inevitable," she said. "So, do you know anything about his blessing? Or even his skills?"

"No one was telling me," Dante replied, his voice flat. A simple statement of fact. "And I wasn’t allowed outside. The headmaster put us under very hard surveillance."

He paused. A flicker of a memory of a quiet, informative guard passed through his mind.

"But from a guard," he continued, "he just told me that he’s a brute combatant. So it could be related to that."

He shrugged—a gesture of complete, utterly terrifying confidence.

"Besides, why should I care? I know I’ll win."

His words weren’t a boast. They were a simple, unshakeable statement of reality.

And the effect on the team was electric.

Masha’s serious expression softened, replaced by a small, confident smile. "Then I will too," she said, her voice a quiet, firm promise.

Lana, who’d been bouncing on the balls of her feet, her amethyst eyes sparkling with manic, hungry light, let out a low, happy laugh.

"Don’t leave me out of the fun!" she purred. "I’ve been waiting a month to break something beautiful. I hope my opponent is pretty."

"I will not lose," Erica declared, her voice ringing with fierce, unwavering devotion. Her hands, held at her sides, were already beginning to glow with faint, contained heat. "I will win. For you."

Talia, who stood at Jin’s side, simply placed her hand on his arm. He looked down at her, and a silent, perfect understanding passed between them.

He turned his gaze back to Dante, his face a mask of stoic, unbreakable resolve.

"We are ready," he said.

They were prepared.

---

An hour later, a group of academy guards, their armor polished to a mirror shine, arrived to escort them.

They walked through the academy grounds in silent, disciplined formation. The usual cheerful chatter of students was gone. The paths were lined with silent, watching crowds, their faces a mixture of awe, fear, and hungry, excited curiosity.

They were led to the grand arena—a massive, circular structure of white stone and glowing crystals that could hold tens of thousands of spectators.

They stood at the main entrance, a vast, arched gateway that led onto the sandy floor of the arena.

A guard, his face a mask of professional courtesy, approached them.

"The leaders are waiting," he said. "Please, make your way to the podium side."

They walked out into the full, bright light of the arena.

The stands were packed—a roaring sea of faces and colors. In the royal box, the six great leaders of the world sat like gods on their thrones, their expressions unreadable.

They stood in a line on one side of the stage.

Then, from an entrance on the opposite side, their opponents began to emerge.

The first was a mountain of muscle and fury. He was a broad-shouldered man with a thick, black beard, his face a mask of pure, brutish aggression. He carried a massive, double-headed battle axe that looked like it could cleave a man in two.

This was Eryndor Blackmoor, the champion of Valmere.

The second was a man who seemed to be carved from light itself. He was handsome, with golden hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. He wore shining silver plate armor and carried a simple, elegant longsword that seemed to hum with holy energy.

This was Kaelen Veythorn, the champion of Eldoria.

The third was a vision of impossible, deadly beauty. She was an elf, with long, silver hair and eyes the color of a twilight forest. She moved with silent, fluid grace, a beautiful, ornate bow held loosely in her hand. It had no string.

This was Serenya, the champion of the Elven Kingdom.

The fourth was a nightmare of aristocratic elegance. He was a vampire, with pale skin, sharp features, and eyes the color of old blood. He wore a high-collared black coat and carried a thick, leather-bound book that seemed to pulse with dark, crimson light.

This was Valen, the champion of Nocthra.

The fifth was a picture of calm, disciplined competence. He was a man of average height and build, with short, brown hair and a steady, focused gaze. He carried a simple spear and a round, steel shield.

He was Arden Blackwell, the champion of Kaelthorn.

And then the final champion emerged.

Dante had expected an old man, a warrior in the winter of his years.

He’d been wrong.

Lucaris was a legend, and he looked it. He was easily over six feet tall, his body a terrifying landscape of corded muscle and old, white scars. He was in his late sixties, his hair and beard a mane of pure, snow-white, but his eyes were the sharp, clear, utterly merciless blue of a glacier.

He wore a simple, functional suit of dark, hardened steel armor and carried a massive, two-handed warhammer that seemed to weigh as much as a small horse.

He wasn’t a king. He wasn’t a general.

He was a warrior—a pure, simple, utterly terrifying instrument of death.

"I thought he’d be too old to stand," Dante murmured to himself, a flicker of genuine, analytical interest in his eyes. "But look. He’s muscular, even at the age of seventy."

The six champions stood in a line opposite them—a wall of power, experience, and absolute confidence.

The announcer from their first meeting stepped forward, his voice magically amplified to fill the vast arena.

"Let the duels begin!" he boomed. "As is tradition, the matchups will be decided by a sacred, random draw!"

He held up a large, ornate, golden bowl. Inside were twelve small, rolled-up pieces of parchment, each tied with a silk ribbon. Six were red, for the champions. Six were blue, for the heroes.

"A neutral party will draw one of each color," he explained. "The two names drawn will face each other in the first duel!"

A young, nervous-looking academy student was brought forward. He bowed to the leaders, then to the two teams. With a trembling hand, he reached into the bowl.

Dante watched, a slow, cold smile touching his lips.

It was a beautiful performance. The nervous student, the identical scrolls, the illusion of chance. It was all a perfectly constructed lie.

He could feel it in the air—the faint, almost imperceptible hum of manipulative magic.

The draw was rigged.

The student pulled out a blue scroll and a red one. He handed them to the announcer, who unrolled them with a dramatic flourish.

"The first duel!" he declared. "From the heroes, the mistress of ice, Masha! She will face the champion chosen by Arch-Sage Elira of Kaelthorn, the master of the winds, Arden Blackwell!"

Masha stepped forward, a look of cold, analytical determination on her face. Arden gave her a respectful, warrior’s nod.

The student drew again.

"The second duel! From the heroes, the swordsman of righteous fury, Jin! His opponent, chosen by King Valtheris of the Vampire Kingdom, is the lord of blood, Valen!"

Jin’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. His gaze locked with the vampire’s cold, crimson eyes.

The draw continued. Each pairing was a perfect, cruel, completely unsurprising piece of theater.

"The third duel! The phantom of the blade, Talia, will face the champion of Queen Elyndra and the Elven Kingdom, the starlight archer, Serenya!"

"The fourth duel! The beautiful storm, Lana, will battle the champion of King Adrian of Valmere, the berserker of the south, Eryndor Blackmoor!"

"The fifth duel! The valkyrie of flame, Erica, is matched against the champion of the Merchant Republic of Eldoria, the radiant knight, Kaelen Veythorn!"

And then there were only two names left.

The announcer unrolled the final two scrolls. His voice rang with fake, dramatic tension.

"And for our final, main event! The leader of the heroes, Dante! He will face the champion of Lord Rowan and the Northern Kingdom of Thalric, the living legend, the hero of the 46th Trial, Lucaris Thalric!"

The crowd roared.

The stage was set. The duels were decided.

And Dante looked across the sandy arena at the old, powerful warrior who’d been chosen to be his executioner.

The game was about to begin.