Surviving the Magic Academy With Just Intelligence Stats-Chapter 80: Mid-Level Boss

The Academy Arena

The grand Crono Academy arena sprawled like a colosseum of old, its white marble columns and enchanted reinforced walls rising majestically against the afternoon sky. Students flooded through the numerous arched entrances, their excited chatter creating a symphony of anticipation that echoed across the massive stone structure. The tiered seating areas filled rapidly as spectators jostled for the best views, colorful academy uniforms dotting the stands like wildflowers in a meadow.

Even seniors from the upper years had abandoned their usual aloofness to witness today’s proceedings, their presence lending an air of unusual significance to the event. The arena floor, typically pristine white sand enchanted to absorb impacts and blood alike, gleamed under the afternoon sun as if freshly raked for the occasion.

In a small clearing near the eastern entrance, Hualing, Marcus, and Ambrose stood apart from the crowd, isolated not by physical distance but by the invisible barrier of reputation and fear. Students cast furtive glances in their direction, conversations hushing momentarily whenever the trio moved, only to resume with increased fervor once they passed.

Marcus surveyed the scene with measured calm, his sharp eyes cataloging each whispered exchange, each pointed finger. The weight of countless stares pressed against his consciousness like a physical force.

I wanted to maintain a low profile until I’d accumulated enough power, he thought, absently adjusting the training sword at his hip. But it seems that option is no longer available to me.

He glanced sideways at Ambrose, who stood with the quiet dignity that seemed inherent to those born into the Rothschild lineage, regardless of their actual combat capabilities.

It’s not all bad, though, Marcus continued his internal assessment. At this point in my previous life, I was still struggling with basic sword forms. Now...

A small smile curved his lips as he noted a cluster of senior students hovering at the arena’s edge, their predatory gazes scanning the crowd for easy targets. In his first life, those same seniors would have descended upon new students like vultures, establishing dominance through intimidation and occasionally force. He could see similar scenes playing out across the arena—freshmen cornered, shoulders hunched in defensive postures.

Yet here they stood, untouched. The seniors’ gazes slid past their group like water around stones, seeking easier prey. The unspoken acknowledgment of their status—or perhaps their danger—provided a shield more effective than any magical barrier.

As Marcus watched the familiar pattern of senior intimidation with a mixture of pity and detachment, a flash of red hair caught his peripheral vision. Turning slightly, he spotted Adelaide and Meihua on the far side of the arena floor, their path blocked by a group of male students whose aggressive stances spoke volumes about their intentions.

…

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through Crono Academy’s arena walls, the golden light catching dust motes that danced through the air. Adelaide and Meihua were walking together to reunite with the rest of the group when they encountered some unwanted company.

"Well, if it isn’t Maximilian’s daughter and her little friend. How about joining us for some... private tutoring?" A tall senior blocked their path, his Crono Academy badge gleaming with the three stripes that marked third-year students. Three more seniors flanked him, effectively cutting off any escape route.

Meihua’s eyes narrowed slightly, her Calculation talent already running probabilities, her mind processing countless scenarios with mechanical precision. Adelaide maintained her merchant’s smile, though her hand tightened on her bookstrap, knuckles whitening slightly with controlled tension.

"We appreciate the offer, senior, but we have prior commitments," Adelaide replied with practiced politeness, her voice steady despite the situation, carrying the polished tone she’d perfected through countless business negotiations at her father’s side.

"Oh? Playing hard to get? Your family’s not exactly in a position to be picky anymore, Brightwell." Another senior stepped closer, mock concern dripping from his voice as he invaded her personal space with deliberate slowness. "Haven’t you heard? Your father’s gone missing. The Golden Compass Trading Company is practically celebrating."

Adelaide’s smile didn’t waver, but something cold flickered in her eyes—a momentary glimpse of the steel beneath her courteous exterior. "My family’s circumstances are none of your concern."

"Think of it as networking," the first senior smirked, fidgeting with a mana crystal between his fingers, the blue light pulsing slightly with his agitation. "Isn’t that what merchant families do best? Though I suppose you’re not much of a merchant anymore, are you?"

"You need to learn how to listen," a quiet voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk, "they said they’re not interested."

Marcus stood between the girls and the seniors, having crossed the arena floor with deceptive casualness. His sword rested against his shoulder. His eyes, cold and assessing, studied the seniors with the detached interest of a predator evaluating potential threats.

"Who are you?" one of the seniors spat, momentarily caught off-guard by the interruption. "This doesn’t concern you."

"That’s where you are wrong." Marcus’s voice remained level, unhurried. "This does indeed concern me." A small, cold smile played at his lips, never reaching his eyes. "After all, we are from the same party."

"Hahaha, ’we are from the same party.’" The lead senior imitated Marcus’s tone mockingly, confidence returning as he squared his shoulders. "Do you even know what a party is? Just because you formed a group with your fellow trash, don’t think that you—"

The senior never finished his sentence. Between one heartbeat and the next, Marcus had closed the distance, his movement a blur of precise efficiency. His sword now hovered a hair’s breadth from the senior’s throat, the blunted edge nonetheless carrying an unmistakable threat. The movement was so fast that only Meihua’s Calculation talent had tracked it properly, her eyes widening slightly at the display of speed. Has he gotten stronger again?

"Think that I’m what?" Marcus asked quietly, his breath barely disturbing the air between them. "Please, continue. I’m curious."

The scene fell silent, the ambient noise of the arena seeming to recede as the confrontation crystallized into a moment of suspended tension. The other seniors took involuntary steps backward, their earlier bravado evaporating like morning dew under the weight of Marcus’s cold stare.

"Is there a problem here?" A new voice joined in, measured and authoritative.

Professor Jonathan Brightfield, who taught Etiquette and Noble Customs, approached with measured steps, his immaculate attire and perfect posture embodying the very principles he instructed. His sharp eyes, missing nothing despite his advanced age, took in the scene with a single comprehensive glance—the positioned sword, the seniors’ defensive postures, the composed expressions of Adelaide and Meihua.

…

Professor Jonathan Brightfield carefully took in the situation before him, his experienced eyes methodically assessing each individual involved. His gaze lingered first on the four senior students—noting their polished boots, the quality of their uniforms, and the subtle family crests embroidered on their collars—unmistakable markers of noble lineage. Then his attention shifted to Marcus, Adelaide, and Meihua, taking in their simpler attire and the absence of noble bearing that was so ingrained it couldn’t be mimicked.

A nearly imperceptible tightening around his mouth betrayed his inner thoughts before his features arranged themselves into an expression of moral indignation. The disgust in his eyes was fleeting but unmistakable, like a shadow passing over still water.

"How dare you point a sword at a nobleman—" he began, his voice carrying the weight of entrenched prejudice before he caught himself, eyes darting to the growing crowd around them. "I mean, do you know drawing your sword on academy grounds is illegal?" he corrected, straightening his already impeccable jacket.

Marcus slowly lowered his training sword but maintained his position between the girls and the seniors, his eyes never leaving Professor Jonathan’s face. You aren’t fooling anybody.

Meihua observed the professor, her mind automatically cataloging the scene against the knowledge stored in her memory. Jonathan Brightfield—minor antagonist, chapter twelve through seventeen. Harbors pathological hatred for commoners. Always causing trouble for Marcus until he’s eventually defeated. Defects to the demon faction during the Great War, only to be off-screened. She felt an unexpected twinge of pity for the man. In the grand narrative, he was barely a footnote—not even a real character, just an NPC whose sole purpose was to create temporary obstacles.

The commotion had drawn more spectators, students forming a loose circle around the confrontation. Whispers rippled through the crowd, most expressing sympathy for the "poor commoners" who had unwittingly drawn Professor Jonathan’s notorious attention. Few nobles survived his classes without connections, and commoners? They rarely survived them at all.

On the periphery of the gathering throng, Ambrose observed the unfolding drama with analytical interest. He had noticed the situation developing earlier and had been monitoring it with the same meticulous attention he applied to all strategic matters.

"As expected of the main character," he thought, watching Marcus’s confident stance. "I just looked away for a second, and you’re already rescuing the damsel in distress." The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement at the predictability of heroic archetypes—even when the heroes themselves were unaware of their roles.

His gaze shifted to Professor Jonathan, noting the man’s thinly veiled prejudice and the calculated way he was positioning himself to maximize Marcus’s disadvantage.

"But still," Ambrose sighed internally, "you leave my side for just one second, and you’ve already aggroed a minor boss."

But seeing as his party was being bullied, he couldn’t just stand by and watch. With deliberate casualness, he began drifting with the moving crowd toward the center of the action, his mind already cycling through potential solutions.

Hualing followed at his side like a shadow, her movements fluid and precise. Yet her attention wasn’t on the confrontation at all—her eyes remained fixed on Ambrose, studying the subtle shifts in his expression with devoted intensity.

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"As expected of the master," she thought admiringly. "Even in such a huge crowd, he’s so calm and collected. As expected, he only cares about me." Her heart swelled with pride and possessiveness.

"Wait, wait, wait," Minghua’s voice echoed within their shared consciousness, exasperation evident in her tone. "How did you even come to that conclusion?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" Hualing responded mentally, her inner voice carrying absolute conviction.

Minghua’s presence within their shared mindscape seemed to slump in defeat. "You’re too far gone. You can’t be saved."