Sylvester scanned the area warily. “Doesn’t this feel off to you? Why did everyone vanish the moment we showed up?”

“They probably saw us coming and knew they had no chance,” a teammate joked.

Sylvester shook his head. “We should still check. If it’s like last time—one person hiding—they’ll say we deliberately stole their points.”

“What does that matter?” another scoffed. “They met the magic beast before us and still haven’t killed it. Is that because they didn’t want to?”

“No—because they couldn’t.”

“Since they can’t kill it and we can, the points are obviously ours.”

Prince Feiru nodded. “Andre’s right. This is a competition—we don’t need gentlemanly courtesy.”

“Even without being gentlemen, it’s worth scouting,” Sylvester pressed. “No one subdues a magic beast then suddenly disappears. They’re probably hiding somewhere—”

“Hiding to steal it from us?” Andre burst out laughing. “No one would dare steal a beast from St. Teno. You worry too much.”

The other two chimed in. “Yeah, they wouldn’t dare.”

“And it stinks up ahead. Who knows if the smell is poisonous. Let’s just finish it.”

Feiru accepted the others’ view; like Andre, he thought no one would deny the Divine College face.

The four raised their magic wands and began chanting a Light spell. Sylvester, trapped between them, could only lift his wand and join.

Prince Alfried’s influence was swelling—already reaching into St. Teno. All three of Feiru’s teammates had leaned toward Feiru to signal allegiance to Prince Alfried. Only Sylvester—little brother of the Holy Knight Commander, aligned with the Pope’s faction—was met with subtle neglect and suppression.

As the long chant neared its end, Feiru’s voice rose, the other four reduced to a chorus.

“Light incantation—”

“Beam of Truth!”

Light elements condensed; at Feiru’s trigger word a brilliant flare erupted.

Golden radiance pierced the Burrow Goat Demon’s pitch-black Shadow Phase; the dark outline turned translucent. A red, pulsing heart—hidden within the right horn—flashed into view.

“In its horn!”

“Quick—lightning magic!”

All five swung their wands and began a lightning chant. Before they could release it, a string of fireballs came pelting from beside the Burrow Goat Demon’s feet.

“Boom! Boom! Boom—”

The fireballs weren’t strong, but rapid splats at their faces were infuriating.

Their spell was forcibly broken. They stepped back—just as a crooked fireball plopped down in front of them, bursting a spray of mud. Grit splattered into their eyes.

“Damn it—who’s there!”

Andre hurled a fireball back, drew his sword, and charged—only to hit an overpowering stench a few meters in. He gagged and vomited on the spot.

One hundred fifty meters ahead, Jack shaped a small water orb, rinsed his wrist, flicked the orb toward the St. Teno squad, then ducked behind the demon, hiding his merit like it never happened.

Feiru and Sylvester, handkerchiefs over their noses, swords in single hands, sprinted for the Burrow Goat Demon.

Just as they were about to see who was tossing fireballs, a flash of steel arced overhead. A longsword whistled through the night and rammed into the demon’s beating heart.

The death point struck, the Shadow Phase shell dissipated like bubbles, the massive form vanishing in a blink; the sword clattered down.

Both froze mid‑stride, staring, incredulous, toward the direction the blade had come from.

In the dim woods, a figure dropped from a treetop and vanished into the dark.

Someone had actually dared to steal the Divine College’s points.

Too shocked, they even forgot to pursue.

How dare they, Sylvester thought. How dare they. How could anyone target St. Teno itself? Were they not afraid of the Church?

Feiru snapped back, anger flaring at being played.

“Shameless curs!” He glared at the spot where the demon had vanished and decided instantly. “The sword’s still here. The spoils are still ours.”

They would learn that no one snatches points St. Teno earned.

“Go—bring back the goat horn,” Feiru ordered.

Three teammates, swallowing nausea, rushed forward.

Sylvester glanced into the trees, a doubt stirring. That silhouette looked familiar—like…

Yes. Like her—Luo Wei.

The Princess of the Misty Plains, the one his brother praised to the skies.

The three St. Teno students reached the spot where the Burrow Goat Demon had vanished, parted the brush—and found a broad pool of black‑red viscous liquid. A towering reek slammed into their sinuses.

“Ugh—”

“Bleh—”

They collapsed, retching, as if their organs would come up.

In the grass, Jack—now a ninja‑level sneak—quietly hooked the longsword and goat horn, then wriggled away like a pale grub.

Feiru and Sylvester waited and waited—no one returned. Forced to investigate, they clamped their noses and advanced, only to find three unconscious teammates and a thick puddle of vomit.

They shut their eyes; under the double assault of stench and sight, their faces shifted green to red to purple.

At last, they couldn’t hold it.

“Bleh—!”

Feiru vomited until his limbs went weak. Before collapsing he stretched a trembling hand toward nothing, groaning, “It—it’s poison…”

“Thud—”

Sylvester clutched his churning stomach; his eyes rolled white, and he toppled.

St. Teno students lived in incense—they even had servants scent the latrines. They had never smelled anything this foul. The rank streets of Siria were their limit; this was a thousand times worse. One breath—dizziness. Two—mind swimming. Poison. Definitely a potent toxin!

They would report it—the arena had been openly poisoned.

“Ha ha ha! Did you see their faces?” Jack windmilled his arms, mimicking. “Like this— all scrunched up—so miserable—green one second, purple the next.”

“Like moldy peas—no—like black bread kneaded with gravel!”

“Black bread?” Hol felt personally attacked. He pulled a stick of black bread from his pack. “You mean this kind of black bread?”

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