Ultimate Dragon System: Grinding my way to the Top-Chapter 207: Emergency assembly

The next day, an emergency assembly was called, and every student gathered in the hall. The General stood atop the stage, facing the entire school. He raised a hand, signaling for silence.

"I need to correct what I said yesterday," he began, his voice firm and commanding. "And I will also explain what is truly going on."

A quiet tension spread through the crowd.

"There are three classes in this academy—Class 1, Class 2, and Class 3. The upcoming tournament is not just any competition. It is meant to determine which academy possesses the strongest students in each class."

Murmurs rippled through the hall.

"Each academy will send representatives—four from each class," the General continued. He paused briefly, letting the correction settle.

"To choose these representatives, we will hold a league-style tournament within the school. Only the best of the best will be selected. This is not just about individual strength—it is about the pride of this academy. The academy with the most victories will earn the greatest respect."

The atmosphere grew heavier, more serious.

"Now, your homeroom teachers already know who the strongest students are," he said. "They will handpick candidates. Those selected will then fight among themselves to claim a spot as official representatives of their class."

Some students exchanged glances—relieved they might not be chosen, while others burned with anticipation.

"This method ensures efficiency," the General added. "If everyone were allowed to fight freely, we would not have enough time."

The General let that hang in the air a moment longer than necessary. Around the hall, the weight of it settled differently on different shoulders. Some students exhaled. Others went still.

Jelo noticed both.

He had learned to read rooms the way Tongen had trained him to read opponents—not just what was visible, but what was being hidden. The boy two rows ahead who straightened his spine just slightly. The girl near the far wall whose jaw tightened. The ones who tried too hard to look unbothered.

Those were the ones who cared.

As the speech continued, Jelo stood quietly among the crowd, his eyes scanning the sea of students. He searched for one person—Atlas.

He wanted to see his reaction.

It didn’t take long to find him. Atlas stood near the left edge of the assembly, arms folded, chin lifted. He wasn’t scanning the room like Jelo was. He was already watching the stage with the kind of focus that didn’t flicker—steady, locked in, like the announcement had flipped a switch inside him that was now running at full current.

No hesitation. No uncertainty.

Just hunger.

Jelo watched him for a moment longer than he meant to. There was something almost unnerving about it—not the intensity itself, but how clean it was. Atlas didn’t seem to be wrestling with anything. He wasn’t calculating odds or sizing up the room. He had already decided. Whatever the format, whatever the selection process, Atlas had already placed himself among the four.

He simply hadn’t been told yet.

Jelo looked away before Atlas could catch him staring.

The General was still speaking. He described the format in broader strokes—the candidates, the internal matches, the timeline. Jelo caught fragments, but his mind was pulling in two directions at once. Part of him was listening. The other part was doing something quieter.

Running the numbers.

Four spots per class. Homeroom teachers handpicking candidates. That meant Olmo—Class 1’s master—would be the one making that call. It wasn’t an open field. It was a filter.

And filters cut both ways.

Some of the students standing around Jelo right now would never get the chance to prove themselves. Not because they weren’t capable—but because their name simply wouldn’t be called. The selection would happen behind closed doors, and then it would be done. Final. Immovable. The kind of decision that didn’t leave a crack for anyone to squeeze through afterward.

No appeal. No second chance through the crowd.

Jelo’s gaze drifted back across the hall. He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular now—just watching. The assembly had pulled back a curtain that most students hadn’t realized was there. Before today, the tournament had felt like something distant. A rumor with structure. Now it had weight. A shape. Dates that would arrive whether anyone was ready or not.

He could feel it in the air—that particular stillness that settled over a crowd when something stopped being theoretical. When the gap between possibility and reality finally closed and left no room for pretending otherwise.

Students around him were already processing it in real time. A few had gone quiet, retreating inward. Others leaned toward their neighbors, voices low, trading impressions before the assembly was even over. The ones who hadn’t moved—who were still standing with their arms at their sides, staring at the stage even after the General had already begun wrapping up—those were the ones Jelo paid closest attention to.

Still water ran the deepest. Tongen had said that once. Jelo hadn’t forgotten it.

A student nearby whispered something to a friend. Jelo didn’t catch the words, but the tone was easy to read. Excitement edged with nerves. The kind of feeling you got when something real was finally starting.

He understood it. He just couldn’t share it the same way.

Mira was somewhere in the crowd too. He hadn’t spotted her yet, but he could guess what her face looked like—brow slightly drawn, eyes quiet and tracking, already building a model of what this meant and what it would cost. That was how she processed things. Not with Atlas’s immediate resolve, but with something slower and more careful. She would want more information before she committed to an expression.

Jelo respected that more than he usually let on.

The General’s voice rose slightly as he moved toward the close of his address. Something about timelines. Something about preparation. The words sharpened back into focus.

"—and I expect every student in this hall to take this seriously. Whether you are selected or not, your conduct reflects this academy."

A beat.

"Dismissed."

The hall exhaled.

Movement broke across the crowd immediately—students turning to each other, voices rising, the tension fracturing into a dozen smaller conversations at once. Jelo stayed where he was for a moment, letting the flow move around him. Bodies pushed past in every direction. The noise climbed fast—overlapping voices, scraping footsteps, the low rumble of a crowd that had just been handed something significant and was still deciding what to do with it.

He didn’t move yet. There was something he wanted to hold onto—the last few seconds before it all became motion and noise and obligation. Before the tournament stopped being an announcement and started being something he had to actually reckon with.

But the crowd didn’t wait.

Across the hall, Atlas was already cutting through the dispersing students with his chin up and his path decided, as though the assembly had been a formality and the real work had already begun.

Jelo watched him go.

At first, they had all assumed the matches would be decided directly by their masters—that opponents would simply be assigned. But this... this was different.

This meant only the strongest would even get a chance to fight.

And that made everything far more intense.