Wayne Zhang sorted through the list three times, repeatedly checking for any combinations that might spark a serious conflict.
Harry versus Malfoy—no.
Putting those two together for the first session would be too volatile.
He’d save that for later.
Fred versus George—entertaining, but not educational.
Skip.
Hermione versus Pansy Parkinson—Hermione would win, but Parkinson would likely throw a tantrum afterward.
Not for now.
Neville versus—Wayne hesitated.
What kind of opponent should he give Neville?
Someone too strong would crush his confidence, but a victory over someone too weak wouldn’t give him any sense of accomplishment.
“Pair him with a second-year Hufflepuff,” Artoria said, walking over to glance at the list.
“Hannah Abbott.
Her magical proficiency is above average, and she has a gentle temperament.
She won’t press the attack if her opponent falls.”
Wayne looked at her.
“When did you study Hannah Abbott’s personality?”
“I observed her during physical training.
Whenever a classmate tripped while running, she would stop to help them up, even if it hurt her own time,” Artoria paused.
“Such a person would not last long on a battlefield, but she makes for the best training partner in a practice setting.”
“Your evaluation criteria are certainly unique.”
“Practical.”
Wayne placed Neville and Hannah in the third slot.
He carefully considered the remaining matchups.
Fred versus a fifth-year Ravenclaw—give Ravenclaw a bit of a challenge.
George versus a fourth-year Slytherin—a cross-house clash.
Harry versus a second-year Ravenclaw—let Harry warm up without too much pressure.
Ron versus Blaise Zabini.
Wayne had thought about this pairing for a long time.
Facing a Slytherin would cause Ron’s emotions to fluctuate.
However, Zabini wasn’t the type to intentionally provoke others like Malfoy; he was more of a loner within Slytherin.
This duel would test whether Ron could maintain his composure when facing a Slytherin who wasn’t actively hostile.
As for Hermione—Wayne finally decided not to let her participate in the first round.
“Why?” Artoria asked.
“Hermione’s weakness in actual combat is too obvious.
Her casting speed is slow.
If she were to be defeated quickly in public, it would be a severe blow to her self-esteem.
I want her to observe a round first, see how others fight, and then join next time.”
“She won’t agree to that.”
“She will,” Wayne said.
“I’ll make her the official recorder for the first session—tasked with documenting the spells used in every duel, the number of offensive and defensive exchanges, and the reasons for victory or defeat.
No one is better suited for that than her.”
“Using data analysis as a substitute for participation.”
“For Hermione, analysis is more valuable than participation.
Once she has a clear view of everyone’s combat patterns, she’ll know exactly where every opponent’s weakness lies when she steps onto the stage next time.”
Artoria considered this for a moment.
“You are grooming her to be a tactical analyst.”
“Hermione Granger was always the most qualified person in Hogwarts to be a tactical analyst,” Wayne said.
“Her brain is a high-speed information processing machine.
Sending her to the front lines for a head-on confrontation is a waste.
Having her analyze data and formulate strategies from the rear is where she truly belongs.”
“In the Holy Grail War, that role is called—”
“A Master,” Wayne finished the sentence.
“Yes.
If Hermione were in the Nasuverse, she would make an excellent Master.”
Artoria looked at him, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly.
“Better than you?”
“…I decline to answer that question.”
On Friday night, Wayne went to the Great Hall to inspect the venue.
The house-elves had already cleared the tables and chairs according to his instructions.
In the center, they had constructed a rectangular dueling platform—wooden flooring raised half a meter off the ground, surrounded by low barriers.
Non-slip mats were laid across the surface.
At the four corners of the platform stood pillars hung with magical lanterns to provide illumination.
At either end of the dueling platform was a starting zone marked with white lines.
Duelists would start from their respective zones and move freely across the surface.
Spectator seats lined both sides below the platform.
Wayne had the elves add a transparent protective barrier in front of the seating—to prevent stray spells from hitting the audience.
“The venue is decent,” Artoria said, walking a lap around the platform.
“But the surface is too small.”
“How so?”
“If both duelists utilize movement tactics, this area isn’t enough for them to maneuver.” She measured it with her strides.
“It’s roughly eight meters by four.
It needs to be at least ten meters by six.”
“Then we need a bigger platform.”
“Or no platform at all.
Simply mark the dueling area with lines directly on the floor.”
Wayne thought it over.
The benefit of a platform was the height difference, allowing the audience to see clearly.
But Artoria was right—a small area would limit the students’ performance.
“A compromise then,” Wayne said.
“Dismantle the platform and draw a ten-by-six meter area on the floor.
Then, raise the spectator stands by a level—let the audience watch from the steps.”
“That works.”
Wayne called the house-elves to rearrange the set.
They were incredibly efficient, completing the modifications within half an hour.
The dueling area was now marked by bands of golden light, and the floor inside had been treated to be both non-slip and slightly elastic.
“Tomorrow at two o’clock.” Wayne stood in the empty Great Hall, looking around.
The Dueling Club.
Since he had traveled to this world, this was the first time he had actively created a major event that didn’t exist in the original story.
All his previous actions—the mirrors, the roosters, Ginny’s social network—had been defensive, meant to mitigate known disasters.
But the Dueling Club was different.
This was offensive.
He was training an army.
Even if the members of this “army” were a group of children aged twelve to seventeen, even if their weapons were sticks made of wood and their enemy was a serpent they didn’t yet know existed.
Wayne knew—when the Chamber of Secrets truly opened, whether these children could protect themselves depended on how much he taught them now.
“You’re spacing out,” Artoria’s voice came from beside him.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About what happens if all the plans fail.”
Artoria was silent for two seconds.
“Then we use the most primitive method,” she said.
“Which is?”
“I go and kill the snake.”
Wayne looked at her.
Her tone was as casual as if she were saying, “I’m going to grab a bite to eat.”
But Wayne knew she was serious.
If all the preventative measures failed—if the mirrors were useless, the roosters didn’t make it in time, and the pipe maps were wrong—Artoria would face the Basilisk head-on.
With her body.
With her swordsmanship.
With everything she was as the King of Britain.
“The Basilisk’s gaze kills anyone who looks at it,” Wayne reminded her.
“Then I shall fight with my eyes closed.”
“…Are you serious?”
“In the Holy Grail War, a third of my battle against Berserker was fought with limited visibility.
Fighting blind is not ideal, but it can be done.”
Wayne imagined it.
The King of Knights fighting a giant serpent with her eyes shut.
The image sounded insane.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Wayne said.
“I hope not either,” Artoria agreed.
“But if it does—”
“I know,” Wayne said.
“You’ll be standing at the very front.”
“Not just me.”
Wayne looked at her.
“You will be too,” Artoria said.
“You have always stood at the front.
It’s just that your position isn’t on the battlefield; it’s behind it.
Your way of fighting isn’t swinging a sword; it’s the plan.”
She paused.
“This is your strength.
It is also your weakness.”
“Weakness?”
“You are always alone behind the lines, planning everything.
If the plan fails, you have no path of retreat.”
Wayne fell silent.
“That is why you need me,” Artoria said.
“You need someone to stand in front of you and block everything.
And I need someone to stand behind me and see the whole picture.”
She looked at him.
“That is the meaning of being partners.”
Wayne looked into her eyes.
They were green—no, that wasn’t right.
Artoria’s eyes were emerald.
Under the light of the Great Hall’s magical lanterns, those eyes were calm and resolute.
“Alright,” Wayne said.
“Partners.”
Artoria nodded.
Then she turned toward the doors.
“Let’s head back.
We have an early start tomorrow.”
“Wait a moment,” Wayne called out to her.
“For the Dueling Club tomorrow, is there anything you need to pay special attention to as the referee?”
Artoria stopped and thought for a moment.
“If someone cheats, I will disqualify them immediately.”
“How do you define cheating?”
“Attacking before the referee signals the start.
Using spells outside the permitted rules.
Continuing to attack an opponent who has already fallen.”
“Anything else?”
“Lying in front of the referee.”
“How will you judge that last one?”
“I can tell.”
Wayne didn’t doubt that.
After spending so many years in the court of Camelot, Artoria’s ability to discern lies had likely been honed into an instinct.
“Good,” Wayne said.
“Then that’s that.
See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Artoria left.
Wayne stood alone in the empty Great Hall.
Tomorrow.
The first day of the Dueling Club.
He hoped everything would go smoothly.
But he was also prepared for things to go wrong.
In Hogwarts, the phrase “everything goes smoothly” was never something you could rely on.