The dust swept around like a whirlwind, tickling the noses of the students who were running as the gleaming light dissolved into thin air. The students stilled, their breath caught between curiosity and unease. All eyes turned to the person standing at the centre, his presence as immovable as the ancient stone.
Kian's voice came, not as a sound but as the edge of a knife that was drawn across the stone.
"I request Erik as my sparring partner."
The words hung, frigid, in the golden light of afternoon. A winter's breath in the heart of summer
Murmurs slithered through the crowd as Erik stood. There was no haste in him, no hesitation—only the deliberate, almost ritualistic manner of a man who had long ceased to be surprised. He drew the wooden sword from its shaft, a gesture of mockery to the opponent.
"Is that the so-called knight?" A boy not far from the weapons rack opened his mouth, his hand folded to his chest. "Looks like a stablehand who stole a sword for me."
Erik's eyes were glazed, not the tiredness from a sleepless night. A gaze who speaks louder than words.
One of the girl's fingers spasmed beneath her robe. She remembered The Ballad of The Knight, a book that she read as a kid. Reminding one of the illustration that was drawn within.
The words flew like a crying wind, Erik didn't bat an eye.
Kian's brow furrowed, sharp as a honed blade. "....Pick up your weapon," he commanded, the chill in his voice was enough to draw blood. "I will wait for you."
The answer that he got was a mere silence that cut deeper than words. The tip of the sword dipped, grazing on dirt—not in surrender, but in contempt.
He knew of the stories—the ballad of the knight who stood unwavering against the storm as their blades raised in noble defiance. And this is not that; it was a fool who stood, making a grave marker.
The sword hangs as its tip kisses the dirt like an afterthought.
"Are you making a fool of me?" Kian's voice was like a guillotine blade.
No answer, only a distant voice of rustling leaves can be heard.
The professor's hand fell. Runes flared crimson in the air, their sigils etching themself to reality—faster than thought. Arrows of flames bloomed like a vengeful sunrise, their tails stretching to the skies, leaving threads behind with their searing sound. A spell that was intended to end the fight before it began—elegant, efficient, perfect.
Erik's eyes were hollow, void of anything that had already happened in front of him. Not in fear, but an eye that was tired of witnessing the world.
A feeling of unease crawled up his skin. The opponent stepped sideways. Not a dodge, not a retreat. Just—a shift. The barest tilt of his weight, the slightest turn of his wrist. Close enough to singe his sleeve, yet no amber touches him.
Kian caught his breath, his eyes dilated as he witnessed the scene.
Something is wrong.
The earth did not merely burn—it unraveled, its surface peeling back like charred flesh beneath the lash of magic. The air itself trembled, each stroke vibrant with gleaming light—beauty, as though the caster itself were trying to create a masterpiece within thin air.
Rune spills from Kian's wand, not as incantations, but as a wound. Each stroke is a violation of the natural law. The spells searing through the air, making a deafening sound of shattering reality as though the world itself were screaming in agony.
The runes ignited, a bluish imitation of daylight, as the wall of ice surged forth. Not as a barrier, but as a monument—a jagged, glistening tombstone erected in Erik's path. Yet it's not enough to stop him.
Erik ran, not with desperation of a cornered animal, but with inevitability of a blade already mid-fall.
And when it struck—
The ice shattered, not as frozen water shatters, but as a concept. The magic tore like parchment, dissolving into a mere whisper of words.
"Haha,..."
From the sidelines, Edna laughed.
It was a dry sound, brittle as dead leaves. Not amusement, not relief, but recognition.
"Is that your concept of holding back?" The question escaped from her mouth, yet it was not to be answered.
The spells unfurled like ribbons of liquid light, each incantation is a stanza of a poem that is too beautiful to be lethal. The caster wove the threads, curling the projectile in harmony. A show of wits, pride of the mage.
And Erik?
He moved as though the world itself whispered a secret to his ears.
Flames arched towards him in an elegant, murderous curve. ice bloomed, freezing petals that froze anyone who touched. Yet, he stepped through the chaos like a man strolling through the garden as his sword trailed idle arcs in the air. A tilt, a mere shift. As if the spell itself were afraid of something ancient.
Erik wasn't fighting, he was conducting. And the universe, obliging as always, played along with the current.
He is running, closing the gap in between as though a predator stalking its prey. His eyes were hollow this entire time, staring into nothingness as he fought.
Kian's knuckle turned white with his grip on the wand tightened as Erik approached with steady movement. A single bead of sweat traced the path of fleeing sinner down his spine—chilling, not as a breeze but like a winter breath.
The wand rose, its tip birthing a cold blue star. The light caught Erik's advancing shadow, painting the surroundings with the ghost of what might have been a barrier.
Then—the wooden sword grazes the spell.
Not a strike, not a parry. But a sigh against blinking candleflame as the magic unravelled like a thread. Its blue light dissolving into notes that hung in empty air. Kian ground his teeth, his lips shaped words that tasted of copper.
"Impossible."
The spell lay between them—forgotten as if the universe lost its interest.
The bystander were silenced as the unimaginable spectacle happened in front of their eyes.
The wind surged, covering Kian's body as Erik's sword came down from below, a low horizontal cut that seemed to diverge reality. The wooden sword bounced in recoil as he stepped back.
From within, a gleaming light can be seen. The runes curled like a serpent, twisting into an ominous circle above them.
The incantation began, and Kian's words came into reality as he wielded his wand. his eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was bleeding.
"I summon thee, mightiest of waves."
The air was trembling into static as the dark clouds swirled.
"Foes shall perish, flood shall break."
Droplets are pouring down, laced with lightning that hurls the ground.
"Now the storm shall be—stone to dust."
Rain froze mid—fall, lightning coiled mid—strike. The student murmurs, creating disharmony as fear crept through their body.
"You must be joking,...."
Her voice faded in disbelief, she looked straight at the formation as though looking at the personification of horror itself.
Edna's smile collapsed as she realised this spell, a magic akin to disaster. This isn't spell, it's the world remembering how to scream.
The professor didn't stop it as his priority is the safety of the students present. Covering the students with solitude defence as he witnessed the Magic Tower heir's magic.
"Shield up! Form a barrier of your own!" The professor's voice cracked like a whip, lunged into the ground. Some were in awe, some were terrified of what would happen, cowering beneath the professor's barrier.
Edna's hand trembled, her knuckle white as she held her staff. Trying to prevent the veil from coming down. The earth cracked as she tried to think a way to stop it.
Yet, Erik stood there—aloof, his grip on the wooden sword tightened.
"...You crossed the lines," he said, his voice hoarse—cold, cutting through the tension.
He raised his sword in front of his eyes as he looked straight into Kian's. The trembling air has vanished into nothingness.
Edna's pupil dilated as she witnessed it. The mana in the air was trembling far greater than when Kian invoked the incantation. She shifted her gaze, not to Kian, but to the person in the middle of the mana gale. He stood still, jagged like a massive wall that was prepared to face the disaster. A fairy tale knight who manifested into reality itself.
He deliberately raised his sword above his head as the storm imploded. Swallowing its own violence in a single, deafening crunch of pressure.
The air around Erik was still, as if the world itself forgot how to breathe. His hand down, not in a swing, but in severance. A single deliberate motion, like a surgeon's knife parting flesh from bone.
"Armageddon," a whisper escaped from Erik's mouth.
And then—it happens.
A soundless rip. A wound in the fabric of reality.
The air curdles like spoiled milk, the vibrant hum of the spell choking into nothingness as the deafening silence blasted from the core. Light bends wrong, not dimming, but unravelling as if the sword itself has found its loose threads.
The rain vanishing, the thunder dissolved into something unbeknownst. The ground does not crack. It forgets how to be solid. The stone turned to fog beneath his feet. Trees, once alive with druidic whispers, now stand as hollow puppets. Their essence erased as the leaves crumbled to dust mid—fall.
Kian's body limped to the ground, he lost consciousness.
Erik stepped forward. Where his foot lands, the world doesn't protest. its ceases.
This is not destruction.
This is uncreation.
A silence so absolute it hurts.
And then—the aftermath. A disaster worse than disaster itself. A wasteland where magic once lived. A scar where reality used to be.
The wooden sword crumbled in Erik's hand as he walked away, and the winds carried its charcoal scent.
Edna hastened her step, looking at Erik with weary eyes, "Erik, are you—"
"Look after him, bring him to the infirmary," Erik's words cut her worry as he shifted her focus to someone else.
"I am fine," it was a lie. His lips curled as blood streamed down beneath. He walked away as his figure faded beneath the dusty atmosphere.