Morning – Spellcraft Hall
"Today's lesson," Elfes began, voice flat as ever, "is on Applied Channeling. Also known as: Not Screaming While Your Core Burns."
He flicked a crystal into the air. It hovered mid-spin, pulsed with a low hum—like a dragon's heartbeat in a bottle.
"Channeling mana isn't about brute force," he said, pacing slowly, eyes scanning the room like a hawk at a buffet. "It's about control. Feel too much? You implode. Feel too little? Your spell fizzles like week-old soup."
He turned, golden eye gleaming with either amusement or bloodlust—hard to tell. "So. Who here can channel without crying?"
Cyan raised a hand. "Define crying."
"Weeping blood."
"Oh. Then no."
Laughter followed—some genuine, some tight with nerves. I sat in the back, absently tracing the Master's insignia on my badge. People still stared. The whispers were softer now. Quieter. But not gone.
"Focus," Elfes snapped. "Everyone will try channeling into this." With a flick of his wrist, a dozen crystals floated down to each desk. "Those who faint get a sticker. Those who explode get detention."
Cyan poked his crystal.
It sparked. Zapped him.
"I'm under attack."
"You're underprepared," Elfes said without looking. "Krell, stop trying to chew it."
"Tastes like mana," Krell muttered, disappointed.
Elfes stalked the aisles, occasionally smacking the back of a head or muttering insults so poetic they almost sounded like compliments. He still acted cold and terrifying, but… there was a rhythm to it now. Like he actually liked teaching us, and just didn't want us to know.
Midday — The Public Duel
Just as we stepped out, a GONG echoed through the academy—loud, ceremonial, and vaguely threatening.
Every class spilled into the training yard. Even Class A had shown up. Feona and Arsia waved when they spotted me, though neither approached.
We were practicing combat channeling in mixed groups. Mine was going well… or weird, depending on how you define wind magic turning your shirt inside-out.
And then—of course—the drama arrived.
A noble student in pristine robes, blond hair slicked like a villain's final form, strutted up to me.
"I, Vaerin of House Altrenne, challenge you to a sanctioned duel—for the insult of flaunting the insignia of a Master who never chooses!"
…What?
My brain short-circuited. Do they eat manure for breakfast? Why can't they just mind their own egos?
Gasps. Girls fainting. A peacock shrieking in the distance. (Why was there always a peacock?)
I blinked. "...Who are you again?"
Cyan leaned in, stage-whispering: "You just triggered a side boss."
Instructor Elon—Class A's flamboyant and theatrical star mage—appeared beside Elfes. "Wonderful! Why don't we turn this into a joint combat training session?" he beamed.
Before Elfes could reject it, Elon smirked. "Representatives, then? Feona, perhaps?"
Feona opened her mouth, clearly intending to say "volunteer me" —but Elon raised a hand.
"No need. The right to accept or deny falls to the challenged one ."
He looked at me, curious.
Elfes turned and, for once, actually whispered. "Can you defeat him?"
That alone spoke volumes. I was the only one he trusted right now.
I smirked. "Let me try."
He nodded. "Do try not to die."
The Arcane Ring materialized—an arena woven from runes and mana. A crowd gathered. Even Seliane appeared, arms folded, watching from the shadows like an annoyed goddess. Veira arrived too—no doubt here to savor my public defeat after I humiliated her earlier.
Tough luck.
The Duel Begins
I didn't have a weapon.
Didn't matter.
We exchanged blows. I was faster, but he was stronger. Bruises built. A cut here, a burn there—one rib definitely disagreed with my breathing.
The first magic he use
"Grade 4," Vaerin hissed.
Lightning tore through the air. I dodged—mostly. My leg didn't get the memo. Wanted to crush me in one go.
Pain lanced up my side. I stayed upright anyway.
The field fell silent. Even birds stopped flapping.
"Fine," Vaerin snarled. "Burn then. Grade Five: Stormspike Lance."
Mana swelled. The sky rippled with tension.
This would kill me.
And then—
"Enough."
A whisper, not heard—but felt. Elfes wasn't there, but it was his voice.
"When they push too far… show them why I chose you."
Something inside me snapped.
Not pain.
Power.
Raw aura surged. The ground trembled. The wind bent toward me.
My spirit marks lit like ancient runes awakening from sleep. Six pendants ignited: Fire. Water. Wind. Sand. Thunder. And Dark.
One spirit broke free—Fire. She flared to life, eyes burning with judgment. Wanted to crush him there .
I tried to stop her—failed.
But I stopped the rest. Barely.
A pulse swept across the field. No explosion—just presence. Like a god had exhaled.
My body shimmered, elemental aura weaving around me like a cloak of starlight.
Gasps echoed.
Even Vaerin hesitated.
I raised a hand—not to attack, but to focus.
I didn't unleash their power.
I chose something else.
"Void Warpool," I whispered.
Space folded.
I stepped through.
Appeared behind him.
He barely raised a shield before my staff struck—cracking his focus gem. He dropped to a knee, stunned, gasping.
I stood—bloodied, scorched, definitely in pain—but upright. Low-key? Yeah, that's over. Bruce all over the body.
The crowd? Dead silent.
Even Veria was there, jaws clenched.
My badge pulsed once, calming the Fire spirit. She vanished back inside with a final flicker of heat.
Elfes strolled in, sipping tea. "Hm. Acceptable. Not bad."
Even Elon clapped. "Astonishing. Scary, really. Good job."
Afternoon — Rumors
I tried to sneak away quietly.
I failed.
"Oh my gods, did he use elemental spirits?"
"That's an elven technique, right?"
"An F-class student? That's way too suspicious…"
Seliane didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
Her eyes alone were writing ten chapters of judgment.
Evening — The Arcane Application & Research Society (Still Not a Cult)
Back at the club room, things were… weirdly normal.
The shapeshifter had taken the form of a smug little cat, curled on a tower of books.
The floating spoon guy was now juggling three spoons.
A new member's coffee-infused mana potion exploded on contact.
I slumped into a chair.
The cat blinked at me. "You defeated a Class A prodigy."
I choked. "You talk?!"
"Only when it matters."
Seliane didn't look up from her notes. But she had definitely been watching the duel. Her pen scratched with malicious elegance.
Totally normal club.
Night — Beneath the Stars
I sat by the cave entrance, staring into the sky. The pendants hovered around me in a gentle orbit.
Fire flickered, calm now.
Water hummed softly.
Wind brushed my cheek.
Sand danced lazily.
Thunder sparked like a restless child.
Dark whispered in strange echoes.
I frowned. Something... spoke.
But I wasn't ready for that yet.
Nyra stepped forward, looking unsure. I had almost forgotten—
"I still owe you something," I said. "Let's get that seal off."
Removing slave marks wasn't hard—at least, not with third-grade magic. Nyra gritted her teeth, but I worked fast.
Then I turned to Kyrl. Then Isfa.
Each bore it silently. Each thanked me sincerely.
They said they wanted to leave—to finish the mission they'd once started. I didn't stop them.
They deserved that freedom.
Still... I watched them disappear into the trees with a sigh.
"Great. There goes my bandit-hunting party," I muttered. "Free labor is so hard to come by."
The fire crackled in agreement.