"Art Alaris and Emris—come forth onto the stage."
Professor Celia’s voice cut through the low murmurs of the class, crisp and commanding as ever.
I blinked, mildly surprised by the pairing. Emris and Art? That was... unexpected.
I would’ve assumed their abilities or personalities clashed. But then again, I had been paired with Amelia, and we were practically polar opposites.
Maybe opposites were the point.
Art strolled casually into the center of the arena dome, hands in his pockets like he was taking a walk through a park and not about to engage in a potentially lethal spar.
His posture was relaxed, but there was something about him—too calm, too deliberate—that made the hair on people’s neck rise.
Emris followed behind, his movements the polar opposite. Silent.
Measured. His steps barely made a sound. His eyes, cold and focused, never left Art’s back. There was no hesitation in his gait. Just lethal intent.
The dome materialized with a shimmer of energy as Celia flicked her fingers. The edges sealed off, enclosing them in a world of their own.
She raised one hand, then brought it down.
In the blink of an eye, Emris vanished.
He blurred forward with speed most students couldn’t even register, appearing like a ghost behind Art with twin daggers glinting in each hand—curved, vicious things, wet with what looked like blood.
They came down fast. Precise. Aimed directly for Art’s spine.
For a split second, I thought it was over.
A single strike. Quick and surgical. Just like that.
The daggers touched Art’s body.
Literally disintegrated. The moment they made contact, they turned into crimson dust, fading into the air like ash on wind.
Emris’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. He immediately leapt back, distancing himself several meters from Art, both blades already reforming in his grip. But this time, he didn’t move forward.
Art turned slowly, deliberately, as if nothing had happened. His hands slid out of his pockets. He raised one casually, then extended his tongue as if licking the air.
"[Creation: Disengage]," he said with a lazy grin, the words rolling off his tongue like a joke.
And just like that, everything clicked.
That was it. That was his trick.
The moment Emris struck, Art had invoked his ability—[Creation: Disengage]—and unraveled the existence of the daggers mid-impact. Not deflected. Not blocked. Undone.
I glanced toward Professor Celia.
She was nodding, slowly. Approvingly.
Emris, now more wary than ever, circled his opponent, waiting for an opening. He didn’t attack again. Not immediately. Instead, he watched. Analyzing.
But Art wasn’t going to give him time to think.
The floor beneath them shimmered.
A ripple of mana surged outward, and the battlefield transformed in the blink of an eye.
The arena floor cracked, split, and rose—or rather, it changed. Into a field of needled death.
Thousand upon thousands of jagged spikes burst from the marble beneath them, forming an expansive forest of silver needles.
Each one sharp enough to gleam under the light. Each one pointed skyward like a bed of death.
Every inch of the arena was covered in them.
Except for the patch of smooth stone where Art stood.
Emris darted into motion, barely keeping his footing. The moment he so much as brushed one of the needles, a line of blood streaked across his leg.
He kept moving. Constant motion. Never staying in one place long enough to be skewered.
But it was clear—this terrain wasn’t made for him.
It was made to wear him down.
His breaths grew heavier. Slower. His steps slightly less sharp. Less clean.
A battle of attrition... and Art was winning.
But this wasn’t just attrition.
This was Art’s playground.
And he wasn’t finished.
They shivered. Then moved—twisting in the direction of Emris like living metal serpents.
Not just terrain anymore.
They surged toward Emris all at once, a tide of glinting death aiming to impale him from every angle.
Even I sat up straighter.
Emris’s eyes widened, his body already drenched in sweat. His stance faltered, if only slightly.
He couldn’t outrun that.
"Surrender," he said, voice calm but loud enough to cut through the chaos. "I yield."
Instantly, the needles froze. Then shattered into harmless fragments of light.
Professor Celia stepped forward, her gaze falling on both of them.
"Well done," she said, eyes flicking briefly toward Art. "Both of you. But especially you, Mister Alaris. I hope you don’t get bored in this class."
Then turned and walked off as casually as he had entered.
And for some reason, that surprised me more than if he’d walked out grinning like a maniac.
Because the smile wasn’t arrogant.
Like he hadn’t even started trying yet.
’Fucker was holding back. Damn.’
The words slipped into my mouth like breath, and apparently, I wasn’t the only one thinking it.
Amelia nudged me with her elbow, her voice low, a whisper. "He was holding back, right?"
I turned to face her, meeting those cool, kind eyes. "Yeah," I said, keeping my voice just as hushed. "You think so too, huh?"
She nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the training ground, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t need to speak further.
Celia clapped her hands, sharp and commanding, dragging everyone’s attention back to the front.
The ambient murmurs—the theories, the quiet awe, the anxious heartbeats—were silenced in an instant.
"Now," she said, her voice rising, "for the next pair. Zyon Gilance and Leon Stroud."
And just like that, all oxygen seemed to vanish from the room.
A shiver ran up my spine.
’Now that... that’s a battle worth seeing,’ I thought, eyes narrowing, heart rate picking up despite myself.
Without a shadow of a doubt, those two were the strongest in our entire class. The apex predators. If there was ever a true match between monsters, it was this.
Zyon moved first, calm and composed, his expression unreadable. There was a certain gravity to his steps, like the earth shifted beneath his will.
And Leon followed behind him.
Hands in his pockets.
There wasn’t a hint of fear in his eyes. Nor arrogance. Just... stillness. An eerie calm.
The kind you’d see in someone who’d stared into a hurricane and decided to walk through it.
They both entered the training ground.
A flick of Celia’s fingers and it sealed with a flash of light.
Then her hand rose again, slicing the air.
But unlike the previous matches—no one moved.
They simply stood there, as if the moment itself was holding its breath.
Zyon remained rooted to the floor, arms loose at his sides, unassuming. Almost relaxed.
But every instinct in my body told me that if someone so much as blinked wrong, he’d strike like lightning.
Leon, on the other hand, sighed softly.
With a flick of his wrist, a katana shimmered into existence. Sculpted from ice.
Razor-sharp and translucent, its surface glinted beneath the sun like a frozen tear. The blade seemed impossibly thin, impossibly cold.
He raised it casually, pointing the tip at Zyon.
"Shall we begin?" Leon asked, like he was asking someone to dance.
Zyon chuckled softly. "If you say so."
Not a moment’s difference. No hesitation. No feints. Just raw instinct.
Leon swung his katana with a fluid horizontal slash, the air itself slicing apart under its edge.
Zyon met it with a bare hand.
The impact was thunderous.
A wave of force exploded outward, ripping through the air. The ground beneath them cracked and split apart, stone tiles shattering as if struck by a divine hammer.
Dust spiraled into the dome, catching the golden rays of sunlight, casting the two into silhouettes locked in a timeless duel.
The force of their clash rippled out so violently that even through the dome, we felt it.
"Holy shit..." someone whispered nearby.
But I couldn’t blink. Couldn’t look away.
A sharp, clean sound echoed across the dome.
His sword—his ice katana—shattered into splinters.
Tiny crystalline shards of frost danced in the air between them, glittering like stars before melting into vapor.
Zyon’s hand? Unharmed. Unmoving. Not a single drop of blood.
Leon stared at the shattered remains of his blade, lips parting slightly.
Followed by a grin that split across his face like a wildfire.
"Well," he said, letting the broken hilt fall to the ground. "Guess I’ve got to stop holding back too."
The atmosphere shifted.
That grin meant one thing: escalation.
I leaned forward, adrenaline buzzing in my veins.
’Damn,’ I muttered, ’I miss popcorn.’