Then came the thunder.
Kiara strode to the line, her dark bangs framing eyes that burned like slits of obsidian.
Her tight uniform hugged her lithe frame, and as she raised her arm with dramatic flair.
She smirked, unbothered, and gripped her bead.
The air around her crackled, mana coiling like a storm.
And then, she fired.
Her bead didn’t just hit—it scorched.
It struck the center with a fiery crackle—sparks erupting in a blinding burst, more spectacle than precision, as if she aimed to showcase raw power over control.
The disc pulsed orange, edges smoldering from the hit.
A hush fell. The crowd waited—was it a score or a disqualification?
Then the scoreboard blinked to life: 9.
From the sidelines, Miss Silvia exhaled sharply.
"Pheww... Close call," she muttered, her glasses catching the light as she scribbled a quick note.
The seams of her white jacket pulled taut across her chest.
Kiara spun on her heel, her smirk sharp enough to cut.
"Just making sure it stays down," she said, her voice dripping with arrogance.
She sauntered back, her hips swaying, fully aware of the eyes on her.
Ameth followed, cold and precise, her sleek blonde hair framing her face like a golden halo.
The crowd hushed, sensing the shift in energy.
Her bead glowed faintly, then tore through the air, ripping into the center with a smoking hiss.
The disc shuddered, singed at the edges.
The scoreboard pulsed: 10.
Ameth turned, her icy blue eyes locking onto Eva.
"Still think you’re leaders?" she hissed, her voice low but venomous. "You’ll always be backup singers in Class D’s circus."
Olivia bristled, her fingers twitching as if itching to cast something less precise.
Eva’s green eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, her silence heavier than any retort.
The tension between them crackled, thicker than the mana in the air.
Then it was Lor’s turn.
He shuffled to the line, his black hair a mess, shoulders slouched, hazel eyes distant like he was daydreaming.
The crowd’s murmurs turned to snickers as he barely lined up, his stance lazy, almost mocking.
He tossed the bead—casual, careless, like flicking a pebble.
It veered midair, weak and wobbling, clipping the outer ring with a sad pop before bouncing away.
The scoreboard flickered: 2.
Laughter exploded from the stands.
Class C’s platform roared, Joren doubling over, his slicked-back hair bouncing.
Lila clutched her ponytail, wheezing.
They needed the laugh after the electric display of Kiara and Ameth.
"Might as well throw chalk!" someone from Class C coughed, and the jeers spread like wildfire.
Lor turned to the crowd, his lips curling into a lopsided wink that only fueled their mockery.
He slouched off the line, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like he’d just embarrassed Class D beyond redemption.
But Nellie smiled.
Her gray eyes softened, and she mouthed, Thank you, her braids swaying as she leaned forward slightly.
Lor nodded once—barely a tilt of his head—and melted back into the shadows of their rickety corner, his lazy grin never wavering.
To the arena, he was a joke.
To Class D’s inner circle, he was something else entirely.
The scoreboard might say 2, but Nellie’s smile said he’d hit the mark that mattered.
She has improved.
A lot.
______
The Grand Arcane Arena thrummed with layered enchantments, a cauldron of mana and noise that pulsed like a living heart.
As Class B took the stage, their beads striking targets with crisp precision, the faculty gathered beneath the carved sigils of the academy’s southern edge, a shaded alcove where ancient stone whispered of past glories.
The air was thick with the scent of spell-charged dust and the distant hum of the crowd.
Silvia stood among her peers, her white jacket straining against her full bust, the fabric taut enough to draw a few sly glances from passing instructors.
Her pencil skirt clung to her hips, accentuating every curve as she shifted nervously, her auburn hair slipping free from its bun in soft, rebellious strands.
Her glasses fogged in the humid heat, and she clutched her wand and notebook tightly, blinking through the blur as she tried to focus on her notes.
Then came the voice, oily and all too familiar, slithering into her space like a curse.
"Still wasting those curves on Class D’s rejects, Silvia?" Master Toren drawled, his tone dripping with mockery.
The balding Class C instructor stepped closer, his soft jowls quivering with a greasy smirk.
His breath reeked of spellmint, sharp and sour, as he loomed over her, his beady eyes lingering where they shouldn’t.
"You know, a figure like yours deserves a real classroom. My Class C could use a... private lesson."
This wasn’t the first time.
Toren had been circling her for weeks, his "accidental" brushes and leering comments growing bolder with each encounter.
At faculty meetings, in the halls, even here in the arena’s chaos, he found ways to corner her, his words veiled just enough to dodge formal complaints.
Silvia’s skin crawled, but she held her ground, her jaw tightening.
She didn’t slap him—couldn’t, not with the academy’s politics—but her fingers gripped her wand until her knuckles whitened.
Her eyes darted sideways, almost instinctively, to a familiar figure a few meters away. Lor.
He lounged on a broken bench, half-slumped, his plain uniform blending into the shadows.
His black hair was a mess, and he flicked a chalk bead lazily between his fingers, his hazel eyes fixed on the arena as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
To anyone else, he was just another Class D failure, barely worth noticing.
But Silvia noticed.
She always did.
There was something about Lor—something she couldn’t quite place.
And every time Toren got too close, something happened.
Toren’s hand reached out, his fingers grazing her arm with feigned concern, his smirk widening.
"Come now, Silvia, don’t be so—"
Lor’s fingers twitched, so subtle it could’ve been a trick of the light.
A faint murmur escaped his lips, too soft to hear.
The air shifted, a sudden gust swirling through the alcove.