As Michael approached, Rudy’s tense expression spoke louder than words. After witnessing Jakob’s display, it was clear his confidence had plummeted to near zero.
"Forget about the bet," Michael said, placing a steady hand on his friend’s shoulder. "It was just something I agreed to casually."
"Michael..." Rudy’s voice was tight, his eyes wide. "I’ve never even seen more than a few gold coins before. How do you even have so many? And why would you bet them on me, you bastard...?"
"Don’t worry about that," Michael replied firmly. "I can always make more. We’re students of Arcadia now, remember? By our fourth year, the noble houses will be falling over themselves to recruit us."
"R-right... you’re right." Some of the tension in Rudy’s tone eased, his shoulders lifting slightly.
"Good," Michael said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Now all I want you to think about is putting that pompous bastard in his place." He tilted his head toward Braydon and Randolph, who stood grinning smugly as if the outcome had already been decided.
"If you win, they might recover from losing the gold... but their egos won’t heal so easily."
"That’s all well and good," Rudy muttered, "but what makes you think I can win? Didn’t you see the technique Jakob used? That guy’s clearly trained in martial arts."
Michael had noticed, of course, but pointing that out wouldn’t help. His priority now was to steer the conversation toward confidence, not doubt.
"How about you copy his technique?" Michael suggested casually. "From where I was standing, it looked simple enough."
"Oh, right!" Rudy’s eyes lit up with mock enthusiasm. "And while I’m at it, I’ll just replicate his years of physical training too, shall I?"
Michael blinked, realizing too late how ridiculous his suggestion had sounded. The move might have looked simple, but there was no mistaking the precision that came from years of repetition and muscle memory.
"Anyway," Michael pressed on, "you’ve got this. I’ll even split the winnings with you if you come out on top."
That made Rudy pause. His eyes narrowed, and then—suddenly—his entire demeanor shifted.
His shoulders straightened, his chest expanded, and the nervous flicker in his gaze hardened into a focus sharp enough to cut stone. The transformation was so abrupt that Michael almost took a step back.
Rudy’s hand shot out, clasping Michael’s with surprising force—enough to make him bite back a yelp.
Eh? What the hell just happened to him? Michael thought, baffled.
"Stop stalling and hit the damn dummy already," Braydon called out, impatience dripping from every word.
Professor Quinn silenced him with a sharp glare before turning to Rudy. "Mr. Graves, please proceed," she said, gesturing to the training dummy.
Rudy gave a curt nod and released Michael’s hand. Without another glance, he strode to the dummy, drew in a deep breath, and tucked his elbows in tight—mirroring the stance Jakob had taken minutes earlier.
The sight triggered raucous laughter from Braydon’s side.
"By the Arcane! Is he thick in the head?"
"You know what they say—monkey see, monkey do," Randolph added with a sneer. Newest update provided by N0v3l.Fiɾe.net
Michael’s glare cut toward them, but his eyes soon shifted to Jakob. The boy’s lips curled into a smirk of pure derision, and his thoughts were written plainly across his face.
Michael’s eyes locked on Rudy.
Please... just beat them. I don’t care about the gold—I just want to wipe those smug smiles off their faces.
Rudy held his stance for several moments, as if gathering every ounce of power within him.
"This is ridiculous. How long is he going to stand there? Just hit the damn thing," Braydon called, his voice dripping with impatience.
Michael recognized it for what it was—a cheap attempt to break Rudy’s focus.
Even with such an advantage, he still resorts to petty tricks. Michael’s jaw tightened as he briefly entertained the thought of silencing the noble brat with his fist.
Rudy stepped forward with his left foot, stomping it into the ground. His left fist drew back, his right arm snapping forward in a blur. His torso twisted sharply from the core, driving power through the strike.
The technique was near identical to Jakob’s earlier—tight, fast, and compact.
The thud of impact rang across the training yard. The dummy rocked violently, but all eyes were fixed on the hexagonal shield, waiting for the glow.
Yellow flared first... then deepened, darkening into a richer, bolder hue until a vivid orange radiated outward from the point of contact. The ripple of color spread like a burst of sunlight across the shield’s surface.
A stunned silence gripped the crowd.
Rudy remained poised, his fist extended for a heartbeat longer before he exhaled and casually stepped back. He straightened his robe, glanced at Professor Quinn, and spoke in the same calm tone as before.
"I trust the result is obvious?"
The professor’s grin spread wide, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "The winners of the bet—Mr. Ellis and Mr. Graves," she announced, each word dripping with approval.
We... won? Michael blinked, almost in disbelief.
"I–Impossible!" Randolph dropped to his knees, clutching his head as if the very air had betrayed him.
Jakob’s expression twisted into a storm of irritation and bewilderment, his gaze fixed on Rudy—the boy who had just beaten him using a rough imitation of his own move.
"Professor, I object," Braydon said smoothly, stepping forward with an air of false civility. "Both Jakob and Rudy produced an orange glow. This should be considered a tie, and all wagers returned to their rightful owners."
It was obvious to anyone with eyes that Rudy’s orange had burned deeper, brighter. Yet Braydon still tried to wriggle free, clinging to pride over truth. It laid bare exactly the kind of man he was.
"Overruled," Professor Quinn said, her grin sharpening. With a casual wave, the two gold pouches and Randolph’s small suitcase floated through the air and landed in Michael’s arms.
"T-this is ridiculous, I demand a re—"
The single incantation cut him short. Above Braydon’s head, a green magic circle shimmered into being.
In an instant, he was driven to his knees, the crushing weight of intensified gravity forcing his palms to the dirt. A grunt of pain escaped him before he could bite it back.
"Demand, you say?" the professor’s voice lowered, cold and dangerous. "I’ve never heard of a lowly soldier making demands of their commanding officer. Perhaps you need a reminder of your place in this academy."
The temperature in the training yard seemed to drop. Students instinctively stepped back, putting distance between themselves and Braydon, unwilling to be caught in the crossfire.
"Class is dismissed," Professor Quinn declared. "Enjoy an early lunch... while I provide Mr. Marbury with some additional training." She lingered on the final words, each syllable heavy with intent.