The city slept under a cloud-choked moon, the streets beyond the graveyard muted and still. Even the feral dogs had gone silent, as if the world itself held its breath. Frost-rimmed weeds swayed between broken headstones. No heartbeat stirred beyond the four of them.
Boss stood where two marble angels leaned forever in prayer. His hands were tucked behind his back, voice low but firm.
"This," he said, "is the way to choose who is more trustworthy—Karl or John."
Jaz rubbed her arms against the cold. "In the middle of a graveyard? Really, Boss?"
"That's the point," Boss replied. "No witnesses. No interruptions. Just honesty."
Karl rolled his shoulders, his grin far too relaxed for the tension wrapping the night. "Truth comes from victory."
John shifted the tiny book in his palm, leather spine slick with sweat. He had learned to breathe slow at the academy, but his pulse drummed louder than any lecture. A duel? Here? He felt his stomach knot. "Fine," he muttered. "Let's… get it done."
A faint wind hissed through dead grass, then stilled. The world seemed to tilt toward silence.
---
First Motions
Karl stomped once. Gravel cracked as glints of quartz bled outward from the soil, threading like veins through the damp earth.
"Pretty place to bury you," Karl said.
John back-stepped, watching the creeping lattice of crystal crawl toward him. Karl could not fling stones by thought—but where the lattice spread, deadly spikes could bloom.
Karl's second stomp sent three needle-like shards punching up around John's boots. He leapt aside, grimoire snapping open with a flutter. The faint glyphs etched in its pages glimmered. He swung the spine against the tallest spike; the impact rang dull, but the shard splintered.
"Run already," Karl teased, pacing forward. His heel scraped another patch of grit, and more quartz sprouted, seeding a lethal garden.
John circled, heart hammering. He's staking the ground. If I give him an inch, the whole place becomes his.
---
Clash in the Tomb Garden
Karl dragged his fingertips along a tomb slab. Frosted veins of mineral pulsed from his skin into the stone, wrapping it in milky armor. "Can't fight what you can't reach, bookworm."
John clenched his jaw. He slashed the grimoire sideways; the edges bit against a low shard, knocking it aside, sparks flashing. Karl twisted, snapping his fingers. Two fresh spikes shot from the crystal web like lances, one grazing John's sleeve, the other carving a furrow through damp sod.
He's fast, John thought, ducking. And I… block and run.
Karl laughed, a sharp, boyish bark. "That's all? After the academy? Pathetic."
John pivoted, planting the grimoire as a shield as another spike burst toward his ribs. Leather met quartz with a hollow thump; the shock jarred his arms numb but saved his flank. He rolled away, lungs burning.
---
Pressure Mounts
For ten pounding minutes, Karl pressed, and John retreated. Crystal blooms erupted across the graves, angling into spears, jagged walls, and trip hazards. Each time John batted them aside, Karl simply seeded another patch. John's breath steamed in frantic clouds.
"Stop hiding behind that stupid pamphlet!" Karl roared, sweeping both hands down. The ground erupted—half a dozen waist-high stalagmites erupted where John had stood seconds earlier.
John dove, shoulder-rolling behind a leaning monument, the grimoire clutched tight. I don't even know why this exists. Everyone else summons fire or steel; I have… a book. What kind of bloodline is this? 'Despair?' What a joke.
A razor spike clipped his calf, tearing fabric. Karl's grin widened. "One scratch at a time, little scholar."
---
Boss Observes
Boss hadn't moved, coat tails barely swaying. Jaz hovered near him, ready to intervene.
"Shouldn't you—" she began.
"Watch," Boss murmured. "He's not consuming mana. He's just… redirecting."
Jaz frowned, hugging herself. "Redirecting? He's about to get skewered."
"Sometimes survival speaks louder than offense," Boss said.
---
Desperation
John's mind spiraled. All I do is block. I've got nothing else. His fingers trembled as he wiped sweat from his brow. Karl, flushed and elated, slammed another heel into the soil, the entire quadrant of graves crackling with crystal webs.
"Stay down, John," Karl jeered, "and I'll try not to break you too badly."
"I—" John bit back the curse. "Fine!"
He lunged left, slapping the grimoire open; its edges deflected another spike as he vaulted a crumbling headstone. The next volley nicked his forearm. Warm blood trickled. He stumbled, nearly dropping the book. Every breath tore his lungs raw.
Karl advanced like a conductor, each step spawning new crystalline daggers. "I could do this all night."
John's knees buckled. I can't beat him. I can only run. Shame burned behind his ribs. Why would anyone call this a bloodline of Despair? It's nothing.
---
Stalemate
The fight stretched near an hour, broken only by the sound of crystal splitting earth and John's ragged breath. Karl slowed, panting but triumphant, his lattice sprawling across half the cemetery. "Face it, John. You're done."
John sagged to one knee, clutching the grimoire like a life raft. His arms ached from every parry, bruises blooming beneath his coat.
Boss finally sighed. "Enough."
---
The Freeze
With a subtle snap of his fingers, the air stiffened. Frost limned every blade of grass. Karl froze mid-step, shards halted mid-eruption, a spray of splinters hanging weightless. Jaz stiffened, wide-eyed, though still breathing.
Boss walked into the dueling ground, boots crunching over rimed quartz. "I didn't stop this because you're weak, John." His gaze pinned the boy. "I stopped it because you have no idea what that grimoire can do."
John swallowed. "I… it just blocks things."
"Imagine," Boss said, voice calm yet cutting, "that book inside someone's body."
The words rooted John to the soil. Inside…? As a psychology student, he knew anatomy by heart—the coil of gut, the fragile alveoli. The thought turned his stomach.
Boss gestured. "Jaz, heal Karl. Keep him steady."
Jaz's palms glowed faintly as she knelt by Karl's shoulder, knitting torn muscle, soothing splintered bruises. "Thanks for the order," she muttered, still bewildered.
Boss faced John again. "Visualize it. Place the grimoire within his chest."
Karl's breath hitched, fear cracking through bravado. "Wait, what—"
John shook his head. "I… I can't. It's… too gruesome."
Boss's tone sharpened. "Now you know it's possible. Next time, picture it rotating inside like a blender blade. That should end any fight."
John stared at the frost-slick grass. "I can't imagine that—yet."
"Then practice," Boss said evenly. "Manipulate its position. Expand your thinking. You survived because of instinct. Next time, survive because of mastery."
---
Morning Resolve
The ice retreated, crystals crumbling back to grit. Dawn painted the horizon in bruised pink. Karl limped to a bench, muttering, "Could've had him if you didn't stop me."
Jaz exhaled, flexing sore fingers. "Glad that's over."
John tucked the grimoire inside his coat, the weight heavier than before. If I don't grow stronger, I'll stay prey.
He trudged home, mind buzzing. Sleep eluded him. By sunrise, he pulled on his work apron, determined to make up for missed shifts.
---
Back to School
On the street, Skinn waved. "Hey! You're alive. Haven't seen you in forever."
"Busy," John said, forcing a smile.
Skinn's grin faded. "You look like death. Want me to walk with you to counseling? I was worried enough to go myself."
John hesitated. "No… I—don't. It's complicated."
Skinn grabbed his sleeve. "Remember, I don't have family anymore. If you're in danger, I'm there too."
The words struck deep. John recalled Skinn's vanished parents, the empty foster homes. He managed, "I'll explain when my head's clear. Promise."
They reached the student office. John spun a tale of financial strain; his spotless attendance record did the rest. Professors nodded sympathetically.
Still, the burden mounted: schoolwork, job, and now magic training. Another spinning plate.
---
Practice
John carved thirty minutes daily to drill the grimoire. First, closing and opening it mid-air. Next, pinching small objects within, teleporting them wherever he pictured the book. Coins blinked between shelves; pencils reappeared across the room. I could steal with this, he mused, but the book must close fully. Anything too big just falls out.
Skinn watched sometimes, brow furrowed but silent. He's hiding something, Skinn thought, but I'll wait.
John also experimented stepping on the grimoire as a platform—too small. Yet he remembered when it had grown huge. Curiosity gnawed.
Inside, the ink lines whispered:
> I feel their dread.
They know they're dead.
Ego Desperado.
Creation led
Them to end.
Absolute Loyalty.
Some kind of key, John reasoned. Metaphor or riddle.
---
Discovery
In the same lonely lot where his first ritual summoned Manademia, John tested boundaries. The book refused partial manifestations; it appeared whole or not at all, displacing whatever blocked its space. Dangerous, he noted, if misused.
From a nearby roof, Skinn peeked. His hands clenched the railing, a tremor running down his arm. Magic again, he thought, anger coiling with fear. It took my parents. It won't take him.
Below, John traced the sigils, sweat and wonder mingling. He didn't see Skinn's gaze—didn't feel the storm brewing in his friend's chest.