Chapter 21
[Embercrown 30th (8/27), Year 1356 of the Arcane Calendar]
| 8:40 PM |
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[Celestara, dueling grounds]
I stood at the center of a ring of multiple gazes, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing down on me.
Their gazes flicked between the three of us on the sun-baked sand.
One was much older, the assistant combat instructor—brought here to mediate a duel he probably didn't want.
The other two… students.
One is a senior and the other a junior.
The crowd was a blur of unfamiliar faces, yet a few I knew cut through the haze.
Their eyes caught mine—some clouded with worry, others distant, all carrying the same question.
Why the hell am I standing here?
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{ 50 min before}
I dropped to the ground, lungs clawing for air, forcing each breath until the tremors finally dulled.
I stayed there, slumped, not bothering to count how many seconds—or minutes—slipped past.
The trauma wasn't mine. Yet it clung to my muscles, etched deep into every bone, a memory branded into me all the same.
When I finally managed to stand, I shoved myself down the garden path toward the gym. Each step dragged heavier than the last, but I refused to stop.
A loose stone caught my eye. I kicked it hard, sending it skittering across the path, every ounce of frustration riding its bounce.
Tsk.
Until now, I hadn't spared Selene much thought.
After all, I wasn't the one who had to endure her games.
But seeing her in person—her presence colliding with the Selene in Kyzen's memories—blurred the line. His pain bled into mine until it was impossible to separate.
I kicked the same stone again, harder this time, watching it vanish into the dark instead of bouncing back onto the path.
Rounding a corner, I found a crowd packed tight in front of the gym.
Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, noisy and restless. Too many to see what they were gawking at—and honestly, I didn't care.
I already had enough of my own mess to carry.
But then, just as I turned to leave, a voice cut through the chatter. Not from the crowd itself, but from within it—low, sharp, wrapped in the weight of murmurs.
"Again, senior, we apologize. It was our mistake."
My body froze. I turned back toward the crowd, straining on my toes to see who it was.
That voice… familiar.
"I don't give a single fuck if he is a senior."
The second voice hit harder, all too familiar.
Fuck....Please don't tell me it's him. No—it's probably someone else. Plenty of guys around here with bad tempers.
"OH! I see, I understand your pain. If only your mom banged a demi-human, you'd be strong too, wouldn't you?"
Shit. It's him. It's so him.
"Excuse me."Just as I pushed forward, ready to tear through the crowd and stop whatever was happening—
BANG...
The crowd shifted.
At first, I thought it was random.
But no—people were stepping back, pulling away, giving space.
And then I saw why.
Liam was on the ground, clutching his stomach, an ice-cream cone? Shattered in his hands, vanilla spreading down his hands like blood.
And the senior stood, broad-shouldered, arms folded. Also had an ice cream-related stain spread across his chest under the lantern light.
His badge gleamed: Year 5. Havenwood crest.
Not ideal. A senior.
Three others lounged behind him, smirking. Not here to stop anything. Just here for the show.
I crouched, hooking an arm under Liam's shoulder, pulling him upright.
At first, he looked ready to snap, but when he saw me, he bit it back. Jaw tight. Ears twitching like springs ready to go off.
Victor slid in beside me, steadying himself.
His eyes flicked to mine—sharp, deliberate. No words needed. My gaze followed his. The cone. The stain. The pieces clicked.
This was about the ice cream.
"Ice cream?" I muttered, disbelief threading my voice.
He gave a small nod. We didn't need more than that.
My face must've said it all: Seriously? Ice cream?
Dain stepped forward, positioning himself between Liam and the senior, hands raised in a placating gesture. "We'll pay for the shirt," he said, his voice calm but firm. "It was an accident."
The senior's grin stretched wider, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Accident?" He jabbed a finger at the stain, his voice dripping with mockery.
"No. This is what happens when you let half-breeds run loose. Can't even walk without screwing it up."
Stupid, I thought. Of course, ice cream couldn't be the main reason.
This was never about ice cream. Never about a stain.
This world had nobles, commoners… but it was still missing one thing.
Racists.
The full buy-one-get-one-free package.
A hush fell over the gathering crowd, their whispers slithering through the air like venomous serpents. The word half-breed hung heavy, a spark igniting the tension.
Liam's fists curled. Veins stood out on his arms. Rage shook through him.
The senior's smile sharpened like a blade.
He spat at Liam's feet. "Half-breed trash." Then his gaze slid to Victor.
Then his gaze slid to Victor, slow and deliberate. "And you. Infernal spawn. Demon blood. Cursed from birth. Think enrolling in the academy makes you equal? You'll always be filth."
Victor didn't flinch. Didn't even look up. Shoulders locked, eyes on the ground, face blank. Too blank. The look of someone who'd heard it all before.
The senior raised his voice, projecting so the entire crowd could hear:
"If your friends kneel and admit their mistake—the half-elf and the infernal—if they say it out loud, I'll let you walk."
Behind him, his lackeys snickered, low and cruel. Hyenas circling for blood.
The senior chuckled, his grin widening. "Come now… we don't want to make a bigger scene out of this, do we?"
I stepped forward, my tone measured, deceptively sweet, threaded with a calm that bordered on politeness. "Senior," I said, "why wish for diversity? Shouldn't one be united—at least among their kin?"
The crowd's murmurs fell silent, a heavy hush blanketing the cobblestone path as eyes turned toward me. Some faces paled, others stiffened, recognition dawning in their widened gazes. They didn't just see me—they saw the weight of my family name, a shadow cast long and unyielding.
Lortar's sneer sharpened, though a flicker of unease formed across his face. "I know who you are, Kyzen of the Varae barony."
He omitted Lunthaler. A deliberate slight.
My lips curved into a soft, disarming smile. "Yes."
For a fleeting moment, uncertainty rippled across his face—a crack in his smug facade. He masked it swiftly, jaw tightening, forcing a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I am Lortar Denos," he declared, puffing out his chest, his badge catching the light. "And I think you misspoke when you said 'kin.' I'm human—unlike those pigs."
His chuckle came forced, brittle at the edges, lacking the confidence of moments before.
I tilted my head, adopting the thoughtful air of one unraveling a complex riddle, my gaze steady and unyielding.
"That's… peculiar," I murmured, letting my voice carry just enough to reach the crowd. "Forgive me, my eyes must be failing. After hearing your name, I find myself rather perplexed."
"But one thing I know for certain," I said, locking eyes with Lortar, whose snarl wavered under the weight of my gaze.
"If you meant 'pigs,' you surely meant orcs, didn't you? Because I'm quite certain there aren't any orcs with black scales gleaming across their faces, nor any with features rivaling the elegance of elves—like him."
I gestured sharply toward Liam, whose red eyes flared with restrained defiance, then to Victor.
His smirk wavered, a shadow of curiosity and anticipation creeping into his expression.
I took a deliberate step closer, my eyes tracing him slowly—from the crown of his head to the scuffed tips of his boots, then back up again.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, before I offered a faint, calculated smile.
"Are you certain you're not an orc?"
The crowd erupted in a ripple of gasps and stifled laughter, whispers spreading like sparks on dry tinder. Lortar's jaw clenched, his face flushing with barely contained rage.
I pressed on, my tone light, almost reverent, as if marveling at a discovery.
"I mean… Lortar is a common orc name, isn't it? And your features—the broad jaw, the sturdy build—strikingly orc-like." I nodded slowly, lips curving in feigned approval. "Yes… unmistakably orcish."
His smirk collapsed into a snarl, his eyes blazing with humiliated fury.
Before he could retort, I continued, my voice warm, edged with sincerity that cut deeper than any insult. "Be proud, Lortar. Orcs are formidable, honorable beings. I hold them in high esteem."
The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate, as the crowd's murmurs swelled into a wildfire of hushed voices. Lortar's face twisted, caught in a storm of rage and shame, his hands twitching as if itching to strike.
The lantern light cast harsh shadows across his features, amplifying the contortion of his expression as the weight of my words sank in.
-"A professor is here, "a random in the crowd said.
-"Good, maybe this'll get shut down before someone gets hurt," another whispered.
-"Yeah, but… did you see what Kyzen just said? He called him an orc—"
Thank God, I thought inwardly.
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It was all going well, I felt certain Lortar would back down—professor or not. The weight of authority alone should've been enough to drag him off this pathetic performance.
But then my eyes locked on the figure pushing through the crowd.
Not a student. A professor.
My stomach dropped.
Of course, it had to be him. Of all the professors in this academy, it had to be him who came.
Five minutes remained until the duel began. "If anyone wishes to forfeit, do it now," the assistant professor said, catching my attention. His voice echoed across the training grounds, sharp and final.
The assistant professor's offer had seemed so tempting at first. I wanted to accept it, to say yes and save myself, not caring about looking weak—as long as I stayed safe.
The thought hit me hard, my heart pounding like the crowd's whispers from that night. But I stopped.
If I gave in, it wouldn't just hurt me—it would hurt Kyzen's name. If Kyzen were here, he wouldn't fight back or make a scene.
He'd stay quiet, let the seniors have their way, and avoid trouble, keeping his head down. He'd let it pass, thinking it would cause fewer problems.
Did I make a mistake? Should I have stayed silent, let it all pass, and avoided trouble? In my mind, I saw how silence could have been easier, keeping things calm. But deep inside, a stronger feeling grew, bright like the lantern that lit Lortar's angry face.
A faint, warm smile crossed my lips as I thought, "If I can't stand up for Kyzen's friends and family, for the people who matter most to him, what other reason will I find in the future?"
I stepped towards a weapon rack, my eyes scanning the choices.
A spear? Too slow for this fight. A broadsword? Too heavy for my style.
My fingers brushed a slim rapier, its blade light and sharp.
"This will do."
I gripped the hilt tightly and turned to face Lortar. He stood across the dueling grounds, a greatsword resting on his shoulder, his smug grin wide and mocking.
I walked up to the assistant professor, his hands adjusting a small device.
The rules were clear: we could use Tier-2 magic.
I pinned the small device onto my shirt. It was a membrane-type barrier artifact. It would break when the force crosses a certain threshold from spells or the weapons before shattering. Once broken, it could not be reused, leaving us exposed.
I drove the sword into the packed earth, its hilt steady as I reached into my pocket. From it, I pulled black gloves, their white silver fingernails glinting faintly, like Liam's own. I slipped them on, flexing my fingers.
"Are both sides ready? The assistant professors asked in a loud voice."
As I gripped the simple wooden sword, the fingernails made it awkward, digging into my palm, then I shifted my grip, switching the sword to my left hand. This freed my right hand to move and chant spells easily.
The crowd's murmurs rose, a wave of whispers rippling through the packed circle.
-"Is he joking?" someone muttered.
-"What's he doing? He could just give up if he wants!" another voice hissed.
-Everyone was shocked by my move, and I don't blame them.
Kyzen always used his right hand; his whole life was built around it.
But what if someone else possessed his body—someone with twenty years of mastery in their left hand instead?
I smirked, adrenaline surging as I raised my rapier, the blade catching the light in a sharp, silver flash.
Lortar's eyes narrowed as he saw my changed stance, his smug grin widening. "You're going to regret this, Kyzen," he sneered, his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear. "I know you're no fighter."
"Are you ready?" the assistant professor called again, his voice sharp and commanding over the dueling grounds.
We both nodded, no hesitation this time, ready to face the clash. I rolled my right shoulder, letting out a slow breath. "Stop grinning, Lortar. Your face is ugly enough already."
His veins bulged with anger, his jaw tightening as the crowd's whispers grew louder.
"Three!" the assistant professor shouted.
We began chanting, our voices low and steady, murmurs just loud enough to catch. I watched the other's lips for clues.
Sure enough, the words matched—simple spells, nothing fancy. A basic speed boost, sharpening the body for faster movement.
"Two! One! Begin!"
Garrick lunged, his wooden greatsword a battering ram.
With a speed boost, the weapon's weight barely slowed him. Within seconds, he'd matched my pace—his natural strength amplified by the spell.
Each swing thundered through the air, rattling my bones. I managed to parry some, dodged the rest, but every strike carried enough force to shake me off balance, my footwork slipping under the pressure.
His strikes carried the weight of a senior—fast, heavy, unyielding.
I met him head-on, my sword gripped tight in my left hand, its slender frame flashing under the lantern glow.
I can't keep this up. I need to find his weakness—and fast—then plan a spell around it.This bastard wasn't just fighting me. He was trying to humiliate me, to crush me without even touching magic.
Wood slammed against wood in a relentless rhythm, every impact shuddering up my arm. I parried, countered—movements sharp, precise—but his sheer power pressed me back, forcing me to weave, sidestep, slip through the narrowest gaps. His blade carved the air inches from my chest, close enough to taste the danger.
Around us, the crowd's murmurs swelled, their excitement crackling like a storm about to break.