"Five days had passed since Gareth's trial, yet the weight of it still hung over Class 101 like a storm that refused to break."
Class one hundred and one sat in rows, the lecture hall carved of old stone, sunlight filtering in through tall, dusty windows. Dust motes floated lazily, but no one stirred them. Thirty students sat like shadows, wrapped in their own thoughts. Joren slouched against the podium.
His usual grin was there, but dull, like a blade gone blunt. The goggles on his head caught a streak of sun, hiding the faint glaze in his eyes. "Congrats," he muttered, voice low, flat. "You're still alive kid's." No theatrics this time. No cocky smirk to rile them up. His hand rested heavy on the desk, and for a moment it seemed he was looking straight through them. Then, just as quick, his mask returned — but thinner, cracked at the edges. "Bottom of the barrel, class 101. That's you. Remember it."
No one answered. Even the usual banter had bled away. Their silence wasn't obedience — it was exhaustion. Bruises still ran like ink across their faces. But deeper than that, something had sunk in: the weight of their weakness. Kael's eyes were fixed on the grain of the wooden desk, knuckles pale. Lyra sat upright but distant, her sword-callused hands trembling faintly in her lap.
The silence of Class 101 still lingered, thick as smoke, when the doors at the far end of the lecture hall boomed open.
Every head turned.
They entered in perfect formation. Rows upon rows of students, their uniforms sharp and spotless, boots striking the stone floor in unison. Not thirty. Not fifty. Hundreds. Each one carried themselves with the weight of hard-forged steel — tall, confident, eyes gleaming with discipline. Even their silence was intimidating, a living wall of strength pressing into the hall.
This was Class 17. The academy's pride, Dawncrest's chosen. Where Class 101 was the bottom of the barrel, these were the summit — the ones destined to command armies, inherit noble titles, carve their names into history.
The air itself seemed to shift around them.
At their front walked a single figure, calm amidst the storm of disciplined steps. Aulerian Dawncrest.
He didn't shout. He didn't strut. His presence did not demand attention — it commanded it. His posture was upright but relaxed, his movements fluid, unhurried. A boy still in years, yet with the bearing of a man who had looked far too deeply into life and found no comfort in its answers.
His pale-gray eyes swept across the battered faces of Class 101, lingering not with scorn, but with something stranger: understanding. Sadness, even. As if he carried the weight of their bruises on his own shoulders.
Behind him, the hundreds of Class 17 students stood like an army awaiting their general's word. But Aulerian did not boast of their strength. He only spoke, voice quiet — yet carrying to every corner of the hall.
"Strength is not in how high you stand… but in how far you can fall, and rise again."
The words seemed simple, almost gentle — but they struck deeper than any blade.
Even Joren Dawnmere's grin vanished. For a heartbeat, the cocky professor lowered his gaze.
Class 101 shifted uneasily, some unable to meet Aulerian's calm eyes, others transfixed as though he'd seen into their very doubts.
And then, as smoothly as they'd arrived, Aulerian inclined his head — not in arrogance, but almost in respect — and led Class 17 onward. Their boots thundered as they marched past, leaving the air heavy with awe, envy, and something Class 101 had never felt before: the crushing reminder of what true power looked like.
The thunder of boots still echoed as Class 17 filled the hall, their formation stretching wall to wall. The air pressed down on Class 101 like a storm front, heavy and suffocating.
Whispers broke among the students."Gods, there's so many…""They look like soldiers, not students…""Why are they even here?"
Lyra's hands tightened in her lap. Even her fiery spirit faltered beneath the sheer weight of those hundreds of sharp gazes. A bead of sweat slid down another boy's temple, his breath quick and shallow.
The fear was real.
Aulerian's calm eyes swept across them, unhurried, seeing everything — and somehow, that quiet look crushed harder than if he'd sneered.
A silence spread through Class 101, heavy with dread. Some students lowered their eyes, others fidgeted, as though even meeting the elite class's gaze might break them.
Then, Kael slammed his palm down on his desk, the crack echoing through the hall. His voice cut through their fear like a whip:
"Pathetic." His eyes burned as he scanned his classmates. "They breathe the same air as us. They bleed like us. You're letting their boots and uniforms scare you?" He spat the words, his lip curling. "Cowards. All of you."
No one answered. His words hit hard, but they couldn't erase the pounding in their chests.
Kael leaned forward, fists clenched, his voice rough and sharp. "Sit up. Stop shaking. You think bowing your heads will save you when it matters? No. You'll die with your eyes open. So lift them."
His fury stirred something, but it wasn't enough. Even with Kael's barked challenge, the weight of Class 17's presence lingered like chains around their throats. Their fear didn't vanish — it just simmered beneath the surface, raw and unshaken.
And through it all, Aulerian remained silent, his calm gaze watching Class 101 wrestle with their own shadows.
Joren leaned back in his chair, arms folded, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. For all the tension choking the room, he looked like a man lounging at a tavern, not a professor standing between two classes on the edge of war.
"Well," he drawled, letting the silence stretch, "since everyone's making such a grand show of things…" His goggles slid lower on his brow, catching the sunlight, hiding his eyes. "Might as well put it to use."
A ripple passed through Class 101. Heads turned, breath caught.
Joren's grin sharpened. "The Via Battle begins. Class 101 against Class 17. Weakest against strongest. Bottom of the barrel against the academy's golden heirs. Fair, isn't it?"
Murmurs erupted instantly — shock, fear, disbelief. Some of 101's students went pale. Others clenched their fists, caught between dread and defiance. Behind them, Class 17 stood unmoving, their discipline unbroken, their silence louder than laughter.
Then Joren raised a hand and pointed lazily, like a man picking fruit from a market stall.
"First blood…" His grin widened. "Kael Draven."
Every eye snapped to him.
Kael froze only for a breath. His knuckles whitened against the desk, his jaw tight, but he rose all the same, the scrape of his chair against the stone floor echoing like a challenge. His glare cut across Class 17, hot with fury.
A low murmur rippled through the hall. Class 101's first fighter — their loudest, roughest voice — had just been thrown to the wolves.
And somewhere in the crowd, Aulerian Dawncrest's pale eyes lingered on him, unreadable.
The stone floor of the arena thrummed with tension as Kael Draven stepped forward. His boots echoed, heavy, defiant, though his heart rattled in his chest. From Class 17, a single figure detached himself from their perfect formation — tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp grin that spoke of certainty, not nerves.
"Name's Varic," the man said, rolling his shoulders as if this were a warm-up. His eyes gleamed with the cruel confidence of one who had never tasted defeat. "You? You're the bottom rung. Don't worry—I'll make it quick. Dogs don't deserve to suffer long."
Kael's lip curled. "Shut your mouth."
Varic only chuckled. "Bark, bark. Let's see how long you last before you whimper."
The signal was given.
Varic's hand flicked—Kael's body lurched violently sideways, slammed by invisible force. He hit the ground hard, ribs screaming. The crowd gasped. Telekinesis.
Kael roared, forcing himself up, roots of fire and earth tearing from the ground, lashing toward Varic. The man smirked, raised a hand, and the roots bent unnaturally, hurled aside like broken twigs. Kael barely had time to react before he was flung into the wall again, coughing blood.
"Pathetic," Varic sneered. "Class 101 really is the scrap-heap."
But Kael stood. Again. Bruised, swelling, his lip split. His fire-roots flared once more, driving toward Varic. Again, the man's invisible hand swatted them away. Kael hit the floor a third time, wheezing.
From Class 101's side, whispers of fear. Someone muttered, "He's done…"
Kael staggered upright, his vision swimming. Why am I even going this far? I hate this. I hate being hurt. Why am I here?
Varic's voice cut through his thoughts. "Stay down. Spare yourself the humiliation."
Kael spat blood and grinned through broken teeth. "You'll have to kill me first."
He charged again, fists wrapped in earth and fire, only to be slammed into the ground so hard the floor cracked beneath him. His cheek ballooned, his body shook. Still, he rose.
The silence of 101 broke — one student shouted, then another, until voices echoed: "KAEL! KAEL!" The hall shook with their cheers.
Varic's grin wavered.
Kael's thoughts sharpened, bitter and raw. Why am I still fighting? Is this my father's will? …Then fine. I'll see this through to the end.
And then something in him cracked open. Shadows pooled at his feet, coiling up his arms like living chains. The light dimmed, whispers crawling across the hall, alien and cold. Varic faltered, his telekinetic grip straining against the unnatural dark.
Kael's voice was a rasp: "Let's end this."
The shadows exploded forward—unnatural roots lashing out, catching Varic, binding him, wrenching him into the air. The mocking laughter died in his throat as the roots constricted. A single, brutal slam to the stone floor — and silence. Varic lay unmoving, unconscious.
For a heartbeat, the hall was utterly still.
Kael swayed, the shadows retreating back into the ground. His chest heaved, his eyes wide with something between triumph and horror. His body gave way, collapsing onto his knees.
Then, like thunder breaking a storm, Class 101 erupted — roaring, screaming his name, their voices raw with pride.
But beneath the noise, Kael already knew the truth. He had won, but not by his own path. His veins burned with backlash, his body rejecting the shadow magic. For one long month, his own veil roots would remain silent, locked away.
And as the cheers echoed around him, Kael closed his swollen eyes and thought only one thing: Father… was this enough?
Kael stayed on his knees, chest heaving, every breath a stab of fire through his ribs. The shadows had retreated, but their poison lingered — his veins felt like molten glass, burning from the inside out. His hands trembled violently, the last threads of strength shaking loose.
The cheers of Class 101 crashed over him, but he only laughed hoarsely, spitting blood onto the stone. "Heh… you idiots… don't cheer too loud. I just screwed myself over."
Confusion rippled through his classmates, but Kael forced his swollen face up, eyes bloodshot, teeth bared in something between a grin and a grimace. "That… wasn't my pathway. Those shadows weren't mine. Using them shredded my connection. I can't… I can't call on fire or earth anymore. Not for weeks. Maybe a month."
He groaned, clutching his ribs, yet his voice still carried. "This is the price of cheating fate. You get power, but it guts you for it."
For a moment, silence weighed on the hall again. Even Class 17's ranks stood still, watching the wreck of a boy who refused to stay down.
Then Kael turned his head, one swollen eye fixing on the line of his classmates. "Nyx," he rasped. "Your turn. Show them we're not just trash. Don't screw it up."
He tried to rise, legs buckling, but refused to fall. Two students hurried to his side, catching his arms. With their support, Kael staggered toward the infirmary doors, each step leaving drops of blood on the stone.
As he passed out of sight, the echo of his words lingered — raw, defiant, unbroken.
And all eyes turned to Nyx.
The dust from Kael's battle hadn't even settled when Joren's voice cut through the hall."Next. Talia Nyx."
Nyx cracked his neck, lightning faintly sparking along his arms as he stepped forward. The crowd's cheers for Kael faded into murmurs, students leaning in with anticipation.
Across the arena, the next challenger emerged. A girl from Class 17. She moved with quiet grace, her posture calm, eyes unreadable. She wasn't mocking or boastful — only steady. The arena floor seemed to harden under her steps, pebbles shifting as stone obeyed her will.
Her voice was soft, but carried."Don't expect me to fall as easily. I am Petra Veyra, and my roots are stone itself."
The ground rumbled, jagged walls forming around her like a fortress. She raised one hand, and a curtain of rock slid up from the floor, a shield taller than herself. Defensive roots, unwavering.
Nyx smirked. "So you're a wall? Perfect. I like breaking things."
He lunged, sparks exploding from his palms. Lightning lashed out, slamming against the stone barrier. It cracked but held firm, Petra's eyes narrowing with focus. She didn't move to attack — she let the earth answer for her, shifting the floor under Nyx's feet, trying to trip him, drag him down.
Nyx twisted with the wind, rolling to his feet, smirking even as sweat ran down his temple."You're calm, I'll give you that… but walls don't win wars."
Wind surged at his back, carrying him forward with blistering speed. His strikes hit harder, faster, arcs of lightning scattering across the shield until the cracks spread wider. Petra's lips pressed thin, her hands moving in steady rhythm to reinforce her stone wall, another shield rising behind the first, her defense layered and unyielding.
The hall trembled with each clash — lightning against stone, storm against mountain.
Nyx's lightning shot forward, searing the air with a sharp crack. Petra lifted her stone mirror, its polished surface reflecting the strike with cruel precision.
The bolt ricocheted back, slamming into Nyx's chest. She was thrown back, coughing, sparks dancing along his ribs.
But when the next surge hit her own mirror wrong — a jagged bolt splitting — it coiled around the edge and struck her instead.
The shockwave blasted Petra off her feet, her stone walls collapsing with a groan. She hit the ground hard, the taste of blood rising in her mouth. Nyx on the side took a deep tired sigh, he then got off the wall and grumbled. Then Petra mind got zoomed to the past memories buried deep in her facade of calmness.
The world blurred, the hall fading to silence.
And then… she was a child again.
The smell of smoke. The border flames between Aurensport and Luminara. Screams tearing through the night. Her house burning. Her sisters crying.
Her choice.
Her mother's hand, reaching. Her sisters' voices, begging. And her decision — the one she could never take back. She had chosen her mother. The sisters had burned.
And with that choice, came the stares. The whispers. The ridicule.
Coward.Traitor.Monster.
She'd grown under their gaze, her heart breaking more with each passing day. Her brothers' hatred. Her father's silence, his eyes sliding past her as if she didn't exist.
She'd stood on the cliff's edge once, small hands shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks. The thought of ending it all weighing on her fragile heart.
But she couldn't jump. She couldn't end it. The fear was too great. She had sobbed until her chest hurt, sobbed until she thought her very soul would crack.
And then, in that moment of despair — she'd seen it. The faint shimmer of her roots awakening. Stone. Her soul itself.
Now, lying on the academy floor, her body weak from Nyx's lightning, Petra's eyes welled again. The calm mask she wore was cracking.
The crowd murmured as Petra lay on the floor, lightning still sparking faintly around her. Nyx straightened, chest heaving, his smirk faltering when he saw her eyes.
Not anger. Not rage. But tiredness.
Petra pushed herself up, blood running down her lip, her palms pressed to the ground. Stone quivered, cracked, then rose again in jagged spikes. Her shield reformed, though it trembled with each breath she took.
"...You think this will stop me?" she whispered, voice raw. "Pain isn't new to me."
Nyx narrowed his eyes. "Then get ready for more."
He lunged again, wind at his back, lightning roaring along his fists. The arena lit with white arcs, striking against her shields. Cracks spiderwebbed across the stone, but Petra didn't yield.
Every strike against her wall was another whisper from her past.Traitor. Coward. Monster.
She remembered her father's back, turned away. Her brothers' scornful eyes. Her mother's quiet prayers. The sisters she could never save.
She remembered her father's back, turned away. Her brothers' scornful eyes. Her mother's quiet prayers. The sisters she could never save.
Tears welled as she braced her defenses. "I've stood alone since I was a child… and I'll stand here too!".
The crowd stirred — Class 101 students tensed, Class 17 stood silent, unreadable.
Nyx snarled, forcing more energy through his arms, arcs scattering. "Then I'll tear that wall down, stone by stone!"
Their clash shook the hall. Lightning struck against stone, sparks cascading in showers of blue and gold. Nyx's speed, relentless, chipped at her calm — but Petra's roots responded in kind, the floor itself hardening under her, each shield like another piece of her soul.
Still, the cracks deepened. Her defenses were failing.
The jagged walls rushed toward him like a tidal wave of stone. For a moment, the entire hall gasped — Petra had thrown everything into this last desperate strike.
Nyx skidded back, lightning sparking wildly across her arms, her veins burning. Her chest heaved, her smirk gone, replaced with something raw: defiance.
"Walls don't win wars!" her roared, her voice cracking with pain.
She slammed her fists together — lightning and wind fused, howling like a storm. Then she surged forward, her body blurring with speed, sparks searing bright enough to blind.
The impact shook the hall.
Her lightning crashed into Petra's wall, shattering it like glass. Shards of stone flew across the arena as the storm tore through, ripping the ground apart in its path.
Petra cried out, thrown back, her defenses collapsing around her like a crumbling fortress. She hit the floor hard, her body twitching from the aftershock, her shields gone.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Nyx stood in the center of the ruined arena, chest heaving, lightning fading from his arms. His knuckles bled, his body swayed — but he was still standing.
Petra tried to push herself up again, trembling… but her arms gave out. She collapsed, her face wet with tears she couldn't hold back. The memories, the shame, the betrayal — all of it crashing down harder than the lightning.
The silence broke.
Class 101 erupted into cheers, their voices thundering against the high walls. Nyx barely managed a crooked grin, lifting one hand in acknowledgement before his knees buckled.
The infirmary aides rushed forward to carry Petra away, her expression a mix of sorrow and emptiness, her eyes still shining with the memory of flames and choices that could never be undone.
Nyx looked after her, her grin fading. For just a moment, she saw not an opponent — but a girl still fighting battles she could never win.
The roar of Class 101 still echoed when Joren finally stirred from his slouched seat. He clapped lazily, the sound sharp, cutting through the noise until silence fell again.
"Not bad," he drawled, goggles glinting in the torchlight. "A bit sloppy. A bit too much crying and bleeding for my taste… but not bad. At least you didn't bore me."
Nyx shot him a glare through sweat and blood, but Joren only smirked wider. His voice boomed across the hall, carrying the weight of finality:
"The next match begins now."
He raised a finger, pointing lazily toward Class 101."Darius Quell."
Darius froze, his jaw tightening. The air seemed heavier as he rose from his seat, each step carrying the weight of expectation.
Then Joren's hand shifted toward Class 17. His smirk thinned into something unreadable.
"And you…" His eyes scanned the line of waiting students, finally settling on one. He didn't give a name. Just a crooked smile, sharp as a knife. "Step forward."
The student from Class 17 moved. Slow. Deliberate. His shadow stretched long across the cracked arena floor, his features hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. The hall seemed to still as he walked, whispers fluttering like uneasy birds.
Joren leaned back, arms folding."Let's see if you're worth the trouble."
The tension snapped tight, the crowd holding its breath.
And just like that, the chapter closed — the stage set, the next clash inevitable no.