At the highest point of the Lunarium, above the towers, above the shifting halls, above even the endless plains of moonflowers—
Aster sat alone.
Not Charlotte. Not the smiling heretic witch the world had come to know.
Just Aster.
He leaned back lazily on his chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, a phone loosely held in his hand. His thumb scrolled absentmindedly across the glowing screen, expression dull, almost bored.
"…Still works," he muttered.
It was ridiculous, honestly. A pocket of space, separated from the world itself. And yet, somehow, the thing was still connected to the internet.
A small portal, no larger than a coin, floated near the edge of the room. From it, a thin cable stretched outward, disappearing into somewhere far beyond the Lunarium. A crude solution. But effective.
Internet. Inside a dimension. He had done it on a whim.
Because why not?
Magic didn't reject science itself. People of the Witching Hour just refused to apply it.
And Aster—
had never been one of those people.
He flicked his phone off and let it drop onto his lap, his gaze drifting downward.
Below him—
The Lunarium is flourishing with life.
What was once an empty, silent field of moonflowers had transformed completely. Stalls lined the edges of the plains. Students moved in clusters. Voices filled the air.
Charms, food, tools, trinkets, and even Bareblood-inspired goods had started appearing.
It looked less like a coven now—
and more like a city.
"…Huh."
He didn't hate it. In fact—he had encouraged it.
When the merchants of Nocturne started setting up outside the Lunarium entrance, he had approached them personally.
A simple offer.
"10–90 split."
They had looked at him, rather her in her Charlotte appearance, like she was insane. Until he clarified.
"I get ten."
That was all it took.
Agreement came instantly. I mean who wouldn't? Greed was predictable, shimmering in their eyes as they stared at Charlotte's contract.
Now, their inventories kept growing—
fed by stuff Charlotte casually handed out like scraps.
Concepts from another world. A mixture of magic and science itself.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand in his office.
"…This place is starting to run itself."
And that—
was both impressive… and annoying. Because it meant something else had started piling up.
He turned his head slowly. And stared at it.
A mountain. Letters. Stacks upon stacks, piled carelessly across his desk.
"…I hate this part."
Being the head of the Lunarium wasn't difficult.
It was just—
tedious.
Assemblies. Reports. Maintenance.
Mana supply checks for the constructs. Senate communications. Family complaints.
And then—
these. Letters ranged from useful—Suggestions for infrastructure. Requests for additional classes. Improvements to systems—to complete nonsense. Complaints about supernaturals. Complaints about rankings. Complaints about Charlotte herself.
"…Racist," he muttered, flipping one open and immediately tossing it aside.
Another one.
"…Entitled." Another. "…Delusional."
He dropped his head back against the chair with a groan.
"Why are witches like this…"
KNOCK.
The sound echoed through the room.
Aster exhaled.
"…Of course."
In a flicker of mana—
he became Charlotte.
His posture shifted, his presence softened, and his expression adjusted.
The door opened.
"Ms. Charlotte." Dorothy stood outside, calm as always with her gentleness and composedness. But there was something slightly different in her eyes today.
Concern.
"There's… something happening at the plains," she said.
Charlotte raised a brow.
"…Something?"
Dorothy nodded.
"I believe it requires your presence."
Charlotte sighed.
"…Yeah. Of course it does."
The moment they arrived—
they heard it.
Voices echoing loud and sharp. Clashing with just how many was currently talking.
At the center of the plains, a crowd had already formed. Students gathered in circles, whispering, watching, waiting.
And in the middle of it all—
A group of witches.
Arguing.
No—
complaining.
Charlotte hovered above the scene, arms crossed loosely.
"…What now."
Dorothy stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise.
"What is the meaning of this... bickering?"
Her tone wasn't loud—
but it carried.
The crowd stilled.
"You will not cause disturbances in a place meant for learning," she continued, her eyes opening slightly. Just enough to send a quiet pressure across the area.
Silence soon followed.
Then—
eyes shifted. Upward. Toward Charlotte.
They quickly stopped bickering and focused their attention towards her.
"Ms. Charlotte."
The tone changed.
Respect.
But beneath it—
frustration.
One of them stepped forward. Older than most students. Well-dressed and the confidence that someone with her age would carry.
"We need to speak."
Charlotte didn't respond immediately. She just looked at them.
"…Go ahead."
The witch straightened.
"We are not Beginners. We shouldn't be in this rank."
Murmurs spread instantly. Charlotte didn't react and the witch continued her speech.
"Some of us have practiced magic for decades. Some of us come from families that have defined magical systems for generations."
Another voice joined in.
"And yet—"
"We're placed below supernaturals?"
"That ranking system is flawed!"
"Biased!"
More voices. Louder now.
"This is insulting!"
Charlotte watched.
Her eyes were quiet and tired. Because this again. Same pattern. Different faces. Different names. Same pride. Same insecurity.
She exhaled slowly.
"…Are you done?"
The words weren't loud. But they landed.
Silence followed.
She looked at them, really looked this time.
At their posture. At their tension. At the way they stood—
like they had something to prove.
"…You think I should rank you based on status?" she asked.
No answer.
"Lineage?" she continued. Still nothing.
"…Age?"
A pause.
"…No," one admitted.
Charlotte nodded.
"Good. At least you're not completely stupid."
A few flinched but she really didn't care.
"You're Beginners," she said plainly. "Because you don't understand what you're doing."
The words hit harder than any insult.
"Knowing spells doesn't mean you understand them," she continued.
"Repeating something taught to you isn't mastery." Her gaze shifted briefly across the crowd.
"You've been practicing magic for decades?"
A pause.
"…Then that just means you've been doing the same thing wrong for decades."
That—
stung.
Badly.
The air tightened. Some clenched their fists. Some looked away.
Others—
burned with something sharper than anger.
Humiliation.
Charlotte sighed again.
"…Look." She rubbed the back of her neck. "I get it."
A pause.
"Your pride's hurt."
No denial. Because it was true. So she tilted her head slightly.
"…Then prove me wrong."
That—
caught their attention.
"…What?" one asked.
Charlotte smiled faintly.
"A duel."
Silence. Then confusion.
"A what?"
"A proper one," she clarified.
She raised a finger.
"Next week."
Another.
"Everyone participates, Witches and Supernaturals, if they want." Another.
"You win—" She paused. "…you prove you actually deserve it."
The crowd leaned in slightly.
"And if you can actually show me you deserve it—"
A small smirk.
"I'll move you guys up."
That—
changed everything.
Murmurs returned. But it was different now.
Excited. Interested. Hopeful.
"And there's a reward for the ones who never protested for a rank up. Of course you guys can get it too on top of your rank promotion," Charlotte added casually.
Now—
they were fully hooked.
"What reward?" someone asked.
Charlotte shrugged.
"…Something worth your effort." She didn't elaborate.
She didn't need to and that was enough.
Because now—
their pride had direction.
"…Fine," one of them said.
Others nodded as agreement spread quickly.
Because this—
was something they understood.
Status and proof.
"Good," Charlotte said simply.
And just like that—
The tension dissolved and the crowd had dispersed.
Dorothy glanced at Charlotte briefly.
"…That was effective."
Charlotte exhaled.
"…It was annoying."
Back in her office—
Charlotte dropped into her chair face-first.
"…I need a break."
She stayed like that for a few seconds.
Then groaned.
"…Nope. Still work."
She lifted her head and reached for another letter.
Then stopped.
"…Actually." She tapped the desk lightly. "…This might work." She pulled out a communication crystal.
"…Let's make it official."
The Senate didn't like it. Of course they didn't. "A competitive combat system within an academic institution?"
"…Risky."
"…Unnecessary."
"…Potentially dangerous."
Charlotte listened. She didn't interrupt.
Then—
"…I already solved that."
Silence.
"…Explain," Mistress Mildred of the Senate spoke.
She smiled slightly.
"Franziska, my wi- my engineer. I already made her make it. A stage."
Charlotte gave a thorough explanation on what she had planned as uses the spell Display, displaying the Lunarium. A stage for dueling. Literally for that purpose.
Placed at the center of the Lunarium—
a circular platform formed.
Runes layered beneath its surface. Enchantments woven into its structure. It ranges from: Barriers, safety systems, visual flairs.
Franziska stood proudly beside it, arms crossed.
"Tested it myself," she said.
Above the stage—
two bars appeared.
Floating. Equal. Mirrored.
"HP system. The visual flair I made," Franziska explained casually.
Mildred blinked.
"…You actually named it that?"
"Yeah."
The Senate stare in awe.
Franziska pointed.
"When it hits zero, a teleportation spell triggers. Immediate removal from the field. No damage towards anyone as it just protects them with the barriers."
A pause.
They knew. The Senate knew that those professors in Lunarium were no mere witches. If they were to think, they'd say that they could rival Charlotte.
And just like that—
The Lunarium Duel was born.
Not as punishment. Not as control. But as something else entirely.
An outlet. A stage. A way for pride to be tested.
Because Charlotte already knew—
Witches wouldn't stop being proud.
And neither would the supernaturals.
Different origins.
Different instincts.
Same problem.
They wouldn't stop comparing. They wouldn't stop competing. They wouldn't stop proving—who was stronger, who was better, whose way of wielding power was superior. So instead of suppressing it— She gave them freedom to express it.
A place where witches and supernaturals could stand on equal ground.
Not by lineage. Not by birthright. But by what they could actually do.
And now—
they would fight.
Not for status given by blood. But for something far more dangerous. Proof.
And far below—unseen by most— the consequences of that decision were already beginning to ripple.
Because pride—when given a stage—doesn't just perform.
It escalates.