With the declaration of the upcoming duel, everything changed.
What started as complaints—petty, loud, entitled complaints—had now turned into something else entirely.
Preparation.
The Lunarium shifted in ways that were subtle at first, but impossible to ignore once noticed.
Students who once argued endlessly about rankings, lineage, and perceived bias were now training with a level of intensity that bordered on obsession. Conversations that once revolved around pride had now been replaced with strategy, refinement, and quiet desperation. Families who once scoffed at Charlotte's system—who dismissed it as reckless, unstable, and beneath the traditions of the Witching Hour—were now watching.
Closely. Carefully. Calculating.
Because now, there was something to gain. Not just prestige. Not just validation. But proof. Proof that their bloodlines still meant something in a system that refused to acknowledge it.
And for those who had protested—those who had publicly questioned Charlotte's judgment in front of everyone—they had even more reason to win. They were the only ones who stood to gain both the reward and the promotion. A chance to reclaim their standing. A chance to prove that they were right all along.
So they trained. Harder than they ever had before on top of the lessons being provided by the teachers.
But what truly stirred the students, what truly lit something deeper, something sharper beneath all that preparation, was something else entirely.
Aurora and Theodore weren't allowed to join.
At first, there had been confusion. Quiet questions whispered between students who didn't fully understand the decision. Then came disbelief, especially from those who thought the duel would be their chance to stand against the strongest among them. That disbelief slowly turned into relief for some. An unspoken acknowledgment that they wouldn't have to face monsters far beyond their reach.
And then, eventually—
A strange kind of frustration settled in. Because everyone knew why.
They weren't excluded unfairly. They were excluded because they were already beyond it.
Aurora Welsch. Even within the Lunarium, where talent had begun to normalize at an alarming rate, she still stood apart. There was no effort in it. No deliberate attempt to dominate. She simply existed at a level that made comparison meaningless. On top of Theodore's rise to Intermediate, she was still stuck at the Beginner stage. She doesn't really complain. She too can see it. Theo's already unmatched compared to her. Even with Iskaryon with her side, going all out, Theodore would still win if they were to duel.
The Witch of Absolute Ice.
The White Calamity.
Titles that once sounded exaggerated—stories passed around to instill awe or fear—had now become something tangible.
Real.
Seen.
Some had witnessed her during training sessions, where the air itself seemed to freeze before she even cast a spell. Others had seen her during hunts, where entire battlefields fell silent under her presence alone.
And some… understood it simply by standing near her.
That quiet cold. That overwhelming stillness. It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't hostility. It was just what she had become.
The living embodiment of Absolute Ice.
And then there was her attire.
It wasn't unfamiliar—
Not anymore.
The Lunarium had already seen it in action. But seeing it up close, without the chaos of battle to distract from it, made people realize just how deliberate it truly was.
Aurora, just like the other students, wore traditional robes provided to students by the coven.
But when she does practice, she wears her signature outfit, unique just like what Theodore wears.
What manifested around her was something far more refined.
A coat of crystal blue draped over her shoulders—
sharp, structured, and impossibly clean, like frozen glass carved into form.
Beneath it, a fitted inner layer of white and silver traced along her frame, flexible yet precise, as if it had been designed rather than sewn.
Subtle glimmers shifted across its surface, like shards of ice catching a pale sky.
The entire set wasn't just protection—it was enhancement.
Built around her to cover her weakness. It reduced the strain of her Absolute Ice, correcting imperfections mid-cast, sharpening control in ways that shouldn't have been possible without years more experience.
And yet—
She wore it like it was nothing.
As if it had always been hers. As if she had already grown into something that required it. Then there was the hairpin. Resting just above her ear. Ice-crystal-shaped.
Clear. Intricate. Almost fragile in appearance. But no one mistook it for decoration. It held the dragon, Iskaryon. The mana, crystallized into a form of ice, sits on it, listening.
And when people asked about it, Charlotte never gave them anything more.
"It's for my disciples."
Not students.
Disciples.
That distinction alone was enough to unsettle even the most composed among them.
Because if Aurora wasn't considered a student, then she stood as something set apart from them entirely.
And then—
Theodore D'Arcel.
If Aurora was overwhelming in presence, Theodore was unsettling in nature. Because his growth didn't make sense. Not to witches who spent decades refining their craft. Not to supernaturals who relied on instinct and inheritance.
Not even to his own family.
He had once been frail. Sickly. A child who could barely stand without assistance. Someone whose future was quietly dismissed before it had even begun.
And now—
He stood among them.
There was no dramatic aura around him. No overwhelming pressure like Aurora's.
But when he moved—
Things ended.
Cleanly. Precisely. Without waste.
To the supernaturals within the Lunarium, Theodore wasn't just strong. He was something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Proof that they didn't have to remain beneath witches. That they didn't have to rely solely on what they were born with. That they could learn, adapt, and stand on equal ground. Not behind, not below, but beside.
And that—
Was where the problem truly began.
Because while the Lunarium celebrated growth, adaptation, and progress—
The families did not.
The witches who don't desire change, who have always looked down on the supernaturals for being different, are seething with something else.
Deep within the D'Arcel estate, that tension manifested in the most violent way possible. And that is because, Lucien's wives had the same thoughts in their head.
"GODDAMN IT!!"
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the halls, sharp and sudden against the otherwise pristine silence of the estate.
Marielle D'Arcel stood at the center of it, chest rising and falling rapidly as fragments of crystal scattered across the polished floor.
"Mother, calm down—"
"Calm down?" she snapped, her voice slicing through the room with barely restrained fury.
"Calm down?!"
Her gaze locked onto her children, sharp and unsteady all at once.
"That stepbrother of yours is becoming something we can't control."
No one spoke.
Because they knew it was true. They had read the reports. Heard the updates. Seen the subtle but undeniable changes in Theodore's behavior, in his presence, in the way others reacted to him.
"He's getting stronger by the minute because of that witch," Marielle continued, her tone lowering but growing more dangerous with each word.
"That… Heretic."
Her fingers curled as if grasping at something intangible, something she couldn't quite reach.
"The Ravens may support us," she added, pacing now, agitation bleeding into every step. "Persephone herself gave her word. She said the D'Arcel wouldn't stand alone in the succession."
She let out a hollow laugh.
"Support?" Her eyes darkened. "What does that even mean now?"
No one answered.
Because the name Persephone Raven still carried authority, influence, reassurance. But even that—
Felt uncertain now.
"Against Charlotte Sweeiz?" she pressed, quieter now, but far heavier.
"Against whatever she's building in that place?"
"Mother…" One of her children spoke, quietly.
Her pacing slowed before stopping entirely.
"And the succession ceremony…" she murmured.
Her voice dropped. Not loud, but suffocating.
"Do you understand what happens if he continues like this?"
Her children remained still, careful not to interrupt.
"He won't just participate," she said. "He'll dominate."
The word settled heavily in the room.
"And when that happens—"
She turned toward them fully.
"The D'Arcel won't control him anymore."
That was the fear. Not his strength. Not his growth. Control. Or rather, the loss of it when Theodore becomes too powerful that he doesn't even want to be a part of the family.
After all he had been through, she panics.
Meanwhile, within the Welsch estate, the atmosphere was quieter—but no less tense.
Circe Welsch sat alone, a report resting untouched in front of her.
She didn't need to open it.
She already knew its contents—
Aurora's progress, her titles, her influence, her trajectory.
"…She's gone too far," Circe murmured.
But there was no anger in her voice. No concern either. Only calm assessment.
Her fingers slowly tightened around the edge of her teacup.
The porcelain didn't crack, but the pressure lingered.
Her thoughts had already moved past Aurora. Because that wasn't the problem anymore.
The Magical beasts.
The Rift experiment.
The planned disturbance inside the Lunarium.
Circe's gaze lowered slightly as she stared into the faint ripple of her tea.
"No one would know. No one would associate this event to us," she repeated under her breath.
A pause.
"No one would know."
The words came quieter the second time, but more deliberate. Because containment wouldn't be difficult. Not for them. Not with preparation. But control.
Silence.
Students would panic. Families would react. And Charlotte's system—no matter how refined—would be forced to operate under something it hadn't yet faced: uncontrolled intrusion and anyone who would dare to invade her bubble.
Her grip tightened again.
"No one would know."
Not if it was done correctly. Not if it was clean. The opportunity wasn't Aurora. It wasn't Theodore. It wasn't even the growing power inside the Lunarium. It was what would happen when order met something that refused to follow it. The beasts would not just be a test. They would be a variable.
And if handled properly—
No one would know.
Back in the Lunarium, none of that tension had reached its breaking point yet.
Students trained relentlessly. Spells clashed. Mana surged in controlled bursts and uncontrolled explosions alike. The once quiet plains of moonflowers had transformed into a proving ground, filled with ambition, frustration, and determination.
And from above—
Aster watched it all unfold.
Spinning slowly in his chair, phone in hand, eyes half-lidded in quiet amusement.
"…Now this," he muttered, a faint smirk forming.
"…is getting interesting."
Because he could see it clearly.
The pressure.
The pride.
The expectations.
Everything was converging.
And the upcoming duel—
was just the beginning.
Because growth, when left unchecked, didn't just create excellence.
It created something far more dangerous.
Calamities.