Dawn broke over the Academy spires as I completed my final preparations. The duel with Shawe approached, and every detail mattered. I selected a length of pristine white cloth and crimson silk from my supplies, carefully fashioning them into flowing robes that draped from my waist.

The garment served multiple purposes. Its primary function was tactical: concealing the connection points where my nine tendrils joined my torso would prevent Shawe from identifying vulnerable spots. The flowing fabric also created an air of mystery, transforming my mechanical form into something more enigmatic, more intimidating.

From the waist up, I appeared almost human: tall and imposing, but recognizable. Below, however, the nine massive tendrils remained hidden beneath the crimson-trimmed white fabric, coiled like sleeping serpents. Each could extend fifteen feet when fully stretched, functioning as both weapons and locomotion. The dragon heads remained perfectly still, awaiting my command.

I retrieved my newly forged sword-lance from its stand. This iteration was sleeker than previous models, composed entirely of auric steel with the blades anodized to a gleaming silver. The weapon's most significant improvement lay in its firing mechanism. I constructed a breech-loading system that allowed me to reload projectiles without the cumbersome muzzle-fed loading rod that had slowed me during previous battles.

The mirror reflected a warrior transformed. Silver and gold armor gleamed against white and scarlet robes. My golden helmet encased most of my face, leaving only my jaw and mouth exposed. My long black hair cascaded from beneath the helmet, flowing over my shoulders like a dark waterfall against the metallic surface.

My contrasting arms told their own story. The pale white flesh of my left arm seemed almost luminescent beside the mechanical precision of my right, which gripped the sword-lance with unwavering steadiness.

Beneath my robes, the nine dragon-headed tendrils writhed with anticipation, each one responding to my thoughts with fluid, serpentine movements. Their golden scales caught the light as they twisted and turned, seeking enemies not yet present.

With a thought, I commanded them to retract and coil beneath my skirts, transforming my silhouette into something more conventional. The hidden tendrils elevated my height to roughly six and a half feet: tall but not conspicuously inhuman.

Now I appeared as just another armored warrior, albeit one of unusual height and bearing. Only those who knew what lay beneath the flowing robes would understand the true nature of the creature that approached the arena.

I extinguished the workshop lamps and sealed the entrance behind me. The corridors lay empty at this early hour as most students still slept, unaware of the reckoning that would soon unfold. My slithering glide across the floor echoed against stone walls that had witnessed centuries of warriors come and go.

Today, these ancient halls would witness something unprecedented: a professor called to account for his crimes by the very monster he had tried to destroy. The irony wasn't lost on me. Shawe had sought to eliminate what he feared and in doing so, had created something far more formidable.

The rising sun cast long shadows across the courtyard as I made my way toward the southern arena. In the distance, bells began to toll, summoning witnesses to the duel. I moved with measured steps, conserving energy for the battle ahead.

Langdon deserved justice. My friends deserved safety. And I… I deserved the chance to prove that monsters weren't defined by their appearance, but by their actions.

Shawe would learn this lesson today, written in blood and auric steel.

I timed my entrance precisely, arriving just before the appointed hour. I wanted the arena filled with every seat occupied, every eye watching when I made my appearance. Shawe needed witnesses to what was about to unfold.

My entrance was silent, almost ghostlike. The nine tendrils beneath my robes propelled me forward with inhuman grace, creating the illusion that I floated across the sand. No footsteps marked my passage, no sound betrayed my approach. The effect was precisely as I'd intended: unsettling, otherworldly.

Whispers rippled through the gathered students. I caught fragments of their confusion.

"Where's the combat chassis?"

"Looks almost human today..."

"Is that really Widow?"

Their bewilderment amused me. They expected my previous mechanical forms, the awkward early designs or the bulky combat frames they'd grown accustomed to seeing. None suspected what waited beneath the flowing crimson and white fabric.

Across the arena, Shawe stood rigid in his designated position. Gone were his trademark scarlet robes, replaced by silver garments that practically hummed with enchantments. The ceremonial staff he typically carried had disappeared as well. In its place, he clutched a gnarled length of ancient wood, its surface carved with runes that pulsed with stored power.

Amulets dangled from chains around his neck, and every finger bore multiple rings, each one radiating magical energy. Through my enhanced Mana Manipulation sight, he appeared as a blinding constellation of power, a walking arsenal of defensive and offensive enchantments.

The professor had come prepared for war, not a duel. His eyes narrowed as he tracked my approach, searching for weaknesses, trying to understand my strategy. I noted the slight tremor in his hand, the tightness around his mouth. Despite his magical fortifications, fear lurked beneath his confident facade.

All his preparations, all his enchanted trinkets and powerful artifacts; they represented everything I'd expected from him. Shawe always relied on external power, on tools and trinkets rather than skill or character.

I felt the dragon-headed tendrils stir beneath my robes, eager for release. Soon they would taste the professor's fear directly. Soon they would show him what true power looked like.

Not the borrowed strength of expensive enchantments, but the power I had forged through suffering and determination.

My gaze swept the packed stands, finding my friends clustered together in a tight, supportive knot. Annes stood tall, her fist raised in silent solidarity. Beside her, Copelan analyzed the field with calculating eyes while Sven and Yulios chanted something I couldn't quite make out. Genta and Loland had painted their faces with streaks of gold; a tribute to my auric steel. Eyarna clutched a small charm, lips moving in what appeared to be an enchanter's blessing, while Patter waved a makeshift banner.

Their presence strengthened my resolve. They had survived the Hellzone because of their own skill and determination, but Shawe had tried to rob them of that chance. He would answer for it today.

Konrad caught my attention from a higher tier, flashing a confident grin and thumbs-up. The gesture seemed genuine, lacking the political calculation I'd come to expect from him. Perhaps he'd finally chosen a side.

Lyman Redflight glowered from his position among House Dragon members, his face twisted with familiar hatred. Nearby sat Bethani Morne, her once-immaculate appearance now a disheveled shadow of royal bearing. The queen's deterioration concerned me, but that was a mystery for another day.

My scan faltered when I spotted Lyta among the spectators. Her presence surprised me as she still believed I'd murdered innocents in Weath. Her expression revealed internal conflict, curiosity warring with fear. What had drawn her here? What did she hope to witness?

Headmaster Reins stood at the arena's center, his calm smile betraying nothing of his thoughts. The old warrior's eyes assessed me with clinical detachment as I took my position opposite Shawe.

"I expected one of your mechanical abominations," Shawe hissed, knuckles white around his staff. "If you think appearing human will make me hesitate, you're sorely mistaken. This human disguise won't save you, monster."

I remained silent, letting my unblinking stare serve as my only response. My stillness seemed to disturb him more than any retort could have. Uncertainty flickered across his face, cracking his veneer of confidence.

"Nothing to say?" His voice rose slightly. "No clever remarks before I reduce you to the scrap you truly are?"

The silence stretched between us, heavy with anticipation. I simply watched him, measuring his growing discomfort, cataloging the tiny tells of his mounting anxiety.

Shawe frowned, swallowing hard. My silence had accomplished what words never could; it had planted the first seed of doubt.

When the appointed hour arrived, Headmaster Reins rose from his elevated position, his white armor gleaming in the morning light.

"Are the combatants prepared?" His voice carried across the hushed arena.

Shawe straightened his shoulders. "Yes, Headmaster. I will uphold the proud traditions of our Academy by teaching this... creature... the humility it so desperately requires." His eyes narrowed. "This mockery of our institution ends today."

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I offered nothing but a single, deliberate nod.

Reins's mouth curved into that familiar enigmatic smile. "Then let combat commence."

I struck instantly, borrowing from Barkatus's playbook, giving Shawe no time to prepare. A golden dragon-headed tendril erupted from beneath my robes, slicing through the air with mechanical precision.

Shawe's eyes widened in terror. His shriek echoed through the arena as he frantically conjured a wind barrier. The spell manifested just in time, deflecting my tendril mere inches from his face. The professor stumbled backward, fingers already weaving another incantation.

I didn't allow him the luxury of recovery. Three more tendrils shot forth from my robes, their golden scales catching the sunlight as they arced wide around his wind barrier, converging from multiple angles.

Panic flashed across Shawe's face. He thrust both hands outward, summoning twin walls of flame to intercept my attack. The fire roared to life, but my auric steel tendrils pushed through undamaged, the enchanted metal indifferent to his magical defense.

Shawe attempted to dodge, but one dragon-head found its target, clamping onto his left arm with mechanical precision. The protective enchantments on his silver robes flared brilliantly as the jaws closed; it was obviously a defense ward meant to repel physical attacks. For a heartbeat, it seemed to hold.

Then the ward shattered like glass.

My tendril's teeth sank deep into flesh and muscle. Shawe's scream was primal, raw with pain and disbelief. Blood bloomed across his silver sleeve as I deliberately released my grip, allowing the tendril to retreat beneath my robes.

I backed away, watching as he clutched his mangled arm, his face contorted with agony and shock. The enchantments he'd relied on had failed him completely. The realization was beginning to dawn in his eyes; this wasn't a duel he could win.

That was precisely what I wanted. Not a quick victory, but a slow, methodical demonstration. Every student, every instructor would witness what happened when someone threatened me and mine. The lesson needed to be indelible, carved into the collective memory of the Academy.

Shawe had no choice but to become my unwilling teaching aid.

I made all nine dragon-headed tendrils rise from beneath my robes in a single fluid motion. The crimson and white fabric parted like water as the golden serpents emerged, their mechanical scales catching the morning light. They encircled me in a writhing corona of auric steel, each dragon head swaying with predatory intent, tracking Shawe's every movement.

The professor clutched his wounded arm, blood seeping between his fingers and staining his ornate staff. Despite the pain etched across his face, a mocking smile twisted his lips.

"So the truth emerges," he called across the arena. "Not so human after all, are you? Just a twisted mockery wearing a human mask."

I offered no response. Words were meaningless now; only action would speak the necessary truth.

Frustration flashed across Shawe's face at my continued silence. His uninjured hand traced a complex pattern in the air, frost trailing from his fingertips. A dome of crystalline ice materialized around him, its surface thick and opaque.

One tendril lashed forward, its dragon head smashing against the barrier with tremendous force. Ice chips exploded outward, but the dome remained intact. I struck again, then a third time, each impact sending spiderweb cracks through the structure without breaking through.

What game was Shawe playing? The ice wouldn't protect him for long. Was he stalling, hoping for intervention from Reins? Or did he believe he could outlast me somehow?

As my tendrils continued their methodical assault, hairline fractures multiplied across the dome's surface. Through the translucent sections, I glimpsed Shawe's silhouette, arms raised in an elaborate casting stance.

My Mana Manipulation sense suddenly flared in warning. The air around me grew charged, hairs rising along my head as ambient mana rushed toward a focal point directly above. Every instinct screamed danger.

I propelled myself sideways, tendrils pushing against the ground for explosive speed. Not a heartbeat later, a blinding bolt of lightning crashed down, striking exactly where I'd stood. The impact vaporized sand into glass, the concussive force sending a shockwave across the arena floor.

Cursing inwardly, I reassessed Shawe's strategy. That lightning strike would have been devastating to my systems. Auric steel's conductivity made it particularly vulnerable to electrical attacks. One direct hit could have disabled my chassis entirely.

His plan became clear: the ice dome wasn't merely defensive. It was buying time for him to channel massive offensive spells while protected from my physical attacks.

I wouldn't give him another opportunity.

Three tendrils converged on the dome simultaneously, striking in a coordinated pattern that focused their force on a single point. The ice cracked but held. Four more joined the assault, dragon heads smashing against the weakened section with mechanical precision.

Shawe's silhouette within showed him preparing another spell, arms tracing familiar patterns. The air began to charge again, but I wouldn't allow him to complete the casting.

All nine tendrils struck as one, finally shattering the dome in an explosion of ice fragments. Shawe stood exposed, his spell interrupted, eyes wide with the realization that his sanctuary had failed him.

And I was already moving forward, tendrils extended like the jaws of inevitable judgment.

Shawe's hands flashed through a desperate incantation. A jagged bolt of lightning, one weaker than his previous attack but precisely aimed, struck one of my extended tendrils. The electricity found its perfect conductor in the auric steel, racing through the metal and into the organic remnants of my body.

Pain exploded through my ragged red flesh, a white-hot agony that seared every nerve ending where metal met living tissue. A sound tore from my throat, half mechanical screech, half organic howl, as my tendrils spasmed uncontrollably.

The momentary paralysis gave Shawe his opening. His hands wove frantically, reconstructing his shattered ice dome. The fragments flew back together, sealing seamlessly under his spell. Once more protected, he immediately began the elaborate gestures for his devastating lightning attack, frost swirling around his movements as he channeled power.

I forced control back into my systems, overriding the pain signals still screaming through my organic components. My vision cleared, focusing on the dome where Shawe's silhouette worked feverishly to complete his spell.

Direct force had proven ineffective. A different approach was needed.

I propelled myself forward on sinuous tendrils, slithering across the arena floor with predatory grace. The audience fell silent, sensing the shift in tactics. Even Shawe hesitated momentarily, watching my approach with wary confusion.

I raised my sword-lance, its auric steel gleaming in the morning light. With deliberate precision, I pressed its tip against the ice dome's surface, feeling the cold radiate through the metal. Through the translucent barrier, I could see Shawe's eyes widen as he realized my intent.

Mana flowed from my body into the weapon, channeling through the specially designed conduits within the sword-lance. The barrel chamber filled with concentrated magical energy, building pressure against the firing mechanism. Shawe abandoned his lightning spell, frantically trying to reinforce his barrier, but it was already too late.

I pulled the trigger.

The explosion shattered the silence. The ice dome disintegrated, fragments flying outward in a deadly crystalline cloud. The lead projectile punched through what remained of the barrier, followed by a concussive wave of mana-enhanced force.

Shawe's scream cut through the roar of destruction as ice shards peppered his body. His protective enchantments flared brilliantly as they absorbed the brunt of the impact, but many failed under the assault, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Before the smoke cleared, one of my tendrils shot forward with mechanical precision. The dragon head found Shawe's shoulder, teeth sinking through fabric and flesh. With a single powerful motion, I yanked him from the wreckage and hurled him across the arena.

His body tumbled across the sand like a discarded doll, limbs flailing helplessly. His staff spiraled away, landing far beyond his reach. He finally came to rest in a crumpled heap, motionless for several heartbeats before stirring weakly.

I advanced methodically toward his fallen form, reloading my weapon as I moved. The breech opened with a mechanical click. My hand reached into Depository, retrieving a heavy lead ball that I slid into the chamber before sealing it with practiced efficiency.

Shawe had managed to push himself to his knees by the time I reached him. His once-immaculate appearance was destroyed: silver robes hanging in tatters, their enchantments exhausted from defending against my attack. Blood trickled from dozens of cuts where ice shards had penetrated his defenses. His blond hair hung in singed patches, revealing angry red scalp beneath.

He raised trembling arms skyward, fingers splayed in the universal gesture of surrender.

"I yield," he gasped, voice barely audible. "I yield."

I towered over his kneeling form, my nine dragon-headed tendrils fanning out behind me like a golden corona. The sword-lance hummed with readied power in my hand as I stared down at the broken professor.

Shawe looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and contempt. "What are you waiting for?" he sneered, though his voice trembled. "I yielded. You won't kill me. You never do in these duels."

I snorted softly, shaking my head at his arrogance. Even now, begging for his life, he couldn't help but be insufferable. His assumptions about my mercy revealed how little he understood me.

"I yield!" he shouted again, desperation creeping into his voice.

I raised my sword-lance slowly, positioning its tip against his chest. His eyes widened as he realized my intent. The metal pressed against his torn robes, dimpling the flesh beneath. With methodical precision, I applied pressure, watching the blade sink inch by inch into his body.

Shawe gasped, more from surprise than pain at first. He looked down in disbelief as the auric steel penetrated his chest. Blood bubbled from his lips as he tried to form words, perhaps a final plea or curse.

One of my dragon-headed tendrils shot forward with mechanical swiftness. The golden jaws clamped around his head, their teeth sinking into flesh and bone. With a single savage motion, the tendril tore Shawe's head completely from his shoulders.

Blood erupted from the severed neck, painting the arena sand in crimson patterns. I casually tossed the head aside with my tendril. It rolled across the ground, coming to rest near the wall facing the spectator stands, Shawe's expression frozen in eternal shock.

The arena fell into absolute silence. No one moved. No one spoke. Many had watched my previous duels, where I'd demonstrated restraint, defeating opponents without taking lives. They hadn't expected this brutal execution, this deliberate savagery. The shock was palpable, hanging in the air like a physical presence.

The silence shattered with the sound of clapping. It was slow, a deliberate applause from a single pair of hands.

Headmaster Kalder Reins stood from his seat, his white armor gleaming as he continued his solitary applause. A smile spread across his face, growing wider until it became an expression of pure delight.

"Victory!" he announced, his voice carrying across the stunned arena. "A magnificent display of judgment and power!"

His laughter rang out, rich and resonant, filled with genuine pleasure at what he'd witnessed. The sound was jarring against the backdrop of collective horror.

"This," Reins continued, gesturing toward Shawe's headless corpse, "is the price of treachery at my Academy. Professor Shawe betrayed his duty to his students, endangered lives entrusted to his care, and has paid the ultimate price for his actions."

His eyes found mine across the distance, and I saw something there I hadn't expected: approval, perhaps even pride.

"The duel is concluded," he declared. "Widow has rightfully claimed victory and justice."

In the stands, my friends sat frozen in shock. Annes's raised fist had lowered, Genta's painted face had paled beneath the golden streaks. Even Copelan, always calculating, looked stunned by the brutality he'd witnessed.

Only Lyman Redflight seemed unsurprised, his expression hardening with renewed hatred and, perhaps, a touch of fear. He understood now what I was capable of when truly provoked.

As I withdrew my blood-slicked tendrils beneath my robes, I realized I had crossed a threshold. I had revealed my capacity for merciless execution. The Academy would never see me the same way again.

And perhaps that had been my intention all along.

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