The arena had been loud since morning.

Another match was already underway—two academies no one cared to remember. A wind-user pushing back a spear-user with bursts of air that had more noise than substance. They fought with intensity… but not with precision.

Aramith watched quietly.

Every flare of Youm the wind fighter produced was wasteful.

His footing was sloppy, and his momentum leaked every time he pivoted. He could end the match in seconds if he compressed the gust and struck the core instead of the edges.

Inefficient, Aramith thought.

Predictable and wasteful.

That was all he saw.

Mozrael sat just beside him, chin on her fist, letting her gaze linger on him longer than on the match.

He was different today.

Yesterday's weight still lingered at the edge of her mind… but Aramith himself looked calm. Too calm, in fact.

He'd drawn a line somewhere internally and chosen not to show what side of it he stood on.

She didn't know if that steadiness comforted her… or scared her. It was clear a lot was on his mind, but he won't let it show.

Her fingers idly twisted a strand of hair.

What happened to him yesterday?

Lynnor stretched her arms languidly above her head and yawned loudly.

"Three out of ten. Both of them look like they learned combat from a cookbook," she said casually, as if none of yesterday ever existed. "I'm ashamed I use wind."

Aramith didn't react. Lynnor had returned to her old self

He only watched as the spear-user was finally knocked out of bounds and the referee signaled the end.

The crowd clapped, though without any passion.

This was basically what spectators did between matches. They didn't need to like or dislike them. Just accept the winner and move on.

A chime echoed across the arena, and the announcer's voice pulsed through the air:

"Next match—Forsaken Peak Academy vs. Winter Oak Institute!"

Finally.

A shift in the atmosphere followed. Heads turned. Whispers stirred. The noise sharpened.

Forsaken Peak's first appearance.

One student rose from their bench—the first representative. His uniform had slate-blue highlights on the sleeves and collar.

Their opponent was not a powerhouse academy, which meant this wouldn't be a difficult match… but it would set the tone. Last year, they were utterly disgraced by a student from Celestium. FP had to come through.

(Not FastPass, lol. Forsaken Peak)

They walked forward with a calm, controlled confidence.

Aramith leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. He wasn't doing so with excitement, but with the thirst for knowledge of experience.

Mozrael glanced at him again.

He still said nothing.

The barrier started to seal with a low hum.

The two students stepped closer. Forsaken Peak's representative did his best to stay calm and steady… and Winter Oak's fighter wore a confident half-smile, the kind you only earned when you were your school's absolute best.

The referee signaled.

With a loud THUMP of a drum, the match started.

Winter Oak moved first—fast. The ground cracked under his step as he pushed forward, palm shifting into a sweeping crescent of frost. Shards of ice twisted into thin blades, slashing toward his opponent.

Forsaken Peak intercepted, arm raised—an invisible pressure stopping the frost mid-arc before flicking it aside with controlled force.

It wasn't flashy, just the right amount to avoid trouble.

"That opening was sloppy," Lynnor muttered playfully, tapping her heel against the stone. "If our guy takes more than thirty seconds to end this, I'll be disappointed."

"Efficiency," Aramith said quietly, almost to himself. "That's what matters."

And as the stage barrier formed around the two fighters…he exhaled softly. Using Youm instead of his attribute was smart.

Mozrael exhaled quietly, noticing how they were evenly matched.

This would force Forsaken Peak's student to actually think.

Lynnor tilted her head with mild interest.

"Winter Oak sent out their ace first," she smirked. "They want the crowd to think they belong in the upper brackets."

Aramith narrowed his eyes at the exchange.

No wasted movement, he noted. This is actual technique.

Mozrael glanced at him again.

He's analyzing the fight like someone who intends to surpass that level… not just watch it. But...

She took another glance at them and noticed they were weaker than him. She couldn't see what he was learning.

He was looking for the most efficient way to end the match if he were in their place.

If he had to fight, he needed to do so without using clear Darkness.

Winter Oak struck again—faster this time, sharp ice forming in an instant.

Forsaken Peak dodged, barely, the shockwave grazing his cheek.

The crowd finally leaned in.

This wouldn't be a short match.

FP fought back, and lightning cracked against ice.

The clash was already midway through, and the crowd was restless.

The duels before this one had all ended quickly.

Not this one.

The Forsaken Peak student stood with his shoulders squared, breathing through clenched teeth. Lightning flickered over his arms in thin blue-white streams, writhing like caged worms dipped in salt that wanted space to coil.

The other student exhaled mist with every breath. Frost had begun to spread across the tiles, sculpting jagged white paths beneath his feet.

Aramith watched silently, chin on hand, analyzing without a word.

This was his second time seeing someone use ice in battle. This boy had control, but still lacked enough power to end things.

Lightning versus ice is supposed to be quick. Why is this dragging?

Mozrael noticed the same thing, but her attention kept drifting.

Not to the fight.

But once again, to Aramith, who kept muttering to himself.

Did he sleep at all…?

Down below, the Forsaken Peak student swallowed and tried not to show how badly he was shaking. His aura kept flickering between stable and chaotic.

He had discipline, but his nerves were crushing him.

If he lost this… it would stain the momentum of his entire academy.

The spectating students of Forsaken Peak tried to act calm—backs straight, breathing controlled, calm expressions, but every one of them carried tension like sandbags tied to their throats.

Whispers from other academies rose like fog.

"Forsaken Peak looks weak already…"

"At this rate, they might as well go home."

Lynnor's brow twitched, but she said nothing. Not yet.

FP's student heard every word, and his jaw clenched harder.

The other student smirked, lifting both hands, causing the surrounding temperature to drop.

This would end soon.

Lightning flickered again, unstable.

He knew he would break first.

And then–

"HEY YOU!"

Everyone looked back.

Lynnor — drink in hand — leaned forward casually, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a lazy grin.

"You wanna embarrass me in front of all these people!? If you're gonna lose — at least die in a way that isn't PATHETIC!"

Die?

Aramith's head whipped to her. When did she get the bottle?

The FP student froze, and lightning sputtered.

Lynnor pointed at him again, voice louder.

"ARE YOU A MAN OR A MALFUNCTIONING LIGHT ORB?! STOP FLICKERING AND ACTUALLY SHOCK SOMETHING!"

The stadium blinked. They were shocked

The opponent blinked.

Even Aramith blinked.

The FP lightning student froze halfway through an attempt to reposition because Lynnor's voice cut through the arena again like a thrown dagger:

"HEY — IF YOU'RE GONNA LOSE, AT LEAST DO IT QUICKLY. I'M GETTING BORED OVER HERE."

The FP student just stared at her.

"…what?"

That one second of disbelief almost cost him his life.

The ice user used the opening immediately as spikes erupted from the ground, exploding toward him.

"MOVE!" somebody shouted from the FP seats, but he already reacted.

He rolled aside at the last split second, and shards of frost sliced the air where his ribs had been.

He panted, lungs burning and eyes still wide from Lynnor's comment.

But Lynnor didn't stop.

"DON'T STARE AT ME, IDIOT! FOCUS ON HIM! unless you WANT to die stupid! You have lightning, use it to speed up and bash him, dummy."

The arena didn't even know what to say.

Lynnor leaned back, popped her neck, and muttered loud enough for the announcers to hear:

"…I swear. If all of you fight like that, I'm filling out transfer forms and going back to selling vegetables."

Half the arena choked on air.

"Wait— she's a tutor?" someone whispered.

"She can't be," another student whispered back.

"I hope she isn't."

But she was, and Forsaken Peak wanted to hide because of that.

Aramith exhaled slowly.

Mozrael blinked, stunned.

The ice user didn't give him space.

A second barrage came instantly—cold mist swirling, gathering density as he tried to freeze the area into suppression.

Finally, like he broke through some mental static, lightning flared off his shoulders. Lynnor was right.

He didn't shoot the lightning. This was a tight, compact, brutal close-quarters burst.

He sprinted straight into danger.

It felt like the air was being torn.

He slipped under the ice arcs, his body a streak of white heat

Every step was a lightning-charged dash.

An ice wall was raised in his way, but the lightning fractured it, and a clean hit struck him across the chest

impact!

The ice student was thrown to the ground, sliding across till he hit the dome. Lighting pulsed through his body, and he went still, unconscious.

Smoke left his body in thin wisps.

And Forsaken Peak had drawn blood.

The ref signaled the victory, and the FP student dropped to one knee, gasping, drenched in sweat, nearly fainting.

This move burned a lot out of him.

He'd won, but he looked like he'd been hollowed out.

Lynnor casually pointed at him from their seats and said, bored:

"You only look cool when you stop thinking."

"..."

Half the arena stared.

No one knew if that was supposed to be an insult or a compliment.

Maybe even she didn't know.

But one thing was obvious:

Nobody.

Absolutely nobody expected that insane tutor from Forsaken Peak.

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