The next match was called, and the crowd stirred as the announcer's voice carried through the arena.
Two boys stepped forward—both clad in the ceremonial robes of the Oradonian Mage Order.
One was Emu, a 14-year-old whose confidence seemed to precede him, chin lifted high, eyes bright with arrogance. His staff gleamed, polished and reinforced with runes carved in neat precision. He was the son of the court magistrate, Lord Emu, and everyone knew it. That alone seemed to place a mantle of expectation on his shoulders, and he carried it as if victory was already his.
Opposite him stood Khan. His robes were plain, his staff chipped at the edge, his steps lacking the measured grace of a trained prodigy. To most, he was just a shadow among the mages—known by all, but remembered by none. He was, in fact, the one many whispered of as the weakest of the Oradonian mages.
But His Majesty, Josh Aratat, knew better. His eyes lingered on Khan, sharp and discerning. The boy's stance, though awkward, carried something most overlooked: guts. Where others saw weakness, Josh saw a fire that did not flicker, no matter the storm. He had watched Khan before, during unremarkable practice bouts at the school. He never won much, but he never bowed either. Not to the mountain before him, nor to the dragon running at him.
As the boys took their positions on the stage, Governor Raphael MacNelly leaned slightly toward the Emperor, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Your Majesty," the governor said in a hushed but confident tone, "do you know that Emu is the son of the court magistrate, Lord Emu? The boy has been trained under the finest tutors, surrounded by privilege. His father swears by him. Truly, I think this match is already decided—a foregone conclusion." He swatted the thought of any contrary result aside with a wave of his hand, as though brushing away an irritating fly.
Josh didn't immediately answer. His gaze remained on Khan, calm, unwavering. At last, he spoke, his voice low but carrying enough weight to silence the governor's smirk.
"I think you might be surprised…"
The words struck like a spark, drawing Raphael's eyes back to the stage. He frowned, unsettled. The Emperor had seen something he hadn't, and that alone was enough to temper his arrogance. Raphael MacNelly was no fool. For all his bluster, he was a man who knew when to hold his tongue and watch carefully, dotting every i, crossing every t.
The crowd roared as the referee raised his hand. Both boys lifted their staves, the air thickening with anticipation. Somewhere in that noise, between pride and doubt, between arrogance and quiet resolve, the outcome of the duel waited to be written.
"Ready, fight!" The referee's voice boomed across the arena, sharp as a strike of lightning.
Both boys gripped their staves tightly, their knuckles pale with tension. At once, their lips parted and strange, ancient words spilled into the air, vibrating with power.
"Karos sszar!"
"Orun Nnvek!"
The clash of syllables was like the collision of storms. From Emu Tim's staff, a loud sound split forth with a hiss, and a monstrous two-headed cobra slithered forth. Its scales shimmered with a venomous green sheen, and its forked tongues lashed out, spraying sparks of blue mist. The beast coiled and reared, both heads baring fangs longer than daggers. Gasps rippled through the stands, a collective breath of fear and awe.
"They won't let them kill themselves, right?" Danielle, daughter of the trader, clutched her father's arm, her wide eyes fixed on the snake.
"Of course not," came the calm reply of his ever protective dad beside her. He pointed toward the edge of the stage. "The Scarlet Raven is here—second in command of the Oradonian Mage Order. That's him, standing just there."
The mention of the name silenced her panic. Scarlet Raven, draped in a cloak the colour of blood, leaned casually on his staff. Though unmoving, his mere presence radiated such oppressive strength that no spell dared run wild. Danielle exhaled deeply, her shoulders relaxing, though her heart still hammered in her chest.
But for Khan, there was no time to be reassured. He stood opposite Emu, sweat glistening on his brow, his grip trembling—not from fear, but frustration.
He had always been slower than the others in comprehension, or so everyone said. His spells lacked the sharpness, the brilliance that the crowd admired. His family's purse was shallow, his training limited. While boys like Emu could afford the finest grimoires and manuals, Khan's parents had scraped together everything just to place a water-element scroll in his hands. One hundred and eighty Nazare Blade Empire gold coins—the cheapest path into magehood.
The crowd mocked his sluggish progress, but none of them knew the truth. Water was not his element. Deep inside his soul, fire pulsed, burning, yearning to be unshackled. His spirit ached for flames, for the fierce and untamed destruction he was born to command. But the fire manuals cost one thousand Nazare gold coins—a fortune so far beyond his reach it may as well have been the stars.
He clenched his teeth, bitterness and resolve mixing within him. His parents had already sacrificed more than they should have, cutting meals, selling heirlooms, bending their backs until they could no longer stand straight. Khan would rather swallow glass than burden them further.
And so he fought—not with the perfect spell, not with a weapon suited to his soul, but with the fragments he could grasp.
His eyes hardened. I cannot afford to lose here. If I lose, then the gates of the Oradonian Base will close on me forever. I'll be left behind. Forgotten.
The cobra hissed again, its heads weaving hypnotically, venom dripping onto the stone stage where it sizzled holes into the floor. The crowd roared for blood, but Khan heard nothing except the beating of his own heart and the faint, mocking whisper in his mind: weakest of the Oradonian order.
He lifted his staff. The words of his water spell trembled at the edge of his lips. It was not enough—but it was all he had.
"Orun Nnvek!"
A thin stream of water burst from the tip of his staff, more pitiful than potent. It lashed out across the arena, striking the cobra's gleaming scales. The effect was laughable—it splattered across the serpent like bathwater thrown at a beast of steel.
The great snake didn't even flinch.
A ripple of laughter coursed through the crowd, cruel and mocking. Emu Tim himself cackled, tilting his head back in arrogant triumph.
"Khan, you might as well surrender!" he jeered, his voice booming across the stage. His eyes glinted with disdain, his staff pulsing with further power.
The cobra's heads reared high, tongues flickering. Then, with a sound like boiling oil, the twin maws hissed in unison. A cloud of shimmering blue mist rolled forth—venomous, burning, suffocating. The beast slithered forward, its massive coils thundering against the stone stage, shaking it beneath Khan's feet.
Khan's chest tightened, not only from the haze creeping toward him but from the weight pressing against his spirit. He clenched his jaw. The pain in his heart had little to do with the danger before him, and everything to do with what he couldn't have.
The funds.
The orphan funds. His Majesty had decreed them—a reservoir of wealth meant to uplift the abandoned, the rootless, the forgotten. A noble act to bridge the cruel gap between those with everything and those with nothing. But Khan could not touch a single coin of it. His parents still lived. And he would never deny their existence—not even for power.
His mind raced bitterly. If he lied, if he said he was alone, he could have had enough to buy a fire grimoire—the one meant for him, the one that would unlock his true strength. But the thought of discarding his mother's weary smile or his father's calloused hands even as a necessary lie, in exchange for ambition—it was a poison he would never drink.
No. He would not.
The emperor had changed the laws, softened the cruelty of class divides. But laws were slow. Justice crawled while need sprinted. His parents—simple people with meager means—were still trapped in the cracks. Too poor to give him wings, too proud to let him beg, too loving to let him starve.
And so here he stood, wielding water when his very soul burned with fire.
The crowd's laughter gnawed at him, but deep inside, his spirit hardened. His staff trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of a choice. He might be carrying the wrong grimoire, but he was not about to throw in the towel.
He planted his feet firmly, ignoring the hiss of the cobra, ignoring the burning mist drawing closer.