---
The walk to the combat arena felt like marching toward an execution scaffold—with extra flair and dramatic lighting.
After the matchups were announced, our Flame Affinity group had been ushered out of the Awakening Hall and funneled through a long, torch-lit corridor that curved slightly downhill. The air grew warmer with every step, as if the building itself anticipated the blood and fire that was about to be spilled.
Some students muttered nervously. Others looked like they were marching into a sports festival. I mostly focused on not throwing up.
We emerged into a massive underground coliseum. The air was thick with heat and magic, and the scent of scorched stone. High above, glowing crystal panels shone like artificial sunlight, casting sharp shadows across the stone floor.
The arena was built like a bowl, with dozens of viewing platforms layered along its edge. Students from various affinities were already filling the seats—cheering, jeering, or watching in eerie silence.
Down in the pit, the matches had already started.
I drifted toward the Flame Affinity section, eyes drawn to the fights unfolding below. I figured if I was going to die soon, I might as well see what kind of nonsense was in store for me.
The first fight I caught was brutal.
A boy with short black hair and twin rings of flame spinning around his arms charged his opponent—a tall girl who looked calm as a frozen lake. He launched a fireball at her like a fast-pitch baseball.
She didn't even blink.
A thin barrier of shimmering orange energy absorbed the hit, and she countered with a snap of her fingers. A thin pillar of fire erupted from the ground beneath the boy, blasting him into the air like a poorly aimed firework.
He hit the wall with a loud thump and stayed there.
The match ended.
A few seats down, I heard someone murmur, "That's Lila Grey. Ash Witch."
Right. Number three on the rankings.
I sank a little further into my robe.
The next few duels were more of the same. Lightning-quick exchanges of spells and skill, brutal takedowns, students throwing out elemental attacks like candy at a festival. One guy even tried to use exploding crows. Exploding crows. I didn't know whether to be impressed or file a restraining order.
Every now and then, someone would lose in less than thirty seconds. The system would announce it without emotion:
---
[Match Over: Combat Evaluation Failed.]
[Partial points awarded. Recommend remedial training.]
---
I was beginning to feel the kind of creeping dread that coils in your gut before a medical exam or a family reunion.
Then I heard my name.
"Aster. Michael Flash. Report to Gate Three."
...
My spine locked.
Someone next to me let out a low whistle. "Poor bastard."
Yes i was a very ducking poor bastard
But i still rose up , legs moving like rusted hinges. Selene Vale—still unreadable as a moonlit mirror—glanced at me as I passed, but said nothing.
Good. I preferred not having witnesses to my public immolation.
Gate Three was a wide archway manned by two instructors in deep crimson uniforms. One of them checked a glowing scroll as I approached and gave a curt nod.
"Step into the ring when the signal sounds. No killing. No permanent injuries. Anything else goes."
"Awesome," I said. "So, mild death only."
Neither of us laughed.
Because we both knew these would be my last moment
He looked at my with a sympathetic look in his or at least what i believe he did because his expression was unreadable.
I stepped through the archway into a tunnel that opened directly into the coliseum pit.
The stone floor radiated heat. The stands above loomed like cliffs, filled with students watching intently.
And across from me stood Michael Flash.
He looked exactly like his reputation: tall, sharp-featured, and crackling with controlled power. His hair sparked with faint traces of static. His eyes, a deep stormy grey, locked onto mine with all the warmth of an incoming thunderbolt.
No weapons. Just fists, feet, and magic.
The system chimed overhead.
---
[Combat Evaluation: Begin]
---
Michael didn't move.
He simply lifted a hand—and lightning danced across his knuckles.
I barely had time to dive aside before a bolt of compressed thunder slammed into the spot where I'd been standing.
The ground exploded.
Dust and stone sprayed upward. My ears rang.
Right. Thunderborn.
I scrambled upright, heart hammering.
"Ember Seed!" I shouted.
A small, stable flame bloomed in my palm.
Michael didn't even look impressed.
He flicked two fingers.
A jagged arc of lightning surged toward me again. I jumped back—but not fast enough. It grazed my side, and the pain lit me up like a struck nerve i wanted to already give up but somehow i withstood the pain.
I hit the ground hard. Grit in my teeth. Vision flickering.
Michael took a step forward, slow and confident. "You're not bad, ... At running" he said flatly.
"Yeah, well..." I hissed. "You talk like someone who needs a haircut."
I don't know why i said that but it was the first thing i thought after looking at him
He arched an eyebrow.
I hurled my Ember Seed.
It exploded mid-air—on purpose. A flash-burst meant to blind rather than burn.
Michael flinched.
I darted in.
Not to punch. No. That would be idiotic.
Instead, I dropped to the ground and swept his legs.
The move actually worked.
Michael staggered.
I rolled away before he could recover and called another Ember Seed.
This time, I focused harder. Shaped the flame, like I'd seen that silver-haired girl do. It took more energy, more effort—but the flame sharpened. Brighter. Hotter.
I slashed with it like a knife.
Michael caught the edge of it on his arm—and winced.
"Got you," I whispered, stunned.
Then lightning exploded around us both.
... He didn't miss the second time.
The world turned white.
---
When I came to, I was on my back, smoke rising from my sleeves, chest heaving.
Above me, Michael stood, panting, a thin burn mark across one forearm.
The system rang out.
---
[Match Complete: Victory — Michael Flash]
[Combat Evaluation: Passed — Aster: Partial Credit Awarded (High Tier)]
---
I blinked at that.
Wait. Passed?
Even though I lost?
Someone offered me a hand. I looked up.
Michael Flash.
He didn't smile, but there was something in his eyes. Appraisal. Maybe respect.
"Not bad," he said.
I took the hand.
"Thanks," I croaked. "I practice getting electrocuted every Tuesday."
---
Later that evening, after medical magic had patched up the worst of the damage, we were herded into the main plaza again.
Uniforms were distributed.
Student IDs with assigned dorms blinked into our system windows.
I'd survived.
Just barely.
As the crowd thinned, and students began trickling toward their new homes, I caught sight of someone standing far above, on one of the upper balconies.
A tall figure cloaked in dark grey. Watching the matches silently. Unmoving.
Sorin Blackmere.
He hadn't fought. Not yet.
But his eyes followed me as I left the arena.
I have no idea who he is
But something told me that—for better or worse—he'd taken notice.
---