The grand hall of Zheno Academy was alive with a crackling energy that hummed in the air. Golden chandeliers bathed the marble floor in warm light, their radiance reflecting off polished banners hung from the walls. Each banner bore the crest of a class — 1A through 1J — embroidered in bold colors. The hall itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break.
Students filled the seats in their designated sections, each group separated by gilded rails that marked the territories of their respective classes. The arrangement gave the room the feel of a coliseum — not a single class mixed with another. The distance between them was not merely physical; it was rivalry, pride, and tension wound tight.
Class 1C sat between the blues of 1B and the deep crimsons of 1D. The middle section was a wash of forest green — the color of their crest.
Wads — Wyxro Waxzi — sat in the second row, posture straight but eyes steady on the open floor. From here, he could not see Liora in the far-off gold section of 1A, nor Klyden in 1B, whose laugh he could only faintly hear above the crowd. They were close enough to be part of the same academy, yet right now, they might as well be in different worlds.
The low chatter cut to silence as the great double doors at the far end of the hall swung open.
The Grandmaster entered.
He was an imposing figure — draped in flowing robes of black threaded with silver constellations, his presence pulling all eyes toward him. His hair was as white as frost under moonlight, yet his gaze carried the vigor of a man unshaken by time. A staff, crowned with a crystal sphere that shimmered with starlight, clicked against the marble as he walked to the center dais.
He raised one hand.
The silence deepened into stillness.
"Students of Zhero," his voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder, "the time has come for the first trial of this year's Great Class Challenge."
A ripple of anticipation moved through the seated ranks.
"This first event…" His staff struck the ground, sending a tremor through the air. The crystal flared, projecting an illusion above him — two banners facing each other, a single flag planted between them. "…will be known as the Banner Clash."
The image shifted — figures running through a forest, weapons drawn, powers flaring, until one banner was ripped free from the earth.
"The rules are simple," the Grandmaster continued, his deep voice leaving no space for questions. "Two rival classes will enter the field. The first to seize the opposing banner will win. For victory, the class will be awarded three stars, to be worn upon their uniforms. The defeated will still earn one star for their effort."
He let the murmurs rise for a breath, then silenced them with another strike of his staff.
"Weapons are allowed. The use of your deity-given powers is allowed. But—" His voice sharpened like steel. "—killing is forbidden. Severe injury is forbidden. Minor wounds… are acceptable. Do not test my patience on the difference."
His gaze swept over every student, lingering briefly — almost purposefully — on certain faces.
"Your match-ups are as follows."
A wave of magic surged through the hall. Overhead, glowing text formed in the air, each line shifting as if written by unseen hands.
1A vs 1B
1C vs 1D
1E vs 1F
…and on it went until 1J had its pairing.
The moment 1C vs 1D appeared, Wads felt the weight of a stare. He turned his head.
Across the divide, in the crimson section of Class 1D, Clamber sat in his seat like a predator at rest. His lips twisted into a grin that was all teeth, all venom. His eyes narrowed, glinting with the malice of someone who had been waiting for this.
When Wads met his gaze, Clamber tilted his head in mockery — slow, deliberate — before mouthing words that needed no sound.
You're mine.
A murmur of recognition ran through the other 1D students, some chuckling, some smirking. Wads didn't look away. His heartbeat was steady, his face unreadable, but deep within, a spark lit — not of fear, but of focus.
The Grandmaster spoke again, his voice a drumbeat beneath the tension. "Each class will select seven representatives for the Banner Clash. Step forward when your name is called."
From 1C, the chosen seven rose as the names were announced:
Wyxro "Wads" Waxzi
Nash Voldemort — tall, lean, eyes like sharpened steel.
Yetro Zaikeroli — the quiet tactician, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
Meiko Mejiyara — quick-footed and quicker with her dagger.
And three others — fresh but determined faces, their hands tight around the hilts of their weapons.
From 1D, the names followed — Clamber, of course, striding to the front with that same poisonous smile. His "minions," the same pair that had followed him before, swaggered up as if the match was already won. But there was another — a tall figure with dark hair falling over his eyes, his expression calm but unreadable. Something about him made the air heavier, like a storm held in restraint.
The Grandmaster gestured toward the great double doors behind the dais. "Step forward, representatives. Your battleground awaits."
The doors groaned open, revealing not a hallway but an expanse of pure light. The air rippled — an illusion, no, a summoning.
One by one, the chosen stepped through.
The world shifted.
They emerged into a vast forest, towering trees stretching toward a sky streaked with the gold of late afternoon. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy, scattering dappled light across the moss-covered ground. Far in the distance, two flags stood planted on opposing hills — one green, one crimson — their cloths stirring in an unseen wind.
The Grandmaster's voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"You will have five minutes to position yourselves before the clash begins. When the horn sounds, you may move. Remember: victory comes to those who take the enemy's banner."
A hush fell.
Across the clearing, Clamber rolled his shoulders, his sinister grin never fading. His gaze locked with Wads once more. Behind him, that tall, dark-haired figure turned his head just enough for their eyes to meet — and in that fleeting moment, Wads felt the subtle shift of air pressure, the almost imperceptible weight of power.
This wouldn't be an easy fight.
Wads adjusted his grip on his weapon.
The forest was still.
The battle was about to begin.