The silence that followed the demon's dramatic entrance lasted exactly three seconds.
Then came the screaming. Well—screaming, gasping, dramatically gasped gasping, and one fainting student who muttered something about needing a parental withdrawal letter.
Arila stood frozen for half a heartbeat, blinking at the towering demonic intruder with a single, echoing thought: You absolute overcooked tentacle of doom. You just destroyed my kitchen.
Lucien and Darian moved like twin hurricanes of protectiveness, stepping in front of her without hesitation, capes flaring, weapons and magic already crackling to life. They looked like the lead characters in a magical drama called My Girlfriend Was Almost Demon-Bait.
Julian slid in beside Lucien with a grin that said, Finally, something fun. Vincent followed, all quiet menace and sharp glares, his ice magic already frosting the tips of his sleeves. They flanked like fashionably deadly chess pieces.
Felicia stumbled forward, nearly tripping over her own feet before reaching Arila's side.
"I'm here! For… moral support and… um… emotional screaming?"
Professor Daelen did not scream. He launched out of the shattered window like a spell-slinging war hawk.
"Everyone stay back. I'll handle it."
"Ten sovereigns say he flips his cloak again for flair," Julian whispered.
"You're on," Vincent muttered.
The demon shrieked as a pulse of dark energy blasted toward Daelen. Daelen's cloak billowed like a vengeful storm cloud. He sliced through the magic with a spinning torrent of wind and fire so elegant it could've been choreographed by a particularly vengeful ballet instructor.
The blast ricocheted off his shield and went flying into the side of the building—directly into the kitchen.
The kitchen exploded. Windows shattered. Flames flared. Somewhere in the debris, a single cake stand perished with a pitiful clang. A student sobbed quietly. Another screamed, "THE BREAD RACKS!"
Arila stared in pure horror, mouth open, eyes glassy with the trauma of a dream incinerated.
"My kitchen," she whispered.
Ninko tensed on her shoulder, all nine tails flaring like angry silver flags. He bared his fangs and hissed at the demon as if personally offended on behalf of every destroyed cookie tray.
"My sweet, glorious, sugar-drenched empire…" Arila's voice cracked. "It had ovens that whispered to me. Mixing bowls that rotated on command. There was a pastry counter that sparkled. Sparkled! I didn't even get to name the fudge vat!"
"Is this a breakdown?" Vincent asked.
"She's going to blow," Julian said, sounding far too excited.
Lucien, still tense, murmured, "Nobody touch her. Just… give her a moment."
"I don't need a moment," Arila growled, her voice darkening as magical light began to swirl around her. "I need vengeance."
Her divine cloak blazed to life, glowing white and gold, fluttering like the wings of a very vengeful baking angel. Without another word, she stepped up to the shattered window.
Ninko climbed higher on her shoulder, posture rigid with wrath. They stepped into the open air together—Arila bleeding from a shallow cut caused by glass, but utterly unbothered by the sting.
"Oh, you oversized underbaked sausage with wings," she snarled at the demon. "You think you can destroy my dreams and just slither off into the mist like some final boss without dialogue? Guess what? I brought the DLC."
The demon snarled, rearing back as if to launch another attack—the same dark magic it had hurled at Daelen.
"Oh no you don't," Arila said, raising both hands. "You ruined my oven. Prepare to be flambéed."
With a scream of righteous, sugar-fueled fury, she unleashed her magic.
Lightning cracked from her fingertips. Fire roared from her palms. Wind spiraled upward, whirling around her like a stormy tiara. The ground split open beneath her boots, rising in rocky spikes. Water surged, forming a hurricane ring. And Ninko added his frosty vengeance with a gust of ice that sparkled like broken dreams.
The demon tried to run. Arila did not let it.
"YOU DON'T GET TO RUIN MY COOKIES AND LIVE!" she bellowed.
The explosion was less of a spell and more of a magical extinction event. Color and light flashed across the sky as every element collided into a devastating harmony of pastry-powered rage.
The demon vanished in a roar of soundless light. Half the trees around the academy disintegrated. Birds evacuated. Somewhere in the distance, a bard dropped his lute.
When the dust finally cleared, Arila floated gently back through the shattered window, divine cloak fluttering as if even it needed a nap.
The class stared in stunned silence.
Julian finally clapped. "Ten out of ten. Would almost die again."
"Remind me to never insult her brownies," Vincent said.
Felicia blinked. "That was… wow. That was a lot."
Daelen landed beside the broken window, brushing dust off his robes. "Technically impressive. Also terrifying. I'm filing a hazard report just for existing in the same room."
"Did you see the spell layering?" one student whispered. "She's like an angry buffet with legs."
"I vote she gets her own staff. And a bakery title," another added.
Lira burst through the classroom doors in a panic, skirts flying, eyes scanning wildly until they locked on Arila.
"You're bleeding!"
Arila blinked down at the cut on her hand, only just now feeling the sting.
"Oh. Yeah. But more importantly—my kitchen."
Daelen moved closer, gently taking her hand to examine the wound.
"It's shallow," he said. "But you should—"
"I lost my cinnamon ganache recipe. And the fudge chamber. And the tart of destiny…"
Lira guided her into a seat, fussing over her like an irate older sister.
"You are not founding a dessert empire if you bleed out over a cookie wound."
"I don't need my blood," Arila muttered, eyes glossy. "I need my oven."
Lucien stepped forward, kneeling slightly so he could take her hand in his.
"Let me," he said softly.
Light glowed from his palm, seeping into the wound and closing it with tender warmth. His fingers lingered just a second too long, his eyes holding hers, not with his usual cool detachment—but something gentler, quieter.
"I'm sure," he said gently, voice low and certain, "we can rebuild the kitchen."
Arila blinked. Her heart skipped something. Her scowl softened.
"…With caramel marble countertops?"
Lucien smiled. "And frosting-infused storage wards."
Ninko purred softly and curled around her neck, nudging her cheek like a fuzzy exclamation mark.
Arila wiped her eyes. "Okay. But if the new kitchen doesn't sing when I open the pantry, I'm setting fire to the rug."
Julian leaned toward Vincent. "So… breakfast at her place tomorrow?"
"Only if we bring fire insurance," Vincent replied dryly.
The class slowly resumed breathing, everyone watching Arila like she might turn into a unicorn or a lightning storm at any moment. And honestly, both were still on the table.
To be continued...