The circle had become a coliseum. The air was thick with expectation, every whisper a spark, every heartbeat a drumbeat. Dust rose with each step Caius and Ash took, the sunlight striking their faces as if to etch the moment into memory. The Academy grounds had seen countless duels before, but none with stakes so strange, so sharp—none that felt like the clash of more than two boys.
Caius Serpentis stood tall, his robes scuffed from their earlier exchange, a cut bleeding lightly along his jaw. He was bloodied, yes, but his composure remained flawless, the mask of a noble heir who could not allow himself to be shaken. His emerald eyes burned with a venomous pride that no wound could quench.
Ash, by contrast, bore no crest, no family to call upon, no name for the crowd to whisper. He stood with his breath steady, hands bare, a thin line of sweat tracing his temple. His only weapon was the Strategos Codex thrumming in his mind like a heartbeat, its voice sharp as a blade honed for war.
The crowd pressed close at the edges of the circle. Garrick's booming voice rose above them all, cheering wildly, but his laughter could not mask the tension in the air. Some nobles leaned forward with narrowed eyes, their lips tight with disdain. Others whispered feverishly, drawn by the impossible sight of their peer, Caius, being matched by a boy from nowhere.
Caius raised his wand, and the crowd hushed at once. His voice carried, cold and unyielding.
"You have forced me to this point, Ash of nowhere. Do not mistake it for an honor. You will regret it before the day ends."
His mana surged. It did not come as a flame or a bolt or a shield. It came as a weight, a suffocating pressure that pressed down on every chest in the circle. The ground shivered, the air trembled, and for the first time, fear flickered in the eyes of the students watching.
Ash's breath hitched. The Strategos Codex whispered, sharp, insistent: This is no longer academy training. This is legacy. Bloodline. Be ready, or be consumed.
Green light erupted from Caius's wand, spilling outward like venom across water. It gathered above him, swirling into a mass of energy that warped the air itself. Shapes twisted, writhed, formed—three great serpentine heads of shimmering emerald mana, each as large as a warhorse, jaws lined with spectral fangs. They hissed in unison, their voices a chorus of dread.
Gasps tore from the crowd.
"The Serpentis legacy…" someone whispered.
"He's awakened it?" another breathed.
"Not fully," an older student muttered, eyes wide. "That's only a fragment. But still… gods above…"
Caius's lips curved into a thin smile, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he drank in their awe. "Behold, Ash. You stand before the shadow of Naga-Moros, the Ebon Hydra. Few outside my House have ever seen it… and none have survived it in battle."
The serpents coiled, three heads swaying in eerie unison, their eyes burning with poisonous green fire.
Ash's pulse quickened, but he did not move. His vision blurred, and then shifted. The circle, the crowd, the serpents—all of it dissolved into something else.
A battlefield.
He stood at the center of a war-torn plain, banners snapping in the wind. The three serpent heads were not beasts—they were armies. Each moved with terrifying speed, their maneuvers swift and coordinated, striking from different flanks at once. Infantry here, cavalry there, archers raining from above. Independent, yet tied together by a single command.
Do you see it? the Codex whispered, its voice low, deliberate. Each head is a division. They strike wide, but their supply is one. Sever it, and the beast will starve.
The serpents lunged.
Ash rolled aside, a serpent's fangs biting into the ground where he'd stood, sand erupting in a spray. Another struck from the flank, its spectral body shimmering, and Ash raised a shield of mana in desperation. The impact shattered it like glass, sending him staggering backward. His ribs burned, his arms trembled.
The crowd roared with excitement. To them, it was spectacle. To Ash, it was survival.
Caius's laughter rang across the circle. "Run, slum rat! Run until you tire, then I'll have the serpents crush you into dust!"
Ash clenched his teeth, steadying his breath. He could not meet the Hydra head-on. Power against power would see him broken in moments. He needed strategy. He needed foresight.
The battlefield vision sharpened. He saw the serpents as divisions, their flanking patterns, the supply lines of mana that tied them back to Caius's wand, to his chest, to the core of his control. Thin threads of emerald light bound them, invisible to all but Ash.
There. That is his weakness, the Codex murmured. Strike the commander, not the ranks. But beware—the heads will not allow you passage easily. They are his shields as much as his swords.
Ash's hands moved, weaving mana into sharp, jagged shards. He flung them not at the serpents, but at the space between them, testing, probing. The heads lunged, intercepting, snapping the shards apart with spectral jaws. The threads flickered faintly where they twisted, and Ash's eyes narrowed.
Caius scoffed. "Futile. You cannot pierce Naga-Moros's shadow. It is eternal. My blood makes it so."
But Ash only smirked, the faintest curve of his lips. "Every army bleeds when cut in the right place."
He darted forward. The first serpent lunged, jaws wide, and Ash slid beneath it, sand scraping his arms raw. The second swept from the side, and Ash raised a barrier angled just enough to deflect its momentum, staggering its strike. The third descended from above, its fangs poised to pierce, but Ash thrust a spear of mana upward, colliding just enough to throw its aim awry.
In that heartbeat, the threads glowed bright before his eyes—clear, vulnerable.
Ash struck.
Mana condensed in his palm, sharp as a blade, and he slashed at the nearest thread. It severed with a flash of light, and one serpent head shrieked as it collapsed into sparks.
The crowd gasped in shock.
Caius staggered, his control faltering, fury flashing across his face. "You—!"
Ash did not hesitate. He pressed forward, weaving through snapping jaws and venomous light, cutting at the threads one by one. Each strike cost him pain—his skin seared by spectral fangs, his mana reserves burning low—but he moved with precision born of the Codex's whispers, each maneuver a commander's decision in the chaos of war.
The second thread snapped. Another serpent dissolved.
Only one remained, writhing wildly, its strikes frantic, uncontrolled.
Caius roared, his mask of noble composure cracking. "You dare unravel the Serpentis legacy? You, who have no name, no blood?!" His wand blazed, pouring every drop of mana he had into the final head. It grew larger, fiercer, its fangs dripping emerald fire.
The serpent lunged for Ash's throat.
Ash's vision blurred again, the battlefield roaring in his mind. He saw not a beast but a desperate final charge, an army's last stand. And in every last stand, the fatal flaw was the same: desperation blinded command.
He twisted aside at the last instant, his hand snapping upward, his mana blade striking the final thread.
The serpent shrieked, its body unraveling in a storm of sparks that rained down upon the circle like emerald ash.
Silence fell.
Ash stood in the center, chest heaving, sweat and blood mingling on his skin. Caius staggered, his wand falling from numb fingers, his body trembling as the last echoes of Naga-Moros faded into nothing.
The crowd erupted—cheers, gasps, shouts, a storm of voices that rolled across the Academy grounds.
Ash had done the impossible. He had defeated Caius Serpentis at his strongest.
Caius's emerald eyes met his. They burned with fury, with humiliation—but beneath it, deep within, flickered something else. A glimmer of respect. Of recognition.
Ash inclined his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the moment.
The duel was over. But their rivalry had only just begun.