Fynn's pulse thumped in his ears as he followed the neon-lit alleyways, keeping to the shadows. Every puddle reflected the city's chaotic glow, and every drone that hummed overhead made him flinch.
He had barely made it a block away from the duel scene when a sharp voice cut through the drizzle.
"Stop right there."
Fynn froze. A figure stepped out from behind a holographic billboard, tall, armored, and radiating confidence. A sleek device on their wrist pulsed faintly, scanning the air. It wasn't just a drone this time—this was someone human, someone clearly trained.
"Level 8, rogue spell," the figure said, voice flat but sharp. "You've been… noticed."
Fynn's mouth went dry. Noticed? By them?
The elemental perched on his shoulder, sparks flickering nervously. Fynn held it close and typed the first spell command he could think of: /fireball/.
A tiny flame leapt from his hand, barely reaching the figure's boots. The armored person didn't flinch, only raised a hand, and the flame fizzled in midair like it had hit an invisible wall.
Fynn cursed under his breath. "Right. I knew I shouldn't have tried that."
The figure stepped closer, the device on their wrist projecting a faint holographic grid over the street. Red markers pulsed on the grid—highlighting Fynn, the elemental, and even nearby drones.
"You don't understand what you've activated," the figure said calmly. "Rogue spells aren't toys. People die from them. I could make sure you don't get that far."
Fynn swallowed hard. I'm still level 8. I'm still a nobody.
He looked at the elemental, which chirped nervously, sparks dancing in the dim light. Then he remembered: even a weak spell could be unpredictable if used cleverly.
He typed another command, this one a miscompiled flare, hoping it would distract the figure. The elemental mimicked the motion, and together, they sent a small burst of sparks across the alley.
The figure swore under their breath, shielded their device, and stepped back. It was enough for Fynn to dash down a side street, chest pounding, adrenaline surging.
Behind him, he could hear the soft whirring of drones and the armored figure's calm voice calling after him:
"This isn't over, Level 8."
Fynn didn't stop running. The city stretched ahead, alive with lights, drones, and danger. Every alley, every puddle reflected a world far larger than him—a world where magic was real, and being weak could kill.
But somewhere in his chest, a spark of determination burned brighter than the elemental on his shoulder.
I'm level 8. I'm still a nobody. But I won't stay that way.