The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the Academy's training grounds as Seraphine walked back toward the mansion. Her muscles ached from the day's rigorous combat drills, but her mind was sharp, ever-observant.
She noticed Gunther first—his usual composed demeanor replaced by a tense silence, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He leaned against the car, arms crossed, staring at nothing. It was unlike him.
"You've been quiet," she remarked, stopping a few steps away.
Gunther blinked, snapping out of his reverie. "Just… work on my mind, Lady Seraphine."
"Work?" Her gaze sharpened. "You're my driver, not a maintenance officer. Yet you've been sneaking around like one."
A flicker of unease crossed his face before he schooled it back into neutrality. "Old habits. I like to keep busy."
She studied him, the way his jaw tightened—a tell she'd come to recognize. "You're lying."
A pause. Then, a quiet sigh. "And you're too perceptive for your own good."
The corner of her lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost. "Then tell me the truth."
He met her eyes, weighing his words. "If I could, I would."
The admission hung between them, charged with something unspoken. Seraphine felt her cheeks warm but refused to look away. "You're infuriating."
"So I've been told." His voice softened, just slightly. "But you're still here."
Her breath hitched. "I don't have a choice. You're my ride."
"Right." He pushed off the car, opening the door for her. "Then let's get you home."
As the car pulled away, Gunther's mind raced. Pressure-triggered rune-bombs. No wires. No time. His fingers tightened around the wheel.
He was no mage. But he was a general.
And generals didn't need magic to win wars.
Gunther's Quarters – The Weight of Strategy
The door clicked shut behind Gunther as he entered his sparse quarters. Moonlight filtered through the narrow window, painting silver streaks across the floor. He exhaled sharply, rolling the tension from his shoulders.
Pressure-triggered rune-bombs. No wires. Only magical seals.
His fingers twitched at his sides. Back on Earth, he'd have a dozen countermeasures—controlled detonations, signal jammers, sabotage. Here, without magic, he was blind.
The Plan Takes Shape
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room. Then—
"Fake the course."
A distraction. Something loud enough, chaotic enough to force an evacuation. He grabbed paper and pen, sketching rough outlines:
Decoys in the parking lot – Simple smoke bombs, nothing magical. Enough to trigger panic.
Redirect the crowd – Away from the dome, away from the real threat.
Force their hand – If the Jenuvian League had contingencies, they'd show themselves.
A dangerous gamble. But the only play he had.
An Unwelcome Interruption
A knock.
"Gunther?" Seraphine's voice, cool as ever.
He swept the notes into his desk drawer before answering. "Lady Seraphine."
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "You weren't at dinner."
"Not hungry."
Her eyes narrowed—just slightly. She'd seen him fight before, though he'd tried to keep those skills hidden. Had she noticed too much?
"You've been distracted," she said.
"Just tired."
A beat of silence. Then, with a faint tilt of her head: "Don't lie to me."
He met her gaze evenly. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She studied him a moment longer before turning away. "See that you don't."
The door closed behind her. Gunther waited until her footsteps faded before pulling the notes back out.
No, he wouldn't tell her. Couldn't.
Some secrets were better kept.
The Ingredients
Under the pale moonlight, Gunther moved like a shadow through the mansion's storage cellar. His hands worked swiftly, gathering:
Charcoal powder (from the blacksmith's supplies)
Crushed firequartz (volatile, used in mining explosives)
Sticky resin (to bind the mixture)
Hollowed-out ironwood nuts (to serve as brittle casings)
A crude, but effective, formula.
The Assembly
Kneeling in the dim glow of a single candle, he mixed the charcoal and powdered firequartz, then kneaded in the resin. The result? A black, clay-like explosive—stable until impact.
He packed the mixture into the hollowed nuts, sealing them with wax. One sharp strike, and they'd erupt.
The Trigger Mechanism
No fuses. No magic. Just pure physics.
The ironwood shells were fragile enough to shatter under a high-speed impact.
A stone thrown with superhuman force would act as the detonator.
Gunther smirked. "Simple. Brutal. Perfect."
The Unseen Observer
Seraphine stood in the hallway, hidden in the darkness. She'd woken to the faint scrape of movement—only to find Gunther hunched over a strange, sinister-looking box.
Her breath stilled.
What is he building?
But she didn't interrupt. Didn't call out. Instead, she lingered, watching as his hands moved with military precision.
Then, as silently as she'd come, she retreated.
Some secrets, she decided, were better left uncovered.
Arrival at the Ironhold Dome – A Tournament of Rising Stars
The Ironhold Dome buzzed with energy as students from the three great academies gathered for the Combat Opening Ceremony. Nobles, instructors, and select spectators filled the stands, but today's stage belonged to the next generation of warriors and mages.
Gunther parked the car, his gaze lingering on the baggage compartment where his makeshift explosives lay hidden. Soon.
Seraphine stepped out, her expression unreadable. "Stay close," she said—less an order, more a quiet warning.
Gunther nodded. If only she knew what "close" would entail.
Seraphine ignored him, but Gunther noted the flicker of irritation in her stance.
The Unspoken Watch
As the ceremony began, Gunther melted into the background—just another servant. But Seraphine's eyes kept finding him in the crowd.
She had seen him last night. Seen the bomb casings, the careful assembly.
Yet she said nothing.
Why?
The question gnawed at him, but there was no time. The event was starting.
And so was his plan.
The Royal Spectacle Begins
The Ironhold Dome's grand arena shimmered under enchanted lights as nobles and military elites took their seats. At the highest balcony, draped in the royal sigil, sat General Aldric Voss, the Iron Sentinel - the king's direct enforcer and overseer of elite recruitment. His presence alone silenced murmurs; his cybernetic left eye scanned the crowd like a hawk sighting prey.
The announcer's voice boomed:"Lords and ladies, honored guests! Today, we witness the future of our kingdom's might!"
Introducing the Champions
One by one, the academy's finest stepped into the spotlight:
1. Lady Elyria Sylvaris (Sylvaris Atheneum)
Gender: Female
Appearance: A vision of golden beauty with long, straight blonde hair that cascaded like liquid sunlight down her back. Her porcelain features were perfectly symmetrical, with full lips and piercing sapphire eyes that seemed to glow under the arena lights. She wore an exquisite white-and-gold combat dress that shimmered with every movement, the Sylvaris crest embroidered in silver thread across the bodice.
Introduction:"Representing Sylvaris Atheneum - the Jewel of the Kingdom, Her Highness Lady Elyria Sylvaris!"She offered a perfect curtsey, her golden locks catching the light as magical rose petals materialized around her, drawing awed whispers from the crowd.
2. Seraphine di Ironhold (Ironhold Academy)
Gender: Female
Appearance: An ethereal silver-haired beauty with long, straight silver hair that flowed like moonlit silk down to her waist. Her alabaster skin and sharp, elegant features gave her an almost otherworldly aura. While Elyria's beauty was warm and radiant, Seraphine's was cold and mesmerizing - like a frozen lake under winter stars. She wore a sleek silver-and-blue combat uniform that hugged her athletic frame, her family's wolf crest emblazoned on the pauldrons.
Introduction:"Representing Ironhold Academy - the Frost Princess, Seraphine di Ironhold!"She nodded curtly, her silver hair swaying as a chill mist formed around her boots, creating delicate frost patterns on the stage.
3. Darius Krayne (Blackthorn Academy)
Gender: Male
Appearance: A mountain of muscle standing at 6'5", his battle-scarred face framed by a wild black mane. His crimson combat vest left his arms bare, revealing serpentine tattoos that coiled around his arms - each a kill mark.
Introduction:"From Blackthorn Academy, the undefeated gladiator of the southern pits - Darius 'The Butcher' Krayne!"He slammed his cleaver-sword into the ground, cracking the stage.
4. Elias Caine (Ironhold Academy)
Gender: Male
Appearance: Flamboyant yet deadly, his emerald-green duelist coat flared as he moved. His sharp, angular face was perpetually cocky, his auburn hair tied back with a silver clasp.
Introduction:"Ironhold's own stormcaller, the lightning without thunder - Elias Caine!"He spun his rapier, and electricity crackled down its length.
The Beauty Duel
As Elyria and Seraphine stood at opposite ends of the arena, the crowd couldn't help but compare the two legendary beauties.
Elyria's golden radiance seemed to command attention effortlessly, her every movement graceful and calculated. But those who looked closer noticed how Seraphine's cold, sharp elegance drew the eye just as strongly - her silver hair and piercing gaze creating an aura of untouchable perfection.
General Voss's mechanical eye whirred as it zoomed in on both women."The golden rose and the silver blade," he murmured. "What a fascinating contrast."
Planting Time
I slipped through the bustling crowd like a shadow, my movements calculated and silent. The carefully crafted bomb rested heavily in my concealed pouch, its weight a grim reminder of what needed to be done. As I navigated through the sea of oblivious spectators, my mind raced through the plan one final time. Every step brought me closer to the parking area, where chaos would soon erupt.
Reaching the designated spots near the main gate and parking lot, I carefully placed the explosives in strategic locations. The exit routes would be the first to go, cutting off any chance of escape once the detonation sequence began. A cold determination settled over me as I adjusted the final device. There's no turning back now. The stage was set, and soon, everyone would understand the true meaning of desperation.
Elias Caine vs Darius "The Butcher" Krayne
The announcer's voice thundered across the arena:
"In this corner—the undefeated gladiator of the Blackthorn Pits, the man who's never tasted surrender—DARIUS KRAYNE!"
The crowd roared as Darius stomped forward, his cleaver-sword dragging against the stone, leaving sparks in its wake. His muscles flexed beneath his crimson vest, the serpentine tattoos coiling like living things. He grinned, revealing a row of filed teeth.
"And his opponent—Ironhold's lightning prodigy, the storm without thunder—ELIAS CAINE!"
Elias stepped into the light with a flourish of his emerald coat, his rapier resting lazily over his shoulder. The announcer continued, "Experts predict a brutal victory for Darius—but let's see if the pretty boy can survive three minutes!"
Laughter rippled through the stands. Elias merely smirked.
The arena fell silent as the two combatants stepped forward. On one side stood Darius Krayne, his massive frame casting a shadow across the bloodstained sand. His cleaver-sword, notched from countless battles, rested against his shoulder as he cracked his neck with a sickening pop. Across from him, Elias Caine twirled his rapier with lazy precision, the emerald fabric of his coat fluttering dramatically despite the absence of wind.
"This ends quickly," Darius growled, his voice like gravel. He'd heard the whispers - that this pretty noble boy thought himself untouchable. Today, he'd teach him the taste of dirt.
The bell rang.
Darius exploded forward, his first swing aimed to bisect Elias at the waist. The crowd gasped as steel flashed - only for Elias to simply lean back, the blade passing inches from his stomach. Before Darius could recover, Elias' rapier flicked out, drawing a thin red line across the gladiator's cheek.
"You'll have to do better than that," Elias sighed, stepping around another wild swing as if they were practicing choreographed moves rather than fighting for their lives. His movements were liquid grace, every dodge calculated to infuriate, every counterstroke designed to humiliate rather than incapacitate.
Darius roared, abandoning technique for pure rage. He swung in wide, brutal arcs, each powerful enough to cleave stone. Yet Elias danced through the storm of steel untouched, his rapier leaving stinging cuts on Darius' arms, his legs, the back of his neck - never deep enough to end the fight, just enough to draw blood and ire.
"Stand still!" Darius bellowed after a particularly embarrassing miss that left him stumbling past his opponent. Elias responded by tapping the flat of his blade against the gladiator's backside, drawing shocked laughter from the crowd.
As the fight stretched on, Darius' breathing grew ragged while Elias moved with the same effortless precision as when they'd begun. The nobleman's smirk never wavered, even as he deliberately allowed Darius to back him toward the arena wall. Just as the gladiator thought he'd finally cornered his prey, Elias vaulted over his head using Darius' own shoulder as a springboard, landing gracefully behind him.
"You fight like an angry bull," Elias remarked, casually parrying another desperate swing. "But even bulls eventually tire."
The end came not with a dramatic flourish, but with cruel inevitability. As Darius overextended on yet another wild swing, Elias finally stopped playing. His rapier licked out once, twice, three times - each strike precisely severing tendons in Darius' sword arm. The cleaver-sword fell from nerveless fingers as Elias delivered a final, contemptuous kick to the back of the gladiator's knee, sending him crashing face-first into the sand.
Elias didn't even bother to press his advantage. He simply sheathed his rapier and walked away as Darius struggled to rise, his body refusing to obey. The crowd's cheers turned to uneasy murmurs - this hadn't been a victory. It had been an execution.
"Next time," Elias called over his shoulder without breaking stride, "bring someone who can actually fight."
The message was clear to every warrior present: Elias Caine wasn't just better than Darius. He was playing an entirely different game.
Elias Caine vs. Blackthorn Academy's Rising Star
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena, dripping with skepticism:
"Ladies and gentlemen, our next match features Ironhold's own—Elias Caine! And facing him… Blackthorn Academy's rising star, the undefeated prodigy of the northern war camps—VAEL ORREN!"
The crowd erupted as Vael stepped forward, his twin axes gleaming under the arena lights. Towering and broad-shouldered, his scarred face twisted into a confident smirk. The announcer continued, "Experts predict another crushing defeat for Ironhold—Vael hasn't lost a fight in three years!"
Elias merely adjusted his emerald coat, rolling his eyes.
The Fight: A Lesson in Superiority
The bell rang.
Vael charged like a battering ram, axes whirling in a deadly storm of steel. Elias didn't move—not until the last possible second.
Then, he vanished.
A flicker of green. A flash of lightning.
Vael's first axe struck empty air. His second—Elias caught the haft between two fingers, stopping it dead.
"Cute," Elias mused, before yanking the weapon from Vael's grip and tossing it aside like trash.
The crowd gasped.
Vael snarled, swinging his remaining axe in a furious arc—only for Elias to lean back, letting the blade pass inches from his nose.
"You're slow," Elias sighed. "And predictable."
Then, he struck.
His rapier became a blur—three precise jabs to Vael's wrist, elbow, and shoulder. The second axe clattered to the ground.
Vael staggered, eyes wide.
Elias didn't let up. A spinning kick sent Vael crashing to his knees. A lightning-charged palm strike to the chest launched him skidding across the arena floor.
Silence.
Then—cheers.
The Aftermath: A General's Dilemma
From the royal balcony, General Aldric Voss watched, his mechanical eye zooming in on Elias.
"That boy…" he muttered. "He wasn't even trying."
His aide frowned. "But sir, our scouts never flagged him as a threat. Ironhold's only notable talent was supposed to be Lady Seraphine."
The general's jaw tightened. "Then our intelligence failed." He scribbled a note:"ELIAS CAINE—PRIORITY RECRUIT."
But beneath his steel resolve, unease simmered.
If we missed him… who else are we overlooking?
Elias Caine vs. Lady Elyria Sylvaris: A Fallen Pride
The arena buzzed with anticipation as the announcer's voice boomed:
"Ladies and gentlemen! A match fit for royalty—Ironhold's lightning prodigy, Elias Caine, versus the Jewel of Sylvaris, Lady Elyria Sylvaris!"
The crowd erupted as Elyria stepped forward, her long, golden hair cascading like sunlight under the arena's glow. Her sapphire-blue combat dress shimmered with every graceful movement, the delicate embroidery of her house sigil catching the light. She was radiance personified—her porcelain skin flawless, her lips curved in a serene smile. Even the most hardened warriors in the stands couldn't help but stare.
Elias smirked, twirling his rapier. "Try not to cry when you lose, Princess."
Elyria merely tilted her head, her voice soft but carrying. "I'd worry about yourself, Stormcaller."
The Strike That Shocked the Crowd
The bell rang.
Elias moved first—a blur of green and lightning. His rapier lanced forward, faster than the eye could track.
And for the first time in the tournament…
He landed a hit.
A shallow cut traced Elyria's cheek, a single bead of crimson marring her perfect complexion. The crowd gasped. Elias grinned—
Then the world exploded in light.
Elyria's hand flicked upward, and a torrent of golden energy erupted. Elias barely had time to widen his eyes before the force slammed him into the arena wall, his rapier clattering to the ground.
He tried to rise—only for Elyria's sapphire-heeled boot to press gently against his chest, pinning him down.
"A valiant effort," she murmured, her voice like honey. "But you were never winning this."
The announcer roared: "LADY ELYRIA SYLVARIS—VICTORIOUS!"
Aftermath: A Humbled Storm
Elias lay there, breathless, staring up at the woman who had dismantled him in seconds. The crowd's cheers were deafening—not just for her victory, but for the effortless elegance with which she'd achieved it.
From the royal balcony, General Voss exhaled sharply. "Now that… that is a true prodigy."
Elyria offered Elias a hand, her smile never wavering. "You're strong. But arrogance blinds."
Elias, for once, had no retort.