Chapter: Echoes of Fire and Wind
The restroom was silent, but the air crackled with tension.
Elijah and Paul stood opposite each other, their eyes locked, fierce and unblinking. Like two wolves sizing one another, they exuded unspoken aggression. Paul remained calm, hands in his pockets, unwavering. Elijah, however, had that familiar wild spark in his gaze.
Then Elijah suddenly stood properly, stretched like he was preparing for a dance battle, then let out an exaggerated yawn. "Man... bathrooms are the weirdest places for rivalries," he muttered with a chuckle, clearly trying to mock the tension.
He straightened his coat, raised a brow, and said, "You thought we were going to fight here?"
Paul didn't respond. His silence spoke louder than any words. He simply observed Elijah with the composure of a seasoned general.
Elijah stepped closer. "You do know you're picking a fight with Class B as a whole, right?"
Paul nodded slowly. "I do know."
Elijah smirked devilishly. "And you also know I lead Class B. You're stepping into the lion's den without a weapon, Paul. That's either bravery... or stupidity."
Paul raised his eyes slightly, and with a calm, razor-edged tone, said, "Who says I came unarmed? Sometimes, the most dangerous weapon... is conviction forged by pain. And I've had enough pain to arm an army."
He turned toward the door, his coat swaying slightly as he walked past Elijah.
At the door, Paul paused. "Almost forgot... Class E isn't weak. It's the class that will rise to the top. We'll crush Class B... and anything else in our way."
Then, with hands in his pockets, he walked out.
Silence returned. Elijah stood still, then suddenly burst into uncontrollable laughter. The sound echoed off the tiled walls.
"It's been so long since anyone dared threaten me like that... wow," he said, smirking. "I love this feeling. I love it."
His smirk faded into a knowing grin. He turned to the wall.
"I know you've been there the whole time. Why hide?"
From the shadows, a masked man appeared, dressed in strange garments, his face hidden behind dark cloth. He bowed deeply.
"My lord, forgive my idiotic appearance."
"Never mind," Elijah replied. "You being here was perfect. You got to hear the little rat threaten the number five leader of the Chosen."
He laughed again. "Paul doesn't know how dangerous the game he's playing really is."
The masked man stepped forward. "Sir, Lord Onorode requested you keep an eye on Lord Amaria. She's up to something. The council fears betrayal."
Elijah's eyes lit up. "Perfect. Amaria's been too sneaky lately. Looks like I have two missions now."
---
Later That Night
Students filled their dormitories. Some were asleep, others reading, practicing spells, or staring into the stars with hopeful eyes. Magic buzzed faintly in the air.
In her room, Prisca sat silently by the window, hugging her knees. Her eyes held no tears, but her soul was flooded with them. The memory of her brother's slap still rang in her heart.
Her mind wandered.
---
Flashback: The House of Dante
The royal house of Dante—one of the strongest magical bloodlines—revered across the lands. Magic flowed through their veins like ancestral fire. Dante, their proud heir, was a fierce wind mage, commanding storms and skies. His mother hailed from the East; a woman named Abigail, known for her cold wisdom.
Dante, in his youth, was admired by all. Charismatic, powerful, proud. He fell in love with Purity Rose of the House of Rose—the fifth great magical house. Their love was the talk of the kingdom. They danced under starry skies, cast magical displays of fireworks into the clouds, and swore oaths in ancient tongues.
Purity's voice, gentle as falling petals, would hum lullabies into Dante's ear. He gifted her a ring formed from compressed wind, forever floating around her finger. The two shared promises, secrets, and plans for a future built on unity between two powerful houses.
Families gathered. The marriage was set.
Then it happened. A magical disease was discovered in Purity. Rare. Uncurable.
Dante stood by her side, declaring to the kingdom, "I love her. Disease or not, she is mine."
His father wanted the wedding immediately, fearing shame. But his mother Abigail had always loathed the House of Rose.
"You must marry another," she whispered, planting seeds of doubt in Dante's heart.
He resisted, at first. But Abigail's words dripped with power.
Soon, Dante was introduced to a girl from a village in the East. Lucy Flame. Shy, soft-spoken, and with barely detectable magic.
Dante hated her.
He mistreated Lucy cruelly. Refused to speak to her. Insulted her in front of staff. He once tossed food at her in front of the royal guards and told her, "You're nothing but a tool to calm my mother."
He locked her out in the cold. Broke her wand and mocked her magic. When she tried to help him train, he laughed and said, "You can barely light a candle."
Yet Lucy never left. She would weep alone in the gardens and pray quietly for him to change.
Abigail adored Lucy. Eventually, the marriage happened.
Dante never changed.
He brought women into the house, loud and laughing, while Lucy wept in silence. He struck her often—words and fists. Yet Lucy remained loyal.
One day, she became pregnant. Twins: Mavin and Liorion. They inherited Dante's wind power and Abigail's battle magic. Then came a third child. Another strong mage.
Dante was pleased.
But then came Prisca.
She inherited Lucy's flame power—but it was weak. Flickering. Fragile.
Dante was enraged. He exiled Lucy to another region, shamed and forgotten. Prisca was raised in scorn.
Her siblings mocked her. Her father never smiled at her. They called her "The Ashen Child."
---
Flashback Ends
Prisca's eyes were red with old grief when a knock came.
She opened the door. Naomi stood there with a soft smile and a tray of warm food.
Prisca's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"
Naomi tilted her head. "You've been crying."
Prisca blinked. "What?"
"You can hide it from others, but not me." Naomi stepped closer and gently touched Prisca's cheek. "Say it. You're hurt. Broken. You don't have to carry it alone."
Prisca's eyes welled up.
But then she shoved Naomi and slammed the door.
Naomi stood, silent, then whispered, "I'll get through to you... no matter what."
Inside, Prisca wept.
---
The Next Morning
Screams. Panic. Footsteps raced through the corridors.
Class E students burst into their classroom—and froze.
On the ground, Felix lay unconscious, bruised, bloodied, barely breathing.
Gasps. Some students screamed.
He had been beaten to near death.
Paul arrived late. He stood over Felix's body. His jaw clenched.
In his eyes... war had begun.
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TO BE CONTINUED...