Nerida rose to her feet, hair falling into her eyes. Crimson strands framed her face, hiding the glint of ruby burning beneath.
Her mind was erratic—swirling with disbelief, irritation, and curiosity.
She, top of Class A, had been bested. Or nearly. By some cocky boy who fought like spellwork was a dance. Fluid, unhurried, graceful. Even his dodges looked like footwork on a stage.
She clenched her fist.
This wasn't about pride. Not entirely.
Who even was he?
She sighed and lifted her head.
No more games.
"I'm ending this," she called out, voice low and steady. "With one of House Virellia's special techniques."
Lucian tilted his head. His grey eyes narrowed in curiosity. "So we're using Ultimates now?"
"Brace yourself."
Nerida closed her eyes.
And cast.
One magic circle spun to life, then another—layer after layer, each one more intricate, more radiant than the last. Abjuration runes, evocation glyphs, complex mana threading. And at the center—
A flame sparked.
Summoned by her trait and runes this time. It was drawn, channeled, constructed. She was using circles, runes, and magic theory. Using magic circles with her flame, he knew that she was putting her all in that spell.
The sheer complexity of it stunned the room.
Lucian didn't move.
His eyes locked on the spell formation like a scholar admiring forbidden scripture. His thoughts clicked into overdrive. A thousand strands formed in his mind as his Arcane Attunement activated, studying the structure, the weave, the stabilizing points.
It was beautiful.
The orbits of flame spun around a singular burning core—shaped like a gemstone, compressed, glowing with stored power. The runes around it shimmered like sunlight bleeding through red glass.
Lucian knew, deep down, he couldn't recreate that spell yet.
It bordered on Tier 4. And somehow—somehow—Nerida was pulling it off through sheer genius, her bloodline trait, and stacked casting.
Down below, the test staff were panicking.
Ellie had bolted upright, hand hovering near her wand.
"He's not even casting," someone whispered. "What the hell is he doing?!"
"Put up a barrier at least!" another snapped.
But Lucian stood calmly. Hands at his side. Eyes locked on the spell.
The headmaster, however, said nothing. His gaze didn't move.
Let's see what you've got, lad.
Nerida's voice rang across the field.
"Tier 4 Evocation – Flame Burst!"
The flame launched like a phoenix, screaming through the air like divine vengeance. Heat warped the floor. It sang, splitting the air like a meteor.
Bathing the whole room in bright crimson light.
Lucian moved.
Not to dodge.
He lifted a single hand.
A soft hum.
Blue rings spiraled into view—slow, elegant. A cluster of runes formed in his palm, then twisted, rotated, folded back on themselves.
Ellie's eyes widened.
"Oh you— stupid idiot!"
The flame collided.
The arena flooded with red. A snap of air. No crash. No explosion.
Just a single vacuum pop, and the smell of sizzling mana.
Smoke drifted.
And when it cleared, Lucian stood, brushing embers off his sleeve like lint.
He exhaled.
Lucian exhaled.
"Tier 3 Evocation – [Frangere Scriptum]."
Break the Script.
Silence.
Nerida's gasp echoed across the room.
Admin May dropped her clipboard. One of the staff members looked like he was going to faint. Another whispered, "No way… that's a spellbreaker. A live spellbreaker…"
But Ellie?
She didn't speak. Not at first.
She just stared.
Mouth slightly open. One brow twitching. Her fingers hovered over her glasses like she wasn't sure whether to adjust them or cry.
Then she muttered, just loud enough for those near her to hear:
"…the idiot actually pulled it off."
She stepped forward, arms crossed, hiding the proudest smile she'd worn in years beneath a veil of faux annoyance.
"I taught you that as homework," she called toward him, eyes gleaming, "not for showing off in front of half the school."
Lucian, still patting down his singed sleeve, smirked faintly. "It was homework. I'm just handing it in… dramatically."
Ellie sighed.
"My student, the little showoff."
But her voice was soft. Fond. Maybe even a little choked.
The headmaster began to clap. Slowly. Powerfully. "Marvelous," he said, voice ringing across the chamber like a declaration. "That's the sort of magic that wakes up the bones of this academy!"
Lucian turned to say something to Nerida—thank her, maybe—but caught only her back as she quietly left the arena.
Figures.
He adjusted his collar and looked back to the headmaster.
"So…" he said, his storm-grey eyes glinting, "do I get my admission now, or what?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The classroom door clicked shut behind her.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then—like a ward breaking—murmurs began to ripple through the room.
Nerida returned to her seat.
Front row. Center. Always the center.
Back straight. Shoulders poised. Each step a statement.
Her flame-colored hair framed her cheeks as her ruby eyes stared forward, unbothered by the stares gathering like sparks in dry grass.
The instructor had left, of course, but the floating chalkboard still glowed with its final note:
"Why Fireball Solves Most Problems."
A faint smirk tugged at her lips.
"Well… most," she murmured.
She sat.
The whispering thickened around her—vague gossip, nothing useful. Someone mentioned something about the latest duel rankings, or a spell gone wrong in Alchemy. She didn't care.
Her thoughts were already drifting.
Back to the test chamber.
Lucian.
His magic had been… intricate. Precise. Almost too graceful.
His fingers spun runes mid-air like he'd been born doing it. That smirk—tailored to his face like a noble's signature cloak.
The way the wind curled around him when he moved.
The voice.
The hair, just slightly tousled over storm-grey eyes.
His body, lean but—
Wait. What?!
Nerida's eyes widened just a fraction.
No. Absolutely not.
Focus, Virellia.
A shadow fell across her desk.
She looked up, her expression cooling like snuffed flame.
"Lady Nerida," said the silky voice, dripping smugness.
Golden-trimmed tunic.
Slicked-back blond hair.
Perfectly polished shoes and a smile that had definitely been practiced in the mirror.
Halric Valenforth. Class C. Minor noble house. Chronic interruption.
"I must say, you are as radiant as ever," he drawled, leaning an elbow far too familiarly on her desk. "If you ever need a sparring partner… or someone to talk to, my door's always open."
Nerida stared at him.
Then blinked.
Once.
She turned to her book.
Halric remained, hoping for more. But silence piled up—thick and deliberate—until it smothered even his confidence. He chuckled awkwardly, straightened his cuffs, and finally retreated with the grace of a rejected familiar.
Most of Class A hated Halric.
Not just because he was irritating.
But because he talked to her.
To them, Nerida wasn't just a top student.
She was the Flame Queen. Noble-born. Peerless. Untouchable.
But now?
Now her thoughts circled someone who didn't fit the mold.
She let out a slow sigh, one hand brushing her hair back, the other gently pressing over her eyes.
I just walked off.
Didn't say anything.
He's probably going to think I'm some sore loser.
She groaned and let her forehead drop to the desk.
"Ugh... stupid theatre boy."