"Use any support tricks you want, peasant."
Gregor Vael's voice carried across the Obsidian Ring like a slap. Morning light filtered through the crystal dome, casting rainbow patterns on the arena sand. His golden armor caught every ray, family crest blazing on his breastplate.
I adjusted my borrowed practice gear. Cracked leather that reeked of previous failures. The crowd in the marble balconies laughed at the contrast.
Section A students filled the upper tiers. Silk uniforms, perfect teeth, betting pools on how fast we'd fall. Section D huddled in wooden stands near the arena floor. Close enough to smell blood when it spilled.
Third son of House Vael, The Voice whispered. Fire affinity, trained since childhood, weak left shoulder from old training injury.
I noted the information. Filed it away.
Guards checked barrier crystals around the arena perimeter. Standard procedure to protect spectators from stray spells. The kind of safety measures they never bothered with for Section D practice sessions.
The duel master raised his hand. "Standard academy rules. First to yield or lose consciousness. Begin!"
Gregor launched immediately. Fire erupted from his palms in a spiraling barrage that turned sand to glass where it struck. Hot wind washed over me as I dove left.
The crowd cheered his opening display. Textbook aggression. Proper form. Everything the academy taught about magical dominance.
I rolled behind a practice post, dodging another flame burst. Looked outmatched. Desperate. Exactly what they expected from support trash.
But each scrambling dodge planted micro-sigils in the sand. Invisible preparation hidden in apparent panic. I mapped Gregor's casting patterns while pretending to struggle.
His next fireball singed my cloak. The crowd roared approval.
Timing, The Voice counted heartbeats. He peaks strength buffs every thirty seconds.
I let him drive me toward the arena center. Let him think he was winning.
Gregor raised both hands. Golden light flared around his body as enhancement magic flooded his system. His muscles swelled. His fire burned hotter. The crowd held its breath.
Perfect.
I touched the sand and triggered every hidden sigil at once.
The inversion matrix activated in silence. No flash of light. No dramatic spell-song. Just one small change to the enhancement running through Gregor's veins.
His strength buff became a weakness curse.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. He stood there, golden and glorious, about to deliver the killing blow.
Then his own enhanced power broke his bones.
Gregor screamed. Not the quick yelp of pain, but the long wail of someone whose body was betraying them. He collapsed, convulsing as magical feedback tore through his nervous system.
The laughter died. Confused murmurs rippled through the stands.
Arena medics rushed forward. Their healing magic couldn't touch whatever was wrong with him. Blood pooled in the cracked sand where he thrashed.
I stood in the center of the arena, borrowed armor smoking, while a noble son writhed at my feet.
The silence stretched like a held breath.
"Victor," the duel master finally announced. His voice cracked on the word. "Kale of… Section D."
The crowd erupted. Not cheers—chaos. Shouted questions. Demands for investigation. Betting pools collapsed as confused bookmakers tried to calculate impossible odds.
From the instructor box, Professor Ardyn leaned forward. His floating eye rune circled the arena, recording everything. Other faculty members exchanged worried glances.
Something that shouldn't happen had just happened.
I bowed formally to the stands. Showed proper respect. Walked toward the exit without gloating or answering shouted questions.
Behind me, healers struggled to stabilize Gregor. His internal mana channels were damaged in ways they'd never seen. Recovery would take months.
If he recovered at all.
Beautifully done, Ayrith purred. The system just learned to fear you.
But I wasn't celebrating yet. Too many eyes watched. Too many questions would follow.
In the Section D stands, Ryn sat up straight. For the first time since I'd met him, his shoulders weren't hunched in defeat.
Hope was dangerous in a place like this.
⸻
The medical wing buzzed with activity. Healers clustered around Gregor's bed, their magic probing for damage they couldn't understand. His father's voice echoed through the corridors, fury at his son's condition, demands for answers.
I passed the wing on my way to evening meal. Through the open door, I caught a glimpse of testing equipment. Magical signature analyzers. Arena sand samples being processed for trace magic.
The investigation had already begun.
They'll find nothing useful, Ayrith said. Inversion leaves no standard signature.
Maybe. But I couldn't count on that.
In the kitchen annex, Section D students ate in unusual silence. Some stole glances at me. Others kept their eyes fixed on their bowls.
Ryn approached with shy congratulations. "That was… unexpected."
"Lucky," I corrected.
Lute offered a small bundle of hand-picked herbs. Healing varieties grown in forgotten corners of the academy grounds. Her way of saying thank you for showing them something besides defeat.
Other students maintained careful distance. Hope warred with learned helplessness in their faces. They'd seen what happened to people who stood out.
But they'd also seen a Section D student break a noble son's bones.
The balance was shifting.
⸻
Back in my room, surveillance had intensified. Eye runes patrolled the corridors every ten minutes instead of hourly. Room searches disguised as "routine maintenance" had tripled.
I lay on my broken bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. The Voice analyzed faculty response patterns, identifying threats and opportunities.
Ardyn is the primary concern, she said. His observation network covers the entire academy. He knows you're not what you appear.
The question was how much he knew. And what he planned to do about it.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
Official academy seal. Expensive parchment. The kind reserved for formal summons.
I broke the wax carefully. Professor Ardyn requested a "consultation" tomorrow at dawn. Private office. No witnesses.
The message was polite. Professional. Terrifying.
I read it twice, then crumpled the paper. A whispered word turned it to ash that scattered on the night wind.
He knows something.
Outside my window, a red eye rune hovered. Its lens focused directly on me, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Watching. Recording. Waiting.