A shimr at the sidelines drew eyes—
Ath, blonde and fierce, her uniform crisp and immaculate, purple lace peeking as her skirt hugged her curves.
She caught Silvia’s arm, her icy blue eyes glinting with urgency, and pulled her to a secluded alcove just beyond the faculty benches, where the roar of the crowd dulled to a murmur.
The damp stone walls glistened under flickering mana lanterns, casting their figures in a soft, provocative glow.
Silvia’s glasses fogged as she blinked, her auburn hair slipping from its bun.
"Ath, what’s wrong?" she asked, her voice soft with concern. "Are you feeling bad? Is sothing the matter?"
Ath’s lips curled into a sharp smirk, her blonde hair catching the lantern’s light like a halo of fla.
"Ten silver coins," she whispered, leaning close, her voice low and urgent, her breath warm against Silvia’s ear. "I’ll hit twenty-seven over three rolls. That’s my price."
Silvia’s hands trembled, her cheeks flushing as she processed the bold demand.
Kiara’s absence had left a gaping hole in Class D’s lineup, her default zeros dragging their average down.
Soone had to fill that void, and if Ath could deliver, it was a risk worth taking.
After a tense pause, Silvia slid the coins across, her fingers brushing Ath’s.
"Make it count," she murmured, her voice firm but hopeful.
Ath’s smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with confidence.
She strode to the casting line, her movents fluid, her uniform accentuating every curve.
Her beads streaked through the air, slicing the gale with searing precision.
Snap.10—a perfect strike, the disc exploding in a spray of radiant light, sparks raining down.
Snap.9—a hair off-center.
Snap.10—a triumphant burst, the disc shattering in a dazzling flare.
The crowd roared, gasps and cheers erupting as the scoreboard blazed.
Ath swept the coins into her palm, her blonde hair swaying as she strutted towards the Arena’s exit.
A voice gasped from the crowd, "There’s the showgirl of Class D!" Ath paused, raising a coin to her lips, kissing it with a theatrical flourish, her icy eyes gleaming with pride.
She turned, waving a hand at the stands, blowing flying kisses as she sauntered out of the stadium, her aura shimring with triumph—and isolation.
Olivia watched from the benches, her hazel eyes narrowing, her wavy bob swaying as she leaned forward.
"What the fuck was that," she muttered, her voice low but sharp, her charcoal-gray pants clinging to her hips.
The inner circle exchanged glances—Ath’s brilliance was undeniable, but her exit left a cold shadow.
Lor’s turn ca next.
He paused at the edge of the casting line, his hazel eyes scanning the distant discs, the wind’s patterns flickering through his mind.
A quick calculation flashed in his thoughts, and a faint smirk curved his lips, hidden by his ssy black hair.
He stepped forward, brows raised, the gale clawing at his hair and plain uniform, which flapped unremarkably against his lean fra.
He released his beads with casual precision, each shot understated.
Thud.1—a graze on the outer edge, barely registering.
Thud.3—a wobbling sputter.
Thud.1—another flutter.
The scoreboard flashed, and the crowd snickered.
Lor groaned, loud enough for the front rows to hear, "The wind’s a bitch today."
His voice was dry, unbothered, as he slouched back to his bench, his posture relaxed, no apologies or remorse in his stride.
His hazel eyes glinted, catching Eva’s gaze for a split second, a flicker of amusent passing between them.
He’d done just enough.
The arena trembled as loud horns blared, their echo cutting through the gale, signaling the end of Round 3.
The runic scoreboard blazed to life, its glowing glyphs searing the final scores into the coliseum’s mory.
Class A – 9.2
Class B – 5.1
Class C – 2.7
Class D – 3.1
A collective gasp swept through the arena, a tidal wave of shock and awe.
Vendors froze mid-shout, their fizzing rune-candies forgotten in their trays.
Spectral ravens shot skyward, score slips clutched in their talons, bound for the noble towers where gilded onlookers leaned forward, stunned.
The crowd’s murmurs crescendoed, every eye locked on the scoreboard.
Class D—long dismissed as the academy’s deadweight—had surpassed Class C in round 3 of Spell precision.
In Class D’s rickety corner, the inner circle erupted, their sweat-damp uniforms clinging to their curves, each figure radiant with defiance and triumph.
The inner circle erupted.
Sweat-damp uniforms clung to curves.
Eva’s heaving chest, Olivia’s burning focus, Nellie’s proud thighs, Viora and Myra’s fierce defiance.
Together, they turned, their energy a wildfire, and tugged Lor into their circle of celebration.
Nellie moved first, her thick fra pressing close as she cupped his cheek, her soft fingers warm against his skin.
She leaned in, her curves shifting, her blouse straining, and pressed a chaste, grateful kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering just long enough to send a spark through him.
Her gray eyes shimred with triumph, a radiant smile breaking across her freckled face. "Thank you, Lor," she whispered, her voice soft but heavy with emotion.
The rest flooded forward in a refreshing wave of affection, their laughter bright and unguarded.
"Thanks a lot from too Lor." Eva’s green eyes flashed as she planted a quick kiss on his other cheek, her blue lace peeking, her touch electric.
Olivia’s hazel gaze softened, her kiss brushing his forehead, her wavy bob tickling his skin.
Viora’s smirk softened as she leaned in, her lips grazing his cheek, her green ponytail swaying.
Myra, ever playful, pressed a teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth, her brown eyes glinting, her black lace flashing as she pulled back with a wink.
Lor, his black hair falling ssily over his hazel eyes, absorbed it all with a casual shrug, his grin shy but warm.
"I’ll take that as proof that now you guys believe the Light’s real," he said, his voice low and warm, a playful edge hiding the pride swelling in his chest.
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