Duel With Isabella

We stand on the platform, Isabella and I, the air charged with electricity of more than just the magical kind. I actually managed to hold myself back... Dammit! How could I fall for such a cheap trick! I was this close! The words crash through my mind, waves against a steadfast cliff. I exhale, a long and weary sigh.

Isabella looks across at me, her eyes shimmering with the same malice as her smile. "You missed your chance. Now you're going to end up being my servant and you won't get a single drop of the potion, you barbarian. But don't worry, I won't let you stay ugly. If—" Her words, dripping with contempt, are cut short.

I can't help but interrupt, my voice a sardonic tsk. What an annoying fucker, echoes in my head. Out loud, I turn to Professor Feron, "Professor Feron, I would like to change the duel if possible."

Professor Feron, looking more agitated and stressed than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, taps his hands on the table top. "What do you mean by that, V?"

Isabella's glare could strip paint from the walls, but I hold her gaze, feeling a grin stretch across my face. "You see, I wish for Isabella to go all out, so would you mind letting her use her artifact? In return, please allow me to use my physical strength. I won't use aura, just my strength. I'm sure Isabella wouldn't mind this, right?" The challenge hangs between us, heavy and taunting. "Or are you scared?"

The words are a bare-knuckled slap to her pride, and she responds in kind, her teeth clenched so hard I can almost hear them grind. "Oh, now you've done it. Professor Feron, please allow us to do as he says."

Feron seems to be in his own world, barely tethered to the here and now. His voice is distant, abstracted, "Oh—um, yeah, you can do that," he agrees, his tapping a staccato rhythm betraying his inner turmoil.

Isabella's fingers dive into her bag with the grace of a hawk snatching its prey, emerging with her precious wand. It's a top-notch artifact, its aura humming with latent power. Her eyes, wide with a cocktail of anger and something dangerously close to fear, lock onto me. "You made a wrong choice, barbarian—"

I can't hold back the cold laugh that spills from my lips, "Hmhmhmhmhahaha!" It's a sound that seems to slice through the tension. I turn to Lysandra in the sea of students, and with a shared look, she clicks her tongue, tossing me my glove. It lands with a slap in my palm, the red-orange leather a promise of the storm to come. Oh, this is going to be fun.

Isabella tries again, "You bar—" but I'm already on her, cutting her off with words as sharp as blades. "I'm going to bash your head into the ground," I say, the smirk on my face feeling as natural as breathing.

The temperature around us drops with Isabella's stone-cold look. "You will—" she starts, but I trample her words underfoot, relentless. "I'm going to humiliate your noble ass in front of everyone."

She grips her wand tighter, her knuckles white. I can almost hear her teeth grit from where I stand. "Listen here you!—" But I'm a raging river, and her words are pebbles against my torrent. "I'm going to show just how much better a barbarian is than a damn noble."

Laughter bubbles up from my chest, raw and unbridled. Hahahaha! There's no reason to look weak anymore. The cult, those shadow-dwellers, will be making their move soon, and the facade of civility that holds these students together will crumble like dry bread. They couldn't care less about the students.

And Isabella? Ah, it's definitely not because she's a bitch. She just needs a lesson in humility—a lesson I'm more than happy to provide.

As the duel looms closer, my disrespect for her doesn't just show—it dances, it prances, it roars to life. Isabella, with all her noble airs and graces, doesn't deserve an ounce of respect. Not now. Not anytime soon. 

A grin splits my face, sharp and taunting. "I'll give you a chance to forfeit before you embarrass yourself," I jeer, the words loaded with a confidence that feels like armor. Hahaha, as if she ever will.

Perched on my head, Ilka is a mirror of my own amusement, grinning with an intensity that would scare a demon back to hell. She swings her feet with a child's glee, though the malice in her eyes is anything but innocent.

I mutter, low enough so only she can catch it, "What do you think? How should I humiliate her?"

Her eyes, they light up with a dark, mischievous glimmer, the kind that would make the stars jealous. "Oh, I know! You need to drag it out as long as possible," she whispers, her voice a sinister wind. "Make sure you keep punching her but not enough to knock her out. Everyone needs to see her struggle, witness the noble Isabella flailing like a fish out of water."

I nod, almost imperceptibly. Ilka's counsel is cruel, fitting for the lesson I aim to teach. In this dance of fists and magic, I'm the lead, and I'll make damn sure Isabella remembers the steps long after the music has died.

Isabella's grin carves a chilling spectacle across her face, "You seem to have forgotten your place, commoner. Don't worry, I'll make sure to properly train you when you become my servant." Her voice is like a whip, each word a strike meant to lash and sear.

Around us, the sea of students churns with awkwardness, their expressions a blend of disbelief and second-hand embarrassment. Apart from Lysandra, whose knowing eyes gleam with silent support, they all seem to think I've lost my marbles. Sure, Isabella's one of the top freshmen, a prodigy, and I've been lying low, but that doesn't mean a thing today.

With a flourish that belies her contempt, Isabella taps her wand, her index finger commanding the elements. Over one hundred magic arrows, aflame, swirling with wind, and encased in ice, manifest with lethal intent. They hover like a grim audience, waiting for the show to start. Her gaze slices through the air, colder than the ice she conjures. "Get on your knees and apologize, I'll let you forfeit if you do."

I can't hold the laughter in; it erupts from me, a cascade of cold amusement. Clutching my stomach, I let the mockery ring out. "Hmhmhmhahahaha!... Oh please. I won't bow down to a god, what makes you think I'd bow down to you?" My voice dances on the edge of disdain, a balancing act between goading and outright scorn.

Excitement pulses through me, a wild, thrumming energy. Sparring with Lysandra is always exhilarating, but this—this is a different kind of thrill. I know Isabella's weaknesses as well as I know the back of my own hand. She's a tempest of magic, a maelstrom of spells, but take away the distance, and she's as vulnerable as Biana when her mother's around. 

I'm cursed, sure, cursed to fight only a fraction as long as the others, but that's an eternity when every second is a step closer to victory. I need but a moment to close the gap. 

Isabella, misinterpreting my laughter for madness, her smirk a shadow of her previous confidence, retaliates. "Oh, I see, you're not disrespecting me, you're just outright insane. Don't worry, there are plenty of ways to fix that."

Arrows shriek through the air towards me, cutting the distance at a breakneck pace. I'm springing back, feet barely skimming the ground. Ah, I see the game now. She's trying to widen the gap, playing cat to my mouse. But who's to say which of us is really the prey?

My muscles coil and I push off, a burst of mana lending speed to my escape. I'm spinning, twisting through the storm of Isabella's rage. Each arrow is an icy finger of death, and I'm dancing between them, a step ahead of the grave.

Isabella's not just going to let me have all the fun, though. She's weaving magic circles with one hand, flinging her wand with the other. Magic chains surge from the ground, grasping, hungry for something to hold.

I can't suppress the grin that ripples across my face. My fist clenches and it's like a damn cannonball. I smash the chains, sending them splintering back into the earth. They never stood a chance.

I'm thinking, maybe I should toss a little magic of my own into the mix. Without mana to waste on flashy tricks, I conjure a simple thing—a string, glowing a soft blue in the charged air, dancing to my silent tune.

The string whips through the remaining magic arrows, slicing them as easily as a hot knife through butter. But Isabella just smirks, all high and mighty. "As expected of my servant. However, you need to show me something superior to a mere string."

Touché, bitch.

The string lunges for her, eager to prove its worth, but with a flick of her finger and a burst of heat, she incinerates it. A pity. I didn't really expect a piece of thread to best her, but it was a shot.

She's not done—of course she's not. A dozen fireballs scream towards me, their heat distorting the air. Time to backpedal, but not too far. Can't let her think she's got me on the ropes.

Alright, first time actually trying this spellcasting gig. I focus, mana pooling in my palms. A clap of my hands, and it's like I've sliced through reality itself. A razor-thin wave of mana scythes forward, turning those fireballs into a shower of harmless sparks.

"Hah," I scoff under my breath, "guess I've got a knack for this magic thing after all."

"That's not enough. Show me something worthy of being my servant," Isabella says, her voice ringing with a challenge that grates on my nerves. Hundreds of huge fire chains explode into existence, weaving a scorching lattice in the air.

I click my tongue, eyeing the fiery onslaught with disdain. "No one wants to be your damn servant, bitch." It's getting seriously annoying to get close to her with all these theatrics. What sort of magic should I try using? Ah, got it. I'll pull a page from Rai's book. Using that fire I have won't do squat, so I'll craft it from pure mana instead, a proper extension to my Umbra blade, conserving as much mana as possible.

I sigh, closing my eyes, feeling the magical energy like a brewing storm. Alright, focus. First, a ball of mana—got it. Then stretch it like clay... There it is. My eyes snap open and I swing the newly formed mana sword, hacking through the incoming chains with a raw, almost savage grace. The sword's a crude thing, barely more than a jagged shard of force, but it does the trick. Gotta polish this up later.

Isabella's eyebrow arches with a mix of curiosity and condescension. "Interesting. You can manipulate mana to such a degree. This is why you need to abandon your aura fixation and focus on mana," she chides, as if she's schooling a particularly slow child. More chains come, an unrelenting torrent. "I can sponsor you, you know. Give you the resources you need."

She's relentless, piling on the promises as she multiplies her chains. "You are a fool. Abandon this barbaric pursuit of aura. Join me in the study of magic, and unlock true power. Aura can never achieve what magic can."

Her spiel goes in one ear and out the other. I'm not buying what she's selling, not a single damn bit. But it does tickle me, the idea that she thinks she can sway me with talk of resources and sponsorship. As if I'd sell my soul for a couple of shiny trinkets and a pat on the head.

Inside, a laugh bubbles up. She really doesn't get it, does she? I'm not here to be her lapdog, I'm here to flip the script. Her mana might weave a pretty picture, but my aura? It's the stuff of nightmares, raw and untamed. Aura is something you can only truly master if you are willing to put your life on the line because it's not a natural source of energy like mana.