When I Lay My Vengeance Upon Thee.

While the first day of school had cast a thick shadow of gloom upon Kolzig-Bondra Academy, a shining beacon uplifted the downed spirits of all: the prospect of a Duel.

There was nothing more interesting, more coveted, more craved, and more uplifted in the Academy than combat prowess.

This desire for power was born out of necessity; to maintain Human hegemony amidst the aggression of other races.

And this change permeated throughout Human society. Slowly, the set boundaries between the nobility and the common people began to fade.

All that mattered was that one was stronger than their opponent. So what if they were born differently?

However, this mentality didn't necessarily mean that those social boundaries disappeared. The aristocracy still existed, and they had a major headstart over others. Equality was nothing but a thin veil.

Power as a value allowed for more class mobility, but the aristocracy still held strong. A mixture of clinging to old and new glories.

By definition, Mark was a noble, though he was not born one. He was an Abbott; adopted into a church and granted noble status.

The aristocracy could forgive special treatment to those of high birth and creed. Dawson Reaves would not quarrel with a Prince, Duke, or Marquis, of course.

But Mark was no noble. Not in the eyes of others.

Weak. Lesser. Inferior. A commoner of unimportance who somehow was given a seat in the most prestigious class within the most prestigious Academy.

It was time to prove the world wrong. To show that he belonged.

…

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20 Unallocated Shards —> Strength

►Confirm?

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'Confirm.'

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You have leveled up: [Level 10] Acolyte

► Individual Stat Cap: Increased to 7

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◄ Strength: 6 - ◇─◇─◇─◇─◇ ► +20

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Mark could feel power entering his being.

Strength didn't physically alter his muscles, but the energy he could exert was there. The power was instinctual—almost as if it altered his brain chemistry.

An idea lit up in his mind. His instincts allowed him to; his subconscious knew that it would cause no damage. He was capable.

Mark stood in a dark concrete tunnel.

Then he punched the concrete wall.

BANG…

A massive circular crater surrounded his arm, caving into the wall. The stone crumbled and cracked, debris falling to the ground.

He removed his hand and wiggled his fingers. There was pain. His nerves tingled—advising caution. But ultimately, nothing was hurt.

With no points into Vigor, Mark was a bona fide glass cannon. Had he not been so strong, the force from the wall would've broken his arm instead. But because the wall absorbed the transfer of energy, he was okay.

The feeling of power. Pure ecstasy. He had never felt so good. He had never felt so in control.

VRRRRT…

The vibration of his watch.

===================

Please move into Sparring Arena 1.

===================

Mark began walking down the long hallway. There was light at the end of the tunnel.

The clopping of his shoes echoed against the stone ground and reverberated throughout the cold, stale-aired tunnel.

The encroaching murmurs of a large crowd slowly drowned out his footsteps.

Each step fastened his heart rate. His spine tingled and his stomach stirred.

Though his mind was solid—his eyes anticipated the arena's sights.

Mark knew his enemy. The Reaves Marquis were an accomplished mage family. Someone who wanted range, which Mark could close in an instant.

He had since realized the irony. William had gotten in trouble for killing a few 'arrogant young masters' in the novel. The Reaves heir was one of them.

It gave Mark a good laugh; he was walking in the footsteps of William. As if he was the main character of his own story.

And now he had to prove it.

…

Mark stood at the mouth of the tunnel when a pulsing red screen appeared in his periphery.

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*EMERGENCY QUEST*

Quest Requirements: Introduce yourself to the world.

► Beat Dawson Reaves

► Taunt the crowd

Reward: 30 Shards

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'How kind of you, End.'

With or without the quest, Mark didn't care. All this did was sweeten the pot more.

Mark dismissed the system screen and observed the arena from the tunnel mouth.

It was a 30-meter diameter coliseum-style arena, completely flat and open, sunlight shining on coarse dirt.

Hordes of students watched from the walled ramparts of the stadium, their eyes hungry for action.

Dawson had already entered to many excited cheers. But now they awaited the dark horse's arrival.

'Showtime.'

Mark stepped out of the tunnel.

There was a cacophony of enthusiastic cheers and scornful boos. The two blended together; Mark could hear either depending on his focus.

"Does he not have a weapon?"

"A mage? He can't be a better mage than Dawson…"

"Nah, he has to have some kind of Skill."

"Dawson's around the middle of Acolyte, no way this Rank 100 can touch him."

"He's 50 ranks under. He can't win, even if he somehow snuck into Class 1-A…"

"Then put 50 Gold coins on Reaves if you dare. Hah, I'm gonna make a fortune taking Mark, I can feel it."

Murmurs formed amidst the crowd. Mark didn't pay much mind. Instead, he was focused on his opponent, Dawson Reaves.

The tall boy with long black hair was similarly empty-handed—a skillful mage who didn't need a wand or staff as a medium.

The two locked eyes from across the arena.

"I'm glad you showed up," Dawson called out. "It's much better this way."

"You'll never have a greater regret than fighting me today," Mark jabbed back. "If you can even remember anything tomorrow."

Dawson spit on the ground in response before moving to the designated starting spot.

Though, Dawson couldn't help but be a little worried. His opponent's prior demeanor had entirely flipped—though a hint of his facetious side remained.

Mark stood in his designated spot—a circle on the ground that was a few meters from the walls.

With both combatants in place, the fight was ready to begin.

…

Thump, Thump.

"Both duelists ready?" the referee called out from the ramparts.

"Ready."

THUMP. THUMP.

People leaned in, hungry eyes at the ready.

The crowd grew louder.

"On the count of one. Three…"

The crowd grew even louder.

"Two"

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

His pumping blood had never been more audible.

The crowd's cheers were drowned out as Mark honed in on his enemy.

His ears began to ring along with the drums of his beating heart—they drowned out an erupting crowd.

"Ha…" Mark exhaled.

…

"One."

Mark exploded with force, kicking up the dirt beneath his feet, he closed the gap as quickly as he could.

In an instant, Dawson conjured three spears of ice.

FWIP. FWIP. FWIP.

Mark pivoted diagonally.

The first and second ice spears cut through the air, missing him; the result of his change in direction.

But the third perfectly predicted his movement.

'Oh shit…'

The spear whistled through the air as it traveled at a blur's pace.

Mark fell to the ground in a slide, dodging underneath the spear.

Bouncing back into a full sprint, he used this interval to close the gap even further.

The crowd was silent, enthralled in the bout. But Mark could solely hear the ringing of his ears.

An endless high-pitched ring.

Dawson went wide-eyed, though he lost none of his spite; hatred remained in his eyes.

He channeled that hatred into his magic, pulling his hand back—blue energy coalesced around it as he prepared his next spell.

…

But it was too late. Mark had reached the 11-meter mark.

And the fight was over.

"Ack…"

Dawson let out a strange choking sound; his body seized and his concentration was lost—the spell died.

Outstretching his left hand, Mark seized Dawson by the throat, feeling his opponent's vulnerable neck in his Hand's grasp.

Mark felt the rush of power. Dawson was at his mercy.

Dawson's feet left the ground as Mark pulled him up into the air.

He struggled to breathe, his feet kicking the air as both of his hands wrapped around the Hidden Hand.

The crowd collectively gasped and gawked in awe. It was an unfathomable sight.

"Bast…ard…"

thud. Thud. THUD.

Three vicious hooks, each stronger than the last. Flesh met flesh—a disturbing sound.

Mark turned Dawson's face into a bloody amalgam. Teeth shattered, nose broken, jaw dislocated, and blood—it painted his face.

Dawson's entire body went limp. But Mark wasn't finished with him.

Mark used both of his Hands, grabbing the back of the defeated boy's unconscious body.

He looked up at the onlookers, the high sun illuminating the scene and attacking his eyes.

He hated them. He hated how they looked down on him. They didn't respect him—even now—and they never would.

He had to send a message.

"This!" Mark bellowed, lifting Dawson up to the silent crowd. "This is what happens when you fuck with me!"

Blood dripped down from Dawson like a wet rag as his hands, head, and feet loosely dangled high in the air.

…

"Commoner bastard!"

"Fuck yeah, I win the bet!"

"Cheap trick…"

Part of the crowd broke out into scornful murmurs. The other half was silent.

The ringing in Mark's ears disappeared. He could finally see the whole picture.

But the hatred was real. It didn't fade.

Mark looked around at the dumbfounded crowd above him with a malicious gaze, a near-tangible bloodlust in his eyes.

"All you fucking miserable 'daddy's money' pricks!" Mark yelled out, his face twitching with rage and malice. "You've never earned anything in your entire lives, and yet you all dare to look down on me?"

Mark wandered around the arena, turning a full 360 degrees as he paraded Dawson's body around for all to see.

"Well, get a good fucking look! Look down at me now!" he goaded. "Should any of you grow the gall to come down to my level, this will be the result."

Mark dangled Dawson to emphasize his point. The gruesome sight irritated the crowd to no end.

"This is the future for those who cross me. An arrogant and bloody pile of useless flesh."

Mark thrust the student population into a whirlwind of anger, pity, disgust, and joy. Endless murmurs.

"Duel over. Winner: Mark di Abbott, Rank 100. Loser: Dawson Reaves, Rank 50," the referee announced, finally breaking free of his own daze.

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*EMERGENCY QUEST COMPLETE*

Excellent job.

Reward: 30 Shards

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