Professor Carla finished showing them around and handed out their class schedules. With that, she concluded her duties and allowed the students to retire and rest.

  Morning light streamed through the Academy’s tall windows, washing the long corridors in a soft golden hue. The buzz of newly arrived students filled the air—nervous laughter, hurried footsteps, and the anxious rustle of those flipping through maps, afraid of getting lost.

  In the infirmary of the Class A building, Kara slowly opened her eyes. The white ceiling and the faint scent of medicinal herbs oriented her instantly. A mage in a blue robe examined her with quick, practiced movements, patted her shoulder, and vanished without a word.

  “You’re awake, niece. How do you feel?” Magnus’s voice—deep and familiar—pulled her from her haze. He stood by the window, outlined by the morning light, his silhouette as imposing as ever.

  It took Kara a moment to remember. The platform. The duel. The blow. She frowned.

  “Where am I? What happened?” she murmured, her voice still hoarse.

  Magnus let out a faint smile.

  “Seems Lusian hit you so hard he knocked the memories out of you.”

  The name struck her like lightning. Lusian. She remembered the fall, the helplessness. She lowered her gaze, clenching her fists.

  “I lost…” she admitted, swallowing her pride.

  “And decisively, girl. Believe me, I know how it feels. When I was young, Albert defeated me even in my dreams. But because of that, I learned how to rise stronger each time,” Magnus said, a nostalgic glint in his eyes.

  Anger flared anew in Kara. She sat up in one swift motion, defiant.

  “I want a rematch. I didn’t show all my power—I know it. This time, I won’t hold back.”

  Magnus regarded her patiently, though his voice was firm.

  “It wasn’t carelessness, Kara. Lusian anticipated every one of your moves. If you repeat the same strategy, you’ll fall again.”

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  Kara lowered her head for only a second before lifting her gaze, resolute. Her eyes burned.

  “Uncle, help me train. I can’t stay like this. I need to defeat him.”

  Magnus crossed his arms, his expression stern, though his lips twitched with the hint of a smile.

  “You know that as headmaster, I’m meant to remain impartial…” he began, but Kara was already giving him that impossible-to-resist puppy look.

  “Please, Uncle…”

  Magnus sighed, defeated.

  “Fine. Come to my office after class. But no one can know.”

  Kara smiled, victorious, and the air crackled with electric tension—a prelude to storms yet to come.

  Meanwhile, the academy thrummed with life. In the Class 1A classroom, Professor Clara stood before the desks, back straight, her cape gleaming beneath the light. She struck the table, and the class fell silent.

  “Today I will speak to you about the mage Garrent Plott, hero of the realm,” she announced, her voice filling the room with the solemnity of a tolling bell. “He faced a thousand enemies alone, and though he fell, his legend inspires all mages.”

  Some students listened, captivated; others barely concealed their yawns. Without missing a beat, Clara continued:

  “Those who know their destiny lies in advanced magic may remain. Those who prefer brute strength—the arena awaits.”

  Kasper raised his hand.

  “Isn’t the class mandatory?” he asked, more curious than defiant.

  Clara smiled with a trace of mockery.

  “The academy does not perform miracles. Knights have never mastered advanced magic; only mages, endowed with intelligence, may aspire to it.”

  From the back, Lusian couldn’t help but retort:

  “Just like mages can’t swing a sword without tripping over themselves.”

  Laughter rippled through the room, easing the tension. The warriors—Lusian, Kasper, Corwin, Nilson, Craig, Darilyn, and Corwick—headed toward the arena, while others, like Emily and Jenna, remained in class, expectant.

  Clara turned to her remaining students, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

  “Now then, let us begin. Advanced magic consumes more mana and requires greater control. Soon you will learn to inscribe spells into artifacts. And of course, you will practice in the training grounds.”

  In the corridors, Lusian and his group moved past banners and display cases filled with relics of former champions. Jean The Mondring joined them with a light step.

  “Mr. Lusian, congratulations on your victory!” he greeted with a smile.

  Lusian blinked.

  “Thanks… do we know each other?”

  “Albert is my uncle,” Jean explained, inclining his head. “It’s been years since we last met.”

  Jokes and anecdotes surfaced. They spoke of brutal training sessions, of Albert’s harsh discipline, of the scars that forge character. Lusian issued the challenge:

  “How about a sword fight? No magic—just skill.”

  Jean accepted with a laugh.

  “It would be an honor. But don’t expect me to hold back.”

  The group burst into laughter, the tension of the impending duel hanging between them. Outside, the blue sky above the academy promised duels, lessons, and a rivalry that had only just begun.