The sparks from the shattered mana spear were still sizzling on the floor when Rowan reached for the hilt at his waist. The cafeteria air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and the weight of a looming storm.
With a sound like a cathedral bell, Rowan drew Dawnlight. The blade was a masterpiece of white gold and radiant mana, pulsing with a rhythmic, solar glow. It was the sword of a savior—the sword that should have been John's.
"You speak of her again," Rowan breathed, his voice trembling with a lethal edge, "and I'll make sure you never speak again."
John didn't move from his relaxed stance. He kept his black katana resting casually on his shoulder, his lips curled into that same dark, unsettling smile. "Beautiful, isn't it? My father's pride and joy. Tell me, Rowan, does it feel warm in your hand? Or does it feel like a constant reminder that you're holding something stolen?"
"It's mine by right!" Rowan roared.
He lunged.
Rowan moved like a blur of golden light. He brought the legendary blade down in a heavy, overhead strike. John didn't counter. He simply shifted his katana, catching the blow with the flat of his blade. The impact sent a shockwave through the floor, cracking the tiles beneath John's boots, but John didn't even grunt. He just looked Rowan in the eye through the clashing steel.
"You've got his eyes, too," John whispered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Pity you didn't get his dignity. Does your mother tell you bedtime stories about how he promised to leave us for her? Or was she too busy being the 'other woman' to notice he never intended to?"
"Shut up!" Rowan screamed, swinging again.
This time, the strike caught John in the shoulder. The radiant edge of Dawnlight sliced through the fabric of his uniform, drawing a thin line of red. John didn't flinch. He let the momentum carry him back, stumbling intentionally, his laugh echoing off the high ceiling.
"Is that all the 'Prophesied Hero' has?" John prompted, wiping a drop of blood from his shoulder and licking it off his thumb. "Hit me harder, bastard. Prove to everyone that the Wintlock blood flows in your veins. Or are you worried that if you kill me, the world will finally see you for what you are? A footnote in my family's history."
Rowan's aura flared, his golden mana turning a violent, searing white. He launched a flurry of strikes—each one a masterpiece of swordsmanship, each one designed to end a life. John moved like a ghost, barely parrying, taking grazes on his arms and chest just to keep the distance close enough to whisper.
"Look at you," John chuckled as he blocked a thrust aimed at his throat. "So desperate for a father's love that you'll die for a woman he wouldn't even claim in public. You're not his heir, Rowan. You're his shame."
Rowan lost it. He pulled back, Dawnlight erupting in a blinding pillar of light that threatened to melt the very silverware on the tables. He raised the sword high, his face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
"I'll erase you!" Rowan screamed, the floor beneath him disintegrating.
John didn't even raise his sword to block this time. He just stood there, arms slightly spread, that manic, unhinged smile fixed on his face, waiting for the strike that would surely wreck the building.
"ENOUGH."
The word wasn't a shout, but it hit the room with the force of a physical barrier.
The light from Dawnlight was snuffed out instantly, the sword turning cold and heavy in Rowan's grip. John felt an invisible weight drop onto his shoulders, pinning him in place.
At the entrance of the cafeteria stood Headmistress Morgana.
She stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her silver hair shimmering under the mana-lights. Her expression was one of profound boredom, which was far more terrifying than anger.
"Mr. Lightwood," she said, her voice dry. "I was under the impression that the Rank One student was capable of ignoring a few schoolyard taunts. Apparently, I overvalued your maturity. You're shaking, Rowan. Put the toy away."
Rowan's face went from flushed to deathly pale. He sheathed Dawnlight with trembling hands, bowing his head in shame. "Headmistress... he... he was..."
"I heard him," Vane interrupted, her grey eyes shifting to John.
John was still smiling, though he was bleeding from three different cuts. He looked like he had just enjoyed a particularly good show.
"And you, Mr. Wintlock," Morgana said, her voice dropping an octave. "Thirteenth place and already trying to burn the school down. You seem to take a perverse pleasure in being the villain of this story. Tell me, was the steak so bad that you felt the need to incite a blood feud?"
John shrugged, his eyes still holding that dark glint. "Just testing the equipment, Headmistress. It's good to know the 'Hero' has a temper. Makes him easier to read."
"Both of you," Morgana commanded, turning on her heel. "My office. Now. If I see a single spark of mana from either of you on the way there, I'll have you both scrubbing the monster pens for the rest of the semester."
John looked at Rowan, who was staring at the floor, his knuckles white. John leaned in as they started to walk, his voice a low, mocking hum.
"We should do this again, brother. You're much more fun when you're trying to kill me."
The walk to the Headmistress's office was silent, save for the rhythmic tap of Rowan's boots and the wet, squelching sound of John's blood-soaked shirt. Rowan marched with the rigid posture of a man trying to hold his soul together, while John trailed behind, wearing a look of post-fight bliss.
They stepped into the office. It was a cavernous room, cold and dimly lit, smelling of old leather and ozone. Behind a desk of polished obsidian sat Morgana. She didn't look up from her documents, but the temperature in the room dropped five degrees the moment they crossed the threshold.
"Wasn't the rules clear about fighting on academy grounds?" Morgana asked, her voice a calm, dangerous melody. She finally looked up, her piercing gaze sweeping over Rowan's trembling hands and John's half-buttoned, bloody mess. "Or do the 'Prophesied Hero' and the 'Wintlock Failure' think they've already graduated beyond the reach of my authority?"
"He provoked me, Headmistress Morgana," Rowan said, his voice straining. "He dragged my mother's name through the dirt. I had to—"
"You had to what, Rowan?" John interjected, his voice airy and light. He leaned back against a shelf of forbidden grimoires, looking like he was settling in for a movie. "Show everyone that the legendary Dawnlight responds to the tantrums of a bastard? You really should work on that."
Rowan's head snapped toward him, his eyes glowing gold. "One more word, John. I swear—"
"See?" John pointed a blood-stained finger at Rowan, grinning at Morgana. "He's doing it again. He's so easy to wind up. It's almost boring. You give him a sword, and he thinks he's allowed to delete people who hurt his feelings. Is that the kind of 'Rank One' we're producing these days?"
"Shut. Up." Rowan's voice was a low growl.
"Enough," Morgana said. The word was soft, but the ambient mana in the room surged, pinning both of them against the wall for a split second. She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto John. "Mr. Wintlock, you are not a victim here. You were poking a caged lion to see if it would bite. You didn't fight back because you wanted to prove he's a monster. It was a clever, albeit disgusting, psychological play."
John just chuckled, a dark, dry sound. "I prefer the term 'character study,' Miss Morgana."
"And you, Rowan," she said, her gaze shifting. "You are supposed to be the sun this academy revolves around. Instead, you let a Rank Thirteen student treat you like a puppet. If you can't handle a few words about your mother, how will you handle a demon lord mocking your entire existence?"
Rowan lowered his head, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the floor. "I... I lost control. I apologize, Headmistress."
Morgana shifted her gaze, her icy grey eyes falling on John. The silence in the office stretched, heavy and expectant. She didn't speak; she simply waited for the second half of the reconciliation.
John didn't bow. Instead, he let out a short, sharp breath that was almost a laugh. He looked at Morgana, his expression shifting from amusement to a cold, clinical detachment.
"You're waiting for a 'sorry'?" John asked, his voice smooth and devoid of any remorse. "Why the hell would I apologize for being the target of a lethal mana-strike? What exactly is my crime here? Having a tongue that works faster than Rowan's brain?"
Morgana's eyes narrowed, a flicker of warning in her gaze. "Mr. Wintlock, your words were designed to incite violence. That is a violation of the conduct code."
John's expression went dead serious. He took a step toward her desk, ignoring the invisible pressure in the room. "And his actions were designed to end a life. If I hadn't blocked that, my head would be decorating the cafeteria walls. So, let's talk about consequences, Morgana. Do I get expelled if I don't apologize?"
He leaned in slightly, a dark, mocking glint returning to his eyes.
"Go ahead. Expel me," John challenged quietly. "I'm curious to see how that looks to the Board of Governors. 'Prestigious Aethercore Academy expels student for successfully defending himself against unprovoked assault by Rank One student.' It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? It might make people wonder if the 'Golden Boy' is being protected while the 'Failure' is being silenced."
The room grew freezing. Rowan looked up, half-horrified and half-furious at the blatant disrespect, but Morgana remained still, her face an unreadable mask of stone.
John didn't wait for her response. He straightened his tattered, bloody collar and turned toward the door.
The heavy office door clicked shut behind John, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. Michael was already there, leaning against the far wall with an expectant look.
"Well?" Michael asked, pushing off the wall. "How did it go?"
John let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that carried the weight of the entire afternoon. "I need to rank up," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's clear people are still taking me too lightly." He didn't wait for a response, already turning toward the dorms. "I'm heading to my room to wash off the day. I'll meet you in the lecture hall—Lena's supposed to give us the briefing on the first exam."
He left for his dorm room