Lyth floats above the chaos, his robes rippling in the windless air as the dust from Bram and Obinai's clash billows beneath him. His fingers tap absently against his thigh—one, two, three—counting the fractures in the arena floor.
The Council will have much to say about this...
His lips twitch. So much paperwork. So many complaints. A headache blooms behind his temples, throbbing in time with the distant cheers of the crowd. I wonder if—
"SIR!"
The voice splinters into his skull like a dagger—Raundal's mental projection, sharp with panic.
Lyth's left ear flicks, the only outward sign of his irritation. His gaze drifts downward, where the mist from Obinai's spell still swirls, obscuring the combatants.
"I sense a foreign power," Raundal continues. "Something—unaccounted for. Should I intervene?"
Lyth exhales through his nose, long and slow. He pinches the bridge between his eyes, then—smirks.
"No."
Silence. Then—
"WHAT? Why?" Raundal's mental shout rattles his teeth. "The Committee explicitly said that if—"
"Nothing's being violated." Lyth interrupts. "Discourse? Certainly. Outcry? Inevitable. But broken rules?" He tilts his head, watching as a shockwave ripples through the mist below. "Not a single one."
The connection goes dead. Lyth savors the quiet...
Then— he see's bits of movement.
Lyth leans forward, elbows resting on nothing, chin propped on interlaced fingers.
Let's see.
...
Bram's back hits the dirt with a thud, the wind knocked from his lungs. Before he can blink, Obinai is on him—too fast, too strong—grabbing his collar in a grip that feels like iron shackles.
"The hell—?" Bram chokes, fingers clawing at Obinai's wrist. His nails scrape skin, drawing blood, but Obinai doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink.
That's when Bram sees it.
Obinai's eyes—wide, unhinged, the pupils blown black as void. His lips stretch into a smile that doesn't belong on a human face.
"I lied," Obinai whispers.
His voice is wrong. Wrong. Like two people speaking at once—one the boy Bram knows, the other something older.
"Try to survive this."
...
Lyth's usual smirk is gone.
"Fuck."
Below, Obinai's body thrums with energy, the air around him warping like heat off a forge. Cracks of white light spiderweb across his skin—no, not cracks—seams. As if something inside is tearing its way out.
...
Bram's heart pounds. His instincts scream RUN, but he doesn't have the strength to get out of Obinai's grip.
"Obinai, stop—!"
Obinai's breath comes in ragged, shuddering gasps. His lips move, shaping words that aren't words syllables that twist the air itself:
"[Omsalud... Benrir... Lecapulcos... Detnasio]."
The moment the last syllable leaves his tongue—
Light—too bright, too white—erupts from Obinai's body. The ground beneath them splits, jagged fissures racing outward like lightning. The crowd's screams are swallowed by the roar of raw essence, a sound like a thousand windows shattering at once.
Bram's vision whites out. His skin burns where it touches Obinai, the heat searing through fabric and flesh alike.
Despite this, his fingers claw at Obinai's wrist, his blunt nails scraping uselessly against skin that no longer feels human. Each inhale sears his lungs like he's swallowing fire.
"O—stop—!" His voice cracks. "You're gonna—!"
But Obinai isn't listening.
The cracks splitting his flesh glow brighter, molten light bleeding through like a dam about to burst. The air warps around them, heat rippling in visible waves. Bram's vision blurs—tears evaporating before they can fall. The smell hits him first—ozone and something metallic, like lightning striking blood-soaked earth.
Then the sound.
A low, building hum that vibrates through bone. The arena stones tremble. Dust rises in suspended clouds. Somewhere in the stands, a child screams.
The headmaster's usually composed face twists—first in shock, then in cold, seething recognition.
"That's—" His voice is a blade's edge. "—the Sun Eater technique."
A suicide spell. Ancient. Forbidden. Meant to drag both caster and surroundings into oblivion.
Lyth's mind races. How? Who taught him? When—
No time.
The blast radius expands—swallowing the arena floor, licking at the first rows of seats. Spectators scramble back, tripping over benches. A woman clutches her daughter. A merchant vomits from sheer terror.
Lyth moves.
"[Cease.]"
Reality obeys.
Time stops.
The world locks in place—screams cut short, flames frozen mid-flicker, dust hanging motionless in the air. Bram's face is a rictus of pain, his mouth half-open in a silent plea. The light pouring from Obinai's fractures halts.
Only Lyth remains untouched.
He descends slowly to the boys.
A gesture. Fingers flick outward, precise as a surgeon's scalpel.
The spell resists.
For one impossible second, the light pushes back—a living thing fighting for survival. Lyth's jaw clenches. His outstretched hand trembles.
Then—
It breaks.
The glow dims but not enough. The cracks remain, but the inferno within gutters like a candle starved of air.
Obinai's body sags—still frozen and still fractured.
Lyth rises, hovering just above the ruined battlefield, his fingers absently scratching through his shaggy black-and-white hair as he surveys the arena.
"Curses, the damage is already done," he mutters.
With a flick of his wrist, the shimmering barrier around the audience reignites, humming softly as it stabilizes.
Lyth sighs, floating higher. "At least the spell's contained now," he says. " It cannot grow anymore. Just gotta let it—"
He snaps his fingers.
Time resumes.
The contained energy erupts outward in a deafening BOOM, the shockwave ripping through the arena floor like a starving beast. Stone shatters, the ground heaving upward before collapsing inward, swallowing itself in a cascade of broken rock. The air itself seems to scream, a high-pitched whine that pierces eardrums before giving way to the thunderous roar of destruction.
The crowd recoils as one, hands flying to their ears, mouths open in silent screams drowned out by the chaos. Dust billows outward in a suffocating wave, thick enough to blot out the sun for one terrifying moment.
Then—
Silence.
The dust settles in slow, drifting curtains, revealing the devastation.
At the heart of it all...
Bram stands—barely.
He sways on his feet like a drunkard, his entire body trembling. Third-degree burns crisscross his arms and shoulders, the flesh an angry red-black where magical flames had licked at him. Blood pours from a deep gash across his forehead, painting half his face crimson and dripping steadily into his left eye. His right arm hangs at an unnatural angle, the bone clearly broken beneath torn and blackened skin.
Below him, Obinai lies motionless.
His skin is a mess of jagged white cracks, like porcelain dropped from a great height. Blood seeps from a dozen wounds, pooling beneath him in a dark, spreading stain. His chest barely moves.
Bram's fingers twitch.
He lifts his fist.
Slowly. Trembling.
The crowd erupts.
A deafening wave of cheers crashes over the ruins, shaking loose stones from crumbling pillars.
Bram's lips curl into something that might have been a grin, if not for the blood staining his teeth.
"Heh... told ya... I'd win..."
His legs give out.
He collapses face-first into the dirt, unconscious before he even hits the ground.
Lyth materializes above the ruined battlefield. His eyes lock onto Obinai's motionless form.
"Sun Eater..."
His jaw tightens.
"A technique for those with nothing left to lose."
He floats down, boots barely disturbing the scorched earth as he kneels beside Obinai. The boy's skin is corpse-pale, his lips tinged blue. Lyth presses two fingers to his throat—
A pulse. Faint. Thready. But there.
Lyth exhales, shoulders loosening just a fraction. "Alive."
His gaze drifts to the peer past Obinai's body to see the state of his mana circles.
"Obinai," he murmurs, more to himself, "that technique consumes the very foundation of one's power." A pause hangs heavy in the air as he watches a wisp of mana curl and die like smoke from a snuffed candle. "It burns the last reserves of essence - the sacred portion that maintains your mana circle itself."
His gaze sharpens, locking onto the trembling student. "Be grateful," he continues, "that you only cracked your second circle." The implication hangs unspoken - what might have happened if he'd destroyed both the first and second one completely.
A slow exhale. "Such desperate measures from what?"
He shifts, turning to Bram's crumpled form next. The half-imp lies face-down in the dirt, one arm twisted beneath him at an angle that would make a healer wince. Lyth rolls him over gently, revealing a face smeared with blood and a chest that barely rises.
"[Greater Healing]," Lyth whispers, pressing his palm flat over Bram's heart.
Gold mixed with emerald light spills from his fingers, sinking into Bram's battered flesh. The boy's ribs knit with audible cracks, his bruises fading like ink in water. A shuddering gasp, then—
"Ugh... fuckin'... ow." Bram's voice is gravel and broken glass, but it's alive.
Lyth allows himself a small, tired smile. "Welcome back."
Then he's gone—vanishing in a swirl of fabric only to reappear high above the arena, his silhouette backlit by the floating luminaries. The crowd's murmurs die instantly, a thousand breaths held at once.
"A momentous fight!" Lyth's voice booms. "One that will be remembered!"
The silence holds—for half a heartbeat.
Then the dam breaks.
The crowd explodes—commoners stomping their feet so hard the stands tremble, nobles rising from their seats in reluctant awe. The sound is physical, a wall of noise that shakes dust from the ancient rafters.
Lyth raises a hand, and the world obeys, falling silent once more.
"By default," he declares, "the last finalist is Bram!"
The cheers return tenfold. Someone in the front rows starts chanting Bram's name. Soon, the entire coliseum follows, a rhythmic "BRAM! BRAM! BRAM!" that vibrates through stone and bone alike.
Lyth lets it ride for a moment, savoring the energy, before cutting through it with a gesture.
"Intermission!" He says.
"The arena requires repairs. Entertainment will be provided."
His hand lifts toward the battlefield. A soft glow envelops Bram and Obinai—then they're gone, whisked away to the infirmary.
Alone now, Lyth stares down at the devastation—the craters, the melted stone, the bloodstains already sinking into the sand.
The arena's fading cheers sound distant, muffled...
Only fifth-years and faculty can access the Black Vault's spells... His inner voice turns leaden. I was wrong. Gods help me, I was wrong.
His polished facade cracks for a single, unguarded moment. Eyes widening slightly, he watches the dissipating energy swirl where the combatants had stood. I believed that I was witnessing either a merge or fade of a consciousness. This was something...else.
A sharp pressure blooms behind his eyes—Raundal's psychic signature, insistent as a blade between the ribs. Lyth exhales through his nose, the sound almost... weary.
"Oh," he murmurs to the empty air, lips twisting into a humorless smile. "I am in such profound trouble."
Then—between one breath and the next—he's simply gone. Not a teleportation flash, not a wisp of smoke. Just... absence, the space where he stood vibrating faintly with the aftershock of him simply vanishing.
…
Obinai's consciousness flickers like a dying candle.
Muffled voices slip through the cracks of his awareness—distant, warped, as if heard through water.
"...Bram... won... match..."
A woman's voice. Familiar. His pulse stutters, fingers twitching against unseen restraints. Who—?
He tries to claw toward the sound, but his thoughts scatter like frightened birds. The harder he grasps, the faster they slip away, leaving only frustration burning in his chest.
Then—
Nothing.
An endless, swallowing dark.
The cold comes next.
It starts at his fingertips—a creeping numbness that spreads like spilled ink, seeping up his arms, crawling over his ribs. His skin prickles, every hair standing on end. Not the clean chill of winter, but something else.
Am I dead?
The thought should terrify him. Instead, it settles in his bones with eerie calm.
Seconds stretch. Minutes? Hours? Time has no meaning here.
Then—
A voice.
"Obi."
A pause.
That voice.
Small, impatient, and so achingly familiar that Obinai's breath catches in his throat. His fingers twitch against the sheets.
No. That's not—
"Obi!" A tiny hand smacks his shoulder. "You're doing the weird breathing thing again!"
His eyes fly open.
Sunlight streams through half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across his bedroom. The air smells faintly of lemon cleaner and the old, musty clothes piled haphazardly on his desk(he always did that so his mom would leave him alone when said he cleaned his room). And there, standing at the foot of his bed with her arms crossed, is—
Mya.
Eight years old, frizzy brown hair escaping its lopsided ponytail, and wearing mismatched socks (one striped, one dotted, because she insisted patterns were "scientifically proven" to make her brain work better). Her nose scrunches as she glares at him, foot tapping an uneven rhythm against the floorboards.
"You were ignoring me," she accuses, jabbing a finger at him. "I counted twenty-four and six-tenths seconds of ignoring! That's way past standard response time!"
Obinai's mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Mya huffs, blowing a stray curl out of her face. "Was it the sleep inertia? Or did you overclock your brain again?" She stumbles over the word overclock, but recovers with a stubborn lift of her chin. "Because I told you not to do that without supervision!"
Her hands flutter as she talks, gesturing wildly like she's conducting an invisible orchestra. One sleeve of her oversized lab coat (stolen from their dad's closet last year) slips down her arm, revealing a wrist covered in scribbled equations—half of them nonsense though.
Obinai swallows hard. "I—"
"And don't say 'I'm fine,'" Mya interrupts, jutting her hip out. "Because you always say that, and then you pass out in the kitchen, and then I have to drag you to the couch, and honestly—" She throws her hands up. "—it's very inconsiderate of my fragile skeletal structure!"
The last word comes out as a squeak.
Obinai's throat burns. He reaches for her—then freezes.
Mya doesn't notice. She's too busy rummaging through the pockets of her lab coat, muttering under her breath. "Where is it—? Aha!" She pulls out a crumpled sticky note and slaps it onto his forehead. "New sleep schedule! Enforced!"
The note reads:
"NO OVERCLOKING!!! (That means YOU Obi!!!)
– Dr. Mya (CEO of Keeping You Alive)"
Overclocking is misspelled.
Obinai's vision blurs.
Mya leans in, suddenly serious. Her small fingers press against his wrist, checking his pulse clumsily. "You're all... wobbly," she declares, frowning. "Like a computer with too many tabs open."
A beat. Then—
"...Did you eat the yogurt in the fridge? Because I think that one was expired."
Obinai chokes out something between a laugh and a sob.
Mya pats his arm, nodding. "Yep. Yogurt poisoning. Classic case."
She lets go of his wrist and tilts her head, her messy ponytail flopping to one side. "So?" She pokes his cheek. "What's your excuse this time, Obi? Did you—" She pauses, scrunching her nose as she tries to remember the big words she read in some medical textbooks last week. "Did you unsync your sleepy-time brain buttons? Or—" Her eyes narrow. "—are you just being a lazy butt?"
She plants her hands on her hips, waiting.
But Obinai doesn't answer.
His breath sticks in his throat. His fingers tremble against the sheets.
"Obi?" Her voice is smaller now. "You're doing the staring thing again."
A beat. Then—
Obinai moves.
Slow. Careful. Like the world might shatter if he breathes too hard.
He pushes the covers back, his fingers lingering over the fabric as if expecting it to dissolve into smoke. His legs shake when his feet touch the floor.
Mya watches, her brow furrowing deeper. "Why're you walking like that?" she demands, but there's a wobble in her voice now. "Did you forget how legs work? Because I told you —"
Obinai takes another step. Then another.
Closer.
Closer.
Mya's words trail off as he stumbles the last distance between them. His arms wrap around her small frame, pulling her tight against his chest. His face presses into her shoulder...
She's warm. She's real. She's—
"O-Okay, wow—" Mya squeaks, her arms flailing for a second before awkwardly patting his back. "This is new. Did you—" She pauses, then gasps. "Oh! Oh! Did you have a nightmare? Was it the one with the giant broccoli shaped thingy again? Because I told you not to eat cheese before bed—"
A sob tears free from Obinai's chest.
Mya freezes. Then, very carefully, her small hands curl into the back of his shirt.
"…Obi?" she says. "You're squeezing me."
He doesn't let go.
Mya huffs, but her grip tightens. "Fine. Fine. But only because you're being weird and I guess you need it." A pause. Then, muffled against his shoulder: "…You're really sweaty."
Obinai laughs—or maybe cries. He isn't sure.
Mya pats his shoulder again, her fingers clumsy but determined. "There, there," she says, in her best I'm-the-adult-here voice. "The broccoli thingy can't hurt you anymore."
Obinai believes her.
A choked, broken sound rips from his throat instead, like his ribs have cracked open and everything inside is spilling out. His vision blurs, hot tears carving tracks down his face. His knees hit the floorboards with a thud, arms wrapping around Mya's small frame like she's the only thing keeping him from drowning.
She stumbles back a step. "Whoa—hey! Obi, you're—" Her voice pitches higher, uncertain. "This is way outside standard emotional parameters!"
Her hands flutter near his shoulders, unsure whether to push him away or pat his back. She settles for an awkward half-hug, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.
"...Obi?"
Her voice is small again. Scared.
He looks at her as he tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wet, shuddering breath.
Then—
A weak, hiccupping laugh.
Mya's face lights up. "There!" She pokes his forehead. "See? I am funny! Scientifically proven to improve emotional states!"
Her grin is lopsided, her eyes too bright.
She's trying. For me. She's—
"Obinai! Mya!"
Their mother's voice slices through the moment, sharp with impatience. "Your father just left! Move it, or we're late!"
Obinai jerks back like he's been burned. His hands fly to his face, scrubbing away tears with rough, hurried swipes. His cheeks are flushed, his breath still hitching, but—
Get it together. Now.
Mya watches him. "You look like a sad tomato," she informs him. Then, softer: "But. Uh. A cool tomato."
She holds out her hand.
Obinai takes it. Lets her pull him up. His legs feel like wet paper, but he locks his knees.
"You good?" Mya asks.
Obinai exhales. Nods.
Mya beams. "Great! Now run before Mom yells again!"
She grabs his wrist and tugs, her small fingers surprisingly strong.
And just like that—
They're off.
Mya's mismatched socks skid on the hardwood as she drags him toward the door, her laughter bouncing off the walls.
Obinai runs after her, his heart still aching—but lighter.
Lighter.
But his amusement fades fast.
Something's wrong.
His legs feel like they're dragging through wet cement. Each step takes more effort than the last, his feet landing with unnerving thuds that echo too loud in his skull.
Thud. Thud.
His pulse kicks up.
Mya doesn't notice. She's too busy rambling, her tiny fingers sketching shapes in the air. "Like, imagine—you take now,"—she mimes squishing something between her palms—"and then,"—another squish—"and you smush them together—"
"Mya." His voice comes out strained.
She blinks up at him. "What?"
Obinai swallows. The doorway looms ahead. Mya's already skipping through it, her lab coat flapping behind her.
He hesitates.
The threshold looks... off. The light bending around it wrong, like a heat mirage. His skin prickles.
Don't.
But Mya's already on the other side, twisting to frown at him. "Obi? You're being weird again."
He forces himself forward.
...
...
The moment he crosses, the world peels.
A static crackle races over his skin. He shudders, swiping at his arms—
—and the light dies.
Darkness.
Thick.
Suffocating.
"Mya?!" His voice doesn't echo. It just... stops.
No answer.
The floor's gone. His feet sink into something wet and cold, the slosh of it too loud in the silence.
Oh god.
He looks down.
Black liquid coils around his legs, inky tendrils creeping up his calves. It pulls when he tries to step back, like a thousand tiny fingers gripping him.
His breath...
The air's too thick, too heavy, like breathing tar.
A whimper escapes him.
Where's Mya?
Obinai's feet drag through the thick, tar-like liquid, each step a struggle against the unseen weight pulling at his ankles.
Then—
A flicker.
His head snaps up.
In the distance, bleeding through the endless dark, is a sliver of light. An eclipse—its ringed edges jagged, its glow weak and sickly. The dim illumination spreads like spilled ink across the black surface beneath him, revealing what lies just below.
Obinai's heart stops.
Bodies.
Dozens of them. Twisted, half-submerged, their limbs bent at impossible angles. The liquid clings to them like a second skin, glistening under the eclipse's pale light.
And then—
Her.
His mother's face stares up at him, her features stretched in a silent scream. Her skin is corpse-pale, streaked with veins of black that pulse like living things. Her eyes—gods, her eyes—wide and unseeing, the whites swallowed by inky darkness. Her fingers claw at nothing, her mouth frozen open in a soundless plea.
No. No no no—
Obinai stumbles back. His pulse hammers in his throat, so loud he can taste it.
This isn't real. This CAN'T be real—
A choked sound escapes him. He whirls—
—and sees him.
His father.
The man who once carried him on his shoulders despite always being exhausted. Only man he could hate and love at the same time. His body is sunken, his ribs protruding through skin that sags like melted wax. One arm is bent backward, the bones jutting through the flesh. His jaw hangs slack, his tongue black and swollen.
Obinai's stomach heaves.
No no no no—
His head whips around, desperate for escape—
—and that's when he sees Mya.
Small. So damn small.
She's deeper than the others, the black liquid lapping at her chin. Her tiny hand stretches toward him, fingers trembling. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. Just the faintest whisper of air—
Obi…
Something in Obinai's chest shatters.
He lurches forward, the liquid fighting him every step. His arms flail, grasping for her, for any of them—
I have to—I need to—
But his legs won't move fast enough. The muck thickens, dragging him down like hands pulling at his ankles.
His mother's hollow eyes follow him.
His father's broken fingers twitch.
Mya's lips form his name again—
And then—
A voice. Cold. Familiar.
"Pathetic."
...
...
Obinai's body jerks like a marionette with its strings cut. His hands twitch—reaching, recoiling, reaching again—as his gaze darts between the shifting illusions of the dead and the living. Each exhale he makes is a shuddering no, no, no that scrapes his throat.
This isn't real. Can't be real. They were alive—then dead—then—
His fingers claw at his temples, nails biting deep enough to draw blood. The pain is sharp, bright—good.
Then the screaming starts.
It tears out of him like a living thing. His knees hit the ground—or what passes for ground in this endless black—and the liquid darkness swallows him to the waist. He pounds his fists against his skull, over and over, as if he could beat the visions out of his own mind.
"STOP! STOP! MAKE IT STOP—!"
His voice cracks. Spit flies from his lips. The world tilts, spins—
—and then, cutting through the chaos:
Laughter.
Obinai freezes.
It's low at first. Amused. Then it grows, deepens, until it's all he can hear, vibrating through his bones like the hum of a tuning fork pressed to his skull.
His hands drop limply to his sides. Blood drips from his torn scalp, mixing with the black liquid clinging to his skin.
That laugh.
He knows it.
"Obi."
The voice is a mockery of fondness. Obinai's turns slowly.
The darkness parts.
And there he is.
Beelzebub.
Same face. Same brown skin. But wrong—so fucking wrong. His forearms are dipped in black, the inky darkness creeping up to his elbows like a disease. His white locs hangs longer, messier, strands twisting like living things. And his eyes—
Gods, his eyes.
Pupils blown wide, swallowing the gold of his irises until only thin, glowing rings remain. They pulse with every heartbeat, like embers in a pitch-black pit.
He grins, and Obinai's stomach lurches.
"Well, well," Beelzebub coos, stepping forward. The liquid doesn't touch him—it recoils, slithering away from his feet like a beaten dog. "I can't believe you actually found your way here."
Obinai's teeth grind together.
How? He's supposed to be suppressed. He's not re—
"This," Beelzebub spreads his arms, "is where I live, you know." His grin widens, showing too many teeth. "Welcome to your true subconscious, Obinai. My temporary home."