PREVIOUSLY-
He stepped back, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his jaw. His buckler was scuffed and cracked. The short sword was nearly toothless. But he'd won.
Not with power.
But with experience.
And adaptation.
He turned toward the arena's far wall, voice ragged.
"…Someone better give me a damn scabbard for this shield at this point."
---x---
Leon turned to the squire.
The orc stood still, head slightly bowed, unmoving in defeat.
Leon raised the dulled, chipped short sword—not with anger, nor cruelty, but with the same efficiency a butcher raises a cleaver. His expression was calm. Detached. The Bloodgnaw Rhythm still pulsed faintly in his limbs, dulling the weight of emotion.
"Let me send you off," he said, voice low.
The orc met his gaze—no fear in those dark green eyes. Only understanding.
A slow nod.
Consent.
SWISH.
The sword fell in a clean arc, cutting downward from shoulder to collarbone.
THUMP.
The orc's body collapsed to its knees, then forward onto the arena floor, blood pooling swiftly beneath the helm. No scream. No twitch.
Just silence.
Leon exhaled.
His arms hung loose, fingers trembling slightly from strain.
He stared at the corpse for a moment—not in reverence, but acknowledgment. The boy had been a squire. A warrior. A better fighter than many before him.
And now, just another name swallowed by the arena.
"Rest well,"
Leon murmured.
Then he turned from the body, stepping over the spreading pool of blood, his cracked buckler still strapped to one arm.
The torches burned quietly overhead.
And somewhere behind the veil of silence—
DING.
[STARTING STAGE (5/5)]
[THE FINAL GATE IS OPENING…]
The massive iron doors at the far end of the arena creaked once, then slowly parted with a groaning moan of rusted hinges. Dust spilled out from the gap, curling like old parchment crumbling at the edges.
Leon turned, buckler still in place, sword hanging low in his hand. His limbs ached. His throat burned. The blood drying on his skin itched like sand. He expected another brute—another beast to throw him through the wall.
What he got instead was—
Silence.
Then… footsteps.
Small. Bare.
Out from the shadowed gate walked a girl. No taller than his shoulder. Thin arms. Slender build. She looked barely older than sixteen. Orcish ears tucked behind a shawl of uncombed black hair. Her posture hunched slightly, as if she were unused to standing under open sky.
She wore a simple, worn robe tied with a fraying sash. Sleeves too long for her arms. A leather satchel hung at her hip, clinking faintly with every step. In her left hand, a short, crooked staff—no runes, no crystal core, just carved bone with a bit of iron nailed to the top like a hammerhead.
Her skin was pale green, almost dusty in the torchlight.
She stopped a few steps into the arena and looked up at him.
Her eyes were dull amber, glassy, as if she'd just been woken from a nap she never meant to take.
Leon blinked.
"…This is a joke, right?"
He muttered, glancing sideways at the empty air where Threxil usually stood.
No answer.
He looked back at her.
The girl raised her staff, gently.
And then… the air shifted.
It wasn't like the blood magic, or aura pressure, or wild casting he'd seen before. There was no spectacle. No swirling energy. Just a quiet, almost inaudible hum, like the arena itself was clearing its throat.
A breeze swept through the sand, and the shadows around her boots deepened—subtly, but wrong.
Leon adjusted his grip on the sword, frowning.
She took one more step forward, lips parting just a little.
"Human knight,"
She said softly. Her voice was high, almost delicate.
"I will now kill you."
Leon didn't smile.
Not this time.
He raised his buckler.
"…Try."
ELDRIN ACADEMY — HEADMASTER'S CHAMBER
The chamber was quiet save for the scratch of a quill and the distant toll of the Academy's noon bell. Shafts of sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, casting runes across the marble floor in shifting hues of violet and gold.
Headmaster Thalorin sat behind an oaken desk inscribed with ancient sigils—its surface cluttered with scrolls, ink pots, and wax-sealed reports. A silver circlet sat upon his brow, humming faintly with containment wards.
His fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled.
He peered over his spectacles at the man seated across from him.
"So,"
Thalorin said, voice like parchment and gravel,
"John Keating… why do you want to teach at Eldrin Academy?"
The man before him smiled, his head tilted slightly as if to listen more closely. His short, snowy hair framed a weathered face.
A thin black blindfold wrapped across his eyes, hiding them completely. A long, faded scar ran down from the edge of his right brow to the base of his jaw. He sat as if the weight of the world had passed through him—and passed him by.
"At the suggestion of an old friend," John said lightly,
"Merlin, to be exact—I thought it might be meaningful to teach the next generation."
Thalorin's brow twitched.
He glanced down at the parchment in front of him, then up again.
"…Duskrane."
The name hissed out of his mouth like a curse. He seized the papers and flung them at Keating.
"How dare you try to fool me!"
The documents fluttered through the air before thudding uselessly against John's chest and scattering to the floor.
But John didn't flinch.
He simply smiled—that infuriating, knowing smile worn by men who had survived too much and feared too little.
"If you wish," he said mildly, extending a hand palm-up,
"You could scan my mana circuits. No two humans share the same internal structure, correct?"
Thalorin's nostrils flared.
He rose in a storm of robes, crossing the room with heavy steps. The air tensed with static.
"That I will!"
A FEW MOMENTS LATER—
The Headmaster returned to his chair, his expression… altered.
Gone was the scorn.
He coughed once into his fist.
"Ahem. Mr. John Keating,"
He said, avoiding the man's face,
"Shall we discuss… what courses you wish to teach?"
John rose, bowed slightly, then resumed his seat.
"I would like a course of my own," he said.
Thalorin's eye twitched.
"…A course of your own?"
"And," John added,
"I'd like to meet the faculty in your Magi Department."
BANG!
The table cracked beneath Thalorin's fist. His golden aura flared in streaks across his arm like jagged light.
"You go too far!" he thundered.
"You haven't even passed your instructor trial—and now you demand a course of your own? Meet my arcane faculty? Why?"
All at once, hundreds of fireballs ignited mid-air, suspended like a swarm of infernal suns. Their glow burned across the room in hot, suffocating orange.
"Who are you really?!" Thalorin growled.
"Your timing reeks of intent!"
John didn't blink.
"Relax."
That one word fell from his lips like a slow ripple across still water.
And then—
The pressure changed.
No sound. No flash. Just... fear.
Something primordial shifted in the room.
Every instinct in Thalorin's body screamed to run. His heartbeat faltered. His breath caught. The fireballs flickered, destabilized.
The wards on the walls crackled nervously.
He couldn't move.
John simply sat, hand resting on the bone-hilt of his walking stick.
"I want to teach your Magi Department," he said softly, "about the Ether Technique."
As quickly as it came, the pressure dissipated.
Thalorin slumped into his seat, sweat dotting his temple.
His voice came out hoarse.
"Ether Technique… You mean the Ether Technique? The one Merlin theorized but never institutionalized?"
John nodded once.
"Yes. The very method that allows Aura and Mana to circulate in a single harmonic flow. No internal rejection. No overload."
Thalorin blinked once, then again.
His fingers twitched, and the shattered table restored itself with a faint pulse of blue light.
"…That would be our pleasure, Mr. Keating,"
He said, words carefully measured now.
"What course… do you wish to teach?"
John leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.
"I want to conduct weekly exercises," he said.
"For all batches. All years."
Thalorin raised a brow.
"All batches?"
"Yes. Each batch gets one session per week. I'll handle the full cycle."
Thalorin scoffed, pulling open a drawer and retrieving an ivory seal.
"Why would I create a new course just to host weekly exercises?"
John tilted his head.
"No, Headmaster. You misunderstand."
He smiled again—but this time there was iron beneath the charm.
"The students will attend weekly. I will be working all week."
Thalorin frowned, the seal halfway to the parchment.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Keating, but—"
"Wait."
John raised a hand, calmly.
"Give me one class. One day. If I fail to produce results—I'll leave."
The room fell quiet again.
Thalorin slowly set the seal back onto the table, studying him.
"…You'll accept a trial run?"
John nodded once.
"That's all I ask."
The headmaster leaned back, then let out a long breath through his nose.
"Very well," he said at last.
"But you'll need to pass our instructor's Trial of Competency. Tomorrow. At dawn."
John Keating rose.
"I'll be there."
He turned, the hem of his robe brushing the floor, and walked to the door.
Just before stepping out, he paused.
"Oh," he added, not turning around,
"Please make sure the Magi Department staff are present to watch."
And with that—he vanished into the corridor.
Thalorin sat in silence for a long time.
Then, slowly, he whispered:
"...Ether Technique…"
And for the first time in many years, the Headmaster of Eldrin Academy felt something unfamiliar in his chest—
Anticipation.
WHAM!
CRACK!
An earthen whip lashed past Leon's head, the tip slicing through the air with a thunderclap. Stone shattered where it struck, spraying dust and rubble like shrapnel.
Leon backflipped mid-air, grin widening.
"Damn!" he laughed, flipping over a rising spike of stone, "This is so—"
His boots hit the ground with a satisfying crunch.
"—exhilarating!"
[Gravel Storm]
A storm of razor-edged stone fragments burst into the air before him, orbiting the orc mage like a miniature cyclone. Her hands moved with swift, practiced gestures, fingers etched with runes glowing faintly brown and grey.
Dust billowed around her as she chanted under her breath, the magic coalescing around her body like an earthen halo.
"You're finished!" she cried.
The cloud collapsed—raining sharp gravel like a bladed monsoon.
Leon blurred through the shards.
"Haha, little miss…"
He appeared behind her like a whisper of heat.
One arm coiled around her waist, the other lightly touched her cheek—dust still swirling in the air, the scent of iron and stone heavy between them.
"…You're cuter than I expected," he said, voice low, almost teasingly intimate.
She stiffened—then,
SLAP!
The back of her hand cracked across his face with a sharp snap. Leon reeled slightly, more surprised than hurt. Her ears flushed bright red, her cheeks burning.
"Pervert human!" she shrieked, stomping backward.
But even flustered, her reflexes remained deadly.
[Mud Trap]
The stone beneath Leon's feet liquified instantly into thick, clinging mud—like a living swamp. It churned with an unnatural suction, dragging his boots down with surprising strength.
"Seriously?!"
Leon hissed, already mid-pull.
The ground burbled, trying to swallow him whole.
She took a breath, composing herself, the staff in her hand pulsing with quiet fury.
"Flirt again," she said, raising her weapon,
"And I'll bury you six feet under with your pride."
Leon looked down at his feet, then back up at her flushed expression.
"…Was it the waist grab?"
She raised the staff higher.
"Okay, okay!"
He laughed, bracing himself, muscles coiling as red aura spiked from his core.
The mud hissed as heat and force surged into his limbs. Bloodgnaw Rhythm.
FWUMP!
With an explosive twist of his hips and a grunt of effort, Leon ripped free from the trap—mud slinging off in arcs as he launched himself sideways.
"Alright, Miss Shy Mage,"
He called, drawing a line in the air with his short sword,
"Let's stop flirting and fight properly."
Her brow twitched.
"I am not flirting!"
He winked.
"Yet."
A/N-
John Keating-
John Keating is a fictional English teacher from N.H. Kleinbaum's novel Dead Poets Society (based on the 1989 film).
A passionate and unconventional educator at a strict prep school, he inspires his students to embrace poetry, think freely, and "seize the day." His rebellious spirit and bold teaching methods, like encouraging students to stand on desks, challenge conformity and leave a lasting impact.