The scent of blood clung to the academy grounds. The bodies of the first attackers lay motionless, scattered like discarded puppets. Faculty members barely looked winded, while students sat around in relaxed clusters, chatting as though this were just another afternoon lesson.
Kalem stood off to the side, arms crossed, scanning the aftermath. The first wave had been a joke.
Then—a whistle.
Not from the academy. From beyond the gates.
A signal.
Through the academy's shattered entrance, a second force emerged.
Unlike the first wave—disguised assassins and reckless fighters—these were disciplined, armored warriors. Shields locked into formation. Archers in the back. Mages chanting in unison. A real army.
This was no ordinary mercenary band.
And yet… the students looked utterly unfazed.
Some even groaned.
"Great, more of them," one student muttered.
Nearby, a few second-years pulled out their coin pouches.
"I got ten silver on Master Rourke taking down at least ten with just his fists."
"You're underestimating him. Twenty silver says he doubles that before anyone else gets involved."
Another scoffed. "You're all fools. Valdris is here. This fight is already over."
Laughter rippled through the students.
The mercenaries charged.
Their shield wall moved in sync, mages preparing volleys of fire and lightning. It was a textbook military formation.
It didn't matter.
Alaric Vermund, Head of Material Studies, raised a single hand.
The earth rumbled.
Then, like jagged fangs, stone spikes erupted from the ground, impaling the frontlines before they could react.
Their shield formation shattered instantly. Screams of agony filled the courtyard.
Survivors stumbled forward, desperately trying to reform their ranks—until Professor Gregor, the dwarven spellmaster, clapped his hands together.
A thunderous shockwave exploded outward.
The force ripped through the battlefield, sending mercenaries flying into the air, their weapons crushed from sheer pressure.
"Pathetic," Gregor muttered. "Did you think numbers would change the outcome?"
Amidst the chaos, a group of assassins lunged at Professor Baudric.
The history professor sighed.
"I was in the middle of reading," he murmured, glancing at the heavy tome in his hand.
The first attacker swung a dagger—Baudric sidestepped lazily and slammed the book into his face. The impact shattered the man's nose, sending him crashing into the dirt.
The second assassin hesitated. Baudric simply threw the book.
The corner struck his temple, and he dropped instantly.
Two more charged—Baudric whipped the book open mid-air, flipping pages with ease.
"Ah, here it is. The Fall of the Zheron Empire."
Before they could react, he snapped the book shut and swung it like a hammer.
The force cracked a skull. Another jaw snapped sideways.
Baudric adjusted his glasses, muttering to himself.
"History repeats itself," he sighed. "And so do bad decisions."
Near the main courtyard, a group of heavily armored warriors rushed at Master Rourke.
The combat instructor cracked his knuckles.
The first attacker lunged—Rourke sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and snapped it with a casual flick.
The second swung a greatsword.
Rourke caught it with his bare hands.
With a single twist, he wrenched it free and drove the hilt into the man's ribs. The attacker crumpled instantly.
Two more warriors charged.
Rourke rolled his shoulders.
In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance.
A knee to the gut. A spinning backfist.
Both fell before they realized what had happened.
A student watching whistled. "That's twenty. Pay up."
A squad of assassins cloaked in darkness attempted to flank Sylvia Moreau, the academy's alchemy head.
She barely spared them a glance.
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed a vial into the air.
The bottle shattered—purple gas exploded outward.
The assassins froze.
Their muscles stiffened.
Sylvia walked toward them leisurely, pulling another vial from her coat. This one bubbled ominously.
"You should have stayed in the shadows," she murmured.
She uncorked the vial and poured its contents over them.
The liquid sizzled.
Their armor corroded into ash—along with the flesh beneath.
She turned away before they finished screaming.
A squad of mages launched a combined barrage of fire, ice, and lightning.
Xel'thar, the draconian professor, smirked.
He exhaled sharply.
A shockwave of mana exploded outward, consuming the spells before they could even land.
Then—he raised his clawed hand.
A gout of blue flameerupted from his palm, engulfing the enemy casters in an instant.
Their shields melted. Their robes ignited.
Screams filled the courtyard as Xel'thar walked through the flames unscathed.
He flicked his wrist—a gust of wind sent the scorched bodies tumbling away.
"Hmph. Mages these days have no endurance," he muttered.
Valdris Ends It
Throughout the battle, Valdris had simply watched, his hands clasped behind his back.
Now, he exhaled.
The air grew heavy.
Mercenaries staggered. Some fell to their knees, gasping.
Gravity increased tenfold.
With a gesture, Valdris lifted his hand.
Dozens of attackers were yanked into the air, helpless against his unseen grip.
Then—he closed his fingers into a fist.
CRACK.
Bones shattered. Armor crumpled.
Their bodies fell to the ground, lifeless.
The battlefield fell silent.
The students stared at the carnage.
A first-year sighed. "That was barely worth the bet."
Another shrugged. "They didn't even make Valdris try."
Kalem watched as the faculty wiped out an entire small army without effort.
The academy was supposed to be a place of learning.
But today, it had shown why it was feared across the world.