"No holding back?"
Marcus asked as he cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the hushed courtyard. His smile widened, sharp and effortless. Around him, reactions rippled like heat distortion: so students laughed at his cocky tone, others rolled their eyes, visibly irritated. A few, though—those watching more closely—seed intrigued, even impressed.
Laurent slightly raised his head, posture still relaxed, the barrier in front of him shimring with steady, magical force.
"Of course. The more you use your full power, the more accurate the assessnt will be," Laurent replied, his voice smooth, unhurried, but not without edge.
Marcus laughed, shaking his hands loosely at his sides as if warming up before a performance. His bones popped softly.
"Then I suggest creating a bigger barrier," he said arrogantly, grinning as glowing runes began to flare up along his palm, spiraling outward in sharp, deliberate curves.
Laurent’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. His violet eyes, once drowsy, now hardened—sharp and glinting like polished athyst under pressure.
"I respect confidence," he said, voice cooling, "but you’re bordering on arrogance."
Even a tired Headmaster, it seed, had his limits—and a backbone.
Marcus breathed in slowly, shoulders rising and falling as he closed his eyes. The courtyard seed to hold its breath with him.
"I assure you my arrogance cos from the right place!" he shouted, and as the words rang out, power surged—runic tattoos began to crawl across his hands like living etchings, glowing with energy.
Of course I’m not going to use my full power...
Just a slightly weaker version of it...
A smile tugged at his lips as the spell intensified.
Necrotic green and red, molten orange, and blazing white-yellow hues unfurled from his palm, forming runic tendrils that slithered and wrapped around his arm, reaching toward his elbow like vines of volatile fla and death.
The grass at his feet billowed as if pushed by invisible wind. The air around him thickened, swirling in turbulent eddies as mana poured from his core, wild and alive.
Laurent’s expression shifted—his sternness dissolving into sothing else. Surprise. Then amusent.
He chuckled softly.
"Oh...? Impressive. I didn’t expect the Ravenfields to produce such a talented son. I thought your sister was the only one of note."
As he spoke, the shimring blue barrier in front of him pulsed once, then thickened dramatically—now nearly a ter wide, its surface solidifying into sothing closer to a translucent wall than a simple shield. Arcane sigils rippled along its circumference, humming quietly with layered enchantnts.
Marcus’s focus deepened. The runes were now fully active, encasing his forearm like an arcane gauntlet. The interplay of green and red (necrotic), orange (fla), and white-gold (combustion) gave his silhouette a brilliant, flickering aura—like a living forge wrapped in magic.
He rotated his shoulder once and pulled his arm back, adapting the stance of a seasoned pitcher. A glowing sphere of compressed energy—white-hot at its core, rimd with ember sparks—coalesced in his palm, vibrating with pent-up force.
"You ready?" he asked, grinning, his stance locked and his aim steady.
Laurent smirked in return.
"What do you take for? Of course."
Behind him, several faculty mbers shifted their weight, exchanging looks as the ambient magic grew heavier.
"I’ve never seen him this excited before," one professor murmured, glancing at the Headmaster with a raised brow.
"Reminds of his freshman years," Oswald replied with a nostalgic smile, arms crossed.
Behind Marcus, where the students had begun settling into their viewing spots, the atmosphere buzzed with more than just magical pressure. Among the crowd, Leon stood apart, positioned beneath the wide boughs of a tree near the courtyard’s edge. He leaned against its bark with calculated nonchalance, though his posture betrayed the tension simring beneath. His icy blue eyes were locked onto Marcus like blades—staring daggers, honed and deliberate.
"The Ravenfields, is it?" he muttered, voice low enough to be mostly to himself. "I’ve never heard of such a noble family before. Probably of lesser rank... hidden in the provincial shadows."
His gaze narrowed, but not with disdain—rather, sothing colder. Calculation.
"But for them to produce such a powerful heir..."
The words trailed off, unfinished, heavy with unspoken threat or curiosity. Or both.
From beside the assembly, Maria approached—ever luminous, her golden hair catching the morning light like a living halo. She moved with an effortless elegance, the natural gravity of a heroine stepping into fra. As she ca to stand near Leon, her gaze lingered on Marcus with clear interest.
"Impressive, isn’t it?" she said, her voice tinged with disbelief and sothing softer—perhaps awe. "I can’t believe soone like that got assigned to the lowest class."
Leon straightened at last, peeling himself from the tree with slow, deliberate grace. His hands folded behind his back, the perfect image of poised nobility—but his jaw was tight, his eyes unblinking.
"Impressive indeed," he said at last, the words cool, even.
But the sharpness in his tone hinted at sothing unresolved—pride challenged, curiosity ignited. Whatever Marcus Ravenfield had been before today, he was now sothing far more dangerous:
A variable.
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