Few months had passed since the grand introductions at Silver Heaven Academy. The vibrant banners that once fluttered with promise now swayed wearily in the breeze, their colours faded like the excitement of the opening days.
The festive cheer was gone—replaced by the stern rhythm of lectures, drills, and an undercurrent of tension that grew sharper with every passing day.
In the courtyards, the divide was unmistakable. The Noble disciples moved like peacocks in bloom, their silken robes embroidered with family crests that gleamed under the sun. Their footsteps carried pride, their laughter carried arrogance. Wherever they walked, heads turned—out of admiration or out of fear.
By contrast, the Commoner disciples carried themselves with steady determination. Their clothes were plain, their hands calloused, their gazes sharp with resolve. They worked harder than anyone else, often seen running late into the night, chasing knowledge as if it were their only weapon against destiny.
"Look at them, scurrying like ants," a Noble sneered one morning, his companions chuckling beside him. "Do they truly think they belong here?"
"Did you hear about that Commoner's last attempt at spellcasting?" another added. "He nearly burned his own hands off. Magic isn't meant for peasants."
Laughter rippled among the Nobles, ringing through the marble corridors.
In the library, the same shadows of scorn lingered. Groups of Commoners huddled together over stacks of books, whispering formulas, sharing notes, their eyes tired but resolute. Their whispers carried a quiet defiance.
"We can't let them keep looking down on us," one murmured, his jaw tight.
"Let's focus. Knowledge will be our sword," another whispered back, clutching a worn quill as if it were a blade.
But even here, peace was fragile. A Noble leaned against the shelf with a smirk, his voice dripping with contempt. "How adorable. Little Commoners studying so hard—trying to reach a peak that isn't yours to climb."
The Commoners stiffened, anger flashing in their eyes. Yet they swallowed it down, retreating into silence. Their determination deepened, but so did the bitterness.
Day by day, the hostility sharpened. Nobles brushed past Commoners with deliberate arrogance, knocking books from their arms, sneering when they stumbled. A few teachers turned a blind eye, unwilling to confront the delicate balance of power. For some disciples, the burden grew too heavy.
"I can't take this anymore," a boy muttered one evening, his voice breaking. "The mockery, the humiliation… I'm done."
"Don't leave," his friend begged. "If you give up, they win. We're stronger together."
But the boy shook his head, eyes hollow. "What's the point? They'll never see us as equals."
By dawn, his mat lay empty. And he was not the only one. One by one, Commoners slipped away from the academy without farewell, their dreams extinguished before they had a chance to bloom.
The once-festive halls of Silver Heaven Academy now bore silent witness to the widening rift—a rift that threatened to consume the very heart of its promise.
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The wide corridor on the first floor thrummed with restless energy. A ring of disciples had gathered, faces shifting between worry, excitement, and cruel amusement. The hum of whispers and muffled laughter bounced off the marble walls like echoes of a brewing storm.
At the centre stood four nobles, sharp-eyed and confident in their silk-lined crests. Rufus idly flexed his knuckles, cracking them one by one, as though the sound alone would intimidate. Lorien adjusted his cuffs with fussy precision, his eyes darting like a hawk weighing prey.
Darius leaned lazily against the wall, glasses catching the light as his smirk stretched wide, his charm soaked in venom. Caelus rolled his shoulders, the brute grin on his face promising nothing subtle.
Their target was clear: Natasha Ikazuchi and Shaun Thunderhawk, the bold declaration of Shaun's dream still clinging to him like a scarlet brand.
"Look at this commoner," Rufus sneered. "He dares to speak of challenging the Supreme Mages? A rat barking at lions."
Lorien gave a mocking bow. "Kneel, peasant. Rub your nose against the ground, and perhaps we'll forgive your insolence."
The ring of disciples rippled with reaction. Some commoners winced, sympathy tugging at their expressions. A few clenched their fists, whispering under their breath, though none dared step forward. Others, mostly nobles, grinned with smug pride, eager to watch a spectacle that confirmed their place above.
Shaun stood firm, his hands tightening at his sides. "I've committed no crime," he said, voice steady. "I respect the Supreme Mages as anyone would. But my dream is mine. I won't kneel for it."
A murmur spread through the crowd — disbelief to some, quiet admiration to others.
Darius tilted his head, glasses glinting, and shifted his gaze to Natasha. "Why waste yourself on him?" he asked smoothly. "Leave the boy to his delusions. Nobility suits you better."
Natasha's lips curled into a frown as she stepped closer to Shaun, their shoulders brushing. Sparks faintly danced along her fingertips, golden light flashing like a warning.
"You think I'd abandon him for your empty pride?" she said, her voice sharp as a drawn blade. "Shaun's worth more than all of you combined. I would rather eat dirt than abandoning Shaun for you cowards!"
The crowd gasped, some in awe, others shaking their heads in disbelief. A pair of noble girls clutched each other's sleeves, whispering with wide eyes. A few boys chuckled arrogantly, already certain Natasha's defiance would end badly.
Caelus cracked his knuckles and leaned forward, grinning like a predator. "Enough talk. Let's teach them manners."
Rufus straightened, voice rising like a whip. "Crush their pride. Make an example of them."
Shaun's chest tightened, but he lifted his chin. The flicker of lightning danced faintly in his eyes, raw but resolute. "I don't need to prove myself to you," he said, "but I won't let you break me."
Natasha's stance hardened, her voice low, steady, almost tender. "Let's teach them a lesson together, Shaun."
The corridor went still. For a heartbeat, no one breathed. The faint crackle of lightning from Shaun's aura joined the sharp snap of thunder sparks around Natasha's hands. Gas lamps flickered on the walls as though the air itself recoiled from the tension.
The crowd leaned in — some with dread, others with hungry anticipation. The nobles' sneers sharpened. Natasha's sparks brightened. Shaun's fists clenched. Then Rufus moved first, his eyes narrowing, muscles coiling to strike— And the world held its breath.
The bullies, frustrated by her resistance, turned their taunts toward Natasha. They suggested her dignity could be bartered for Shaun's forgiveness. They even proposed Natasha to abandon Shaun and hang out with them instead as a Commoner like Shaun doesn't deserve a beauty like Natasha.
The insult stung sharper than any blade. Natasha's composure shattered into fiery rage, and her stance hardened. Natasha harshly refused their offer and disdain them for their behaviour and their disrespect towards Shaun.
Seeing their defiance, they decided to teach them a lesson they would never forget. Shaun stood firm, his resolve unyielding. Natasha stepped forward, her protective instinct burning, and faced the Nobles with defiance.
The crowd held its breath. The corridor thrummed with tension, the air charged and heavy as Rufus lunged first. Time slowed.
His flaming fist streaked forward, heat warping the air. Natasha's body shifted in one smooth motion, her training guiding her like instinct. She pivoted sharply, parried the strike with a firm block, then twisted her hips.
Her counter slammed into Rufus's ribs, golden aura erupting in a shockwave that sent him flying. He crashed into the wall with such force the lanterns above rattled in protest. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Lorien roared and surged forward, water swirling around his arms like living serpents. Natasha ducked under his arc, her braid whipping behind her, then spun low. Her leg swept through the air in a perfect arc, golden sparks trailing like fire petals.
The moment froze—the elegance of her technique suspended in time—before her heel struck true. Lorien's body flipped, crashing to the polished floor with a bone-shaking thud, his aura scattering in a spray of droplets.
At the same time, Darius and Caelus closed in on Shaun. Their fists blurred—stone-crushing weight from Darius and radiant light from Caelus. Shaun's pulse spiked. He inhaled sharply, lightning crackling alive around his limbs, unstable but fierce.
He slipped past Darius's blow, raw but fast, brushing against the noble's wrist. Sparks surged violently—Nuzzle. Electricity flooded Darius's arm, locking it stiff mid-strike like a tazer.
In that heartbeat of paralysis, Shaun's elbow snapped upward, blue light exploding in slow-motion before slamming into the Earth Magus's jaw. Darius staggered back, dazed, his teeth clenched in pain.
Caelus came next, his radiant fists blazing. Shaun ducked low, sparks scattering at his feet as he swept Caelus's legs from under him. Rising with raw speed, he spun—not polished, not elegant, but driven. His backhand, wrapped in jagged lightning, cracked across Caelus's jaw, sending him sprawling in a burst of golden sparks.
Side by side now, Shaun and Natasha stood as storm and flame. Shaun's aura flickered wildly, blue lightning snapping in unstable bursts. His chest heaved, his stance raw and unrefined.
Beside him, Natasha's golden aura burned steady and disciplined, her posture precise yet blazing with resolve. The contrast only heightened their unity—chaos and control, lightning and flame.
The nobles staggered back, pride bleeding into fury. Rufus pulled himself upright, Lorien forced himself to his knees, Darius shook off the paralysis, and Caelus's glow reignited. Together, with snarling defiance, they charged again.
The corridor lit up with flashes. Natasha's palm struck Rufus's chest, her aura detonating in a golden shockwave that flung him backward. Shaun's lightning-wrapped fist collided with Caelus's jaw, the thunderous crack echoing off the walls.
Lorien collapsed beside them, clutching his ribs, while Darius dropped to one knee, his jaw trembling from Shaun's strike. In a blink, the four proud nobles lay sprawled across the polished wood, groaning in defeat.
Silence fell. Dozens of disciples stared, mouths open, hands clasped over their lips. Whispers cut through the stillness—shock, awe, disbelief.
Among the crowd, a few Commoners clenched their fists, eyes shining with pride. For the first time, hope flickered. Some whispered Shaun's name, others Natasha's, their voices trembling with admiration.
But not all shared that awe. Nobles in the crowd sneered, their pride burning as much as their fallen comrades'. Murmurs of "disgrace," "unacceptable," and "they'll pay for this" rippled through their ranks. Between awe and disdain, the corridor held its breath, waiting for what would come next—
The first-floor corridor of Silver Heaven Academy was a battlefield of pride and prejudice. The polished marble floors, usually echoing with the disciplined footsteps of students, now bore the scuffs of a brawl.
The four nobles—Rufus, Lorien, Darius, and Caelus—lay sprawled in varying states of defeat, clutching ribs, wiping blood from their mouths, their once-pristine robes stained and torn. Rufus's face twisted with humiliation as he spat crimson onto the floor.
"You—you commoner filth—how dare you lay hands on us! You two will regret this!" he hissed, his pride shaking harder than his voice.
Natasha's wrist twisted sharply. A bolt of golden lightning snapped into the marble beside Darius's ear, scorching the wall. "Come on! Show me what you nobles are really made of!"
**********
The corridor froze. Not a whisper, not a breath—the onlookers' awe and fear locked their throats. Then came the sound. Heavy footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Each one cutting through the silence like a drumbeat.
"ENOUGH!"
The command cracked like thunder. Every head turned. Edward Hamilton stood at the corridor's entrance, his sleeveless vest straining over a frame built for battle, his black hair barely stirred by the breeze. His presence pressed on the disciples like a weight, demanding silence without effort.
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