The Test of Power
Training Arena - Afternoon
The academy's training arena, usually used for routine sparring, was now filled with an unusual crowd of students. News of the duel between Carsel Nightshade and Vincent Ashworth—a 7th-grade student renowned for his swordplay—had spread quickly throughout the academy.
In the VIP stands, the four royals sat in positions that offered an optimal view of the arena. They watched with unconcealed interest, each with their own agenda for observing this fight.
"Vincent is the right choice," Princess Seraphina said with a calculated tone. "7th grade, Tier 4 Knight level, extensive combat experience. If Nightshade can defeat him..."
"Then we'll know that his transformation is genuine," Prince Aldric finished. "And not just posturing."
On the other side of the arena, Vincent Ashworth stood with a confidence born from years of training and multiple victories in academy tournaments. The 13-year-old, with an athletic build and sharp green eyes, wore high-quality light armor and carried a sword clearly crafted by a master blacksmith.
"I don't understand why they're making me fight a 1st-grade kid," he muttered to his friends. "This isn't even a fair fight."
"Just make it quick," one of them replied. "Everyone wants to see if the stories about Nightshade's 'transformation' are true or just rumors."
When Carsel entered the arena, the change in atmosphere was immediately palpable. Conversations died down as students saw a figure clearly different from the Carsel they knew months ago.
He had grown taller, broader, with a posture that spoke of someone who no longer feared anything. Most striking was the way he moved—smooth, controlled, with an economy of motion that suggested genuine combat experience.
In his hand, he carried the same training sword he always used, but somehow the weapon looked different in his grip. More natural, more dangerous.
"He does look different," admitted Vincent with a slight frown. "Taller, and... something else."
Carsel walked to the center of the arena with an unhurried pace, his eyes scanning the crowd with an unreadable expression. When his gaze fell upon the royal tribune, he gave the slightest nod—an acknowledgment without deference.
So, they want to test me, he thought with amusement. How thoughtful of them to provide a demonstration opportunity.
Professor Hendricks, serving as referee, stood between the two fighters with an expression that was clearly uncomfortable. Pitting a 1st-grade student against a 7th-grade student was highly irregular, but royal pressure had made protest impossible.
"Rules are standard sparring protocol," he announced to the crowd. "The fight continues until one participant yields, is knocked unconscious, or suffers an injury that prevents continuation."
He looked between Vincent and Carsel with obvious concern. "Remember, this is an educational exercise. Unnecessary brutality will result in immediate disqualification and punishment."
Vincent nodded with confidence. Carsel merely smiled.
"Fighters, take your positions!"
They moved to opposite ends of the small arena, a distance of roughly twenty feet between them. Vincent fell into a classic knight stance—sword raised, shield positioned, weight balanced for either offense or defense.
Carsel took a position that was deceptively casual. Sword held loosely in his right hand, left hand empty, a stance that looked almost lazy compared to Vincent's textbook form.
"Vincent has a clear advantage," observed one student in the crowd. "Experience, training, equipment, size..."
"Begin!" called Professor Hendricks.
Vincent moved immediately, closing the distance with practiced footwork and launching a probe attack—a quick thrust aimed at Carsel's center mass, designed to test reflexes and defensive capabilities.
It was a standard opening move, executed with competence that reflected years of training.
Carsel sidestepped with a movement that was so fluid it looked effortless. Vincent's blade passed harmlessly by, and suddenly Carsel was inside his guard, moving with a speed that seemed impossible for someone his size.
A counter-attack came in the form of a pommel strike aimed at Vincent's solar plexus. Not lethal, but enough to wind an opponent and demonstrate superior positioning.
Vincent barely managed to twist away, taking a glancing blow to the ribs instead of a direct hit to the diaphragm. Even so, the impact was hard enough to make him grunt with pain and surprise.
Fast, Vincent thought with growing wariness. Much faster than expected.
They separated, circling each other with a new level of mutual respect. Vincent's initial confidence was beginning to waver as he realized this wouldn't be the easy victory he had anticipated.
"Interesting," Vincent called out, trying to sound casual. "You've improved since the last time I saw you."
"Have I?" Carsel's voice carried amusement. "Or maybe you're just seeing me clearly for the first time."
Vincent launched a more aggressive assault, combining sword strikes with shield bashes in a coordinated sequence that demonstrated advanced training. Each move flowed into the next with a precision that spoke of countless hours of practice.
Carsel defended with an economy of motion that was almost artistic. Every parry was exact, every dodge was minimal, every counter-attack was precisely placed. He moved like someone who understood combat not just intellectually, but instinctively.
He's not just faster, Vincent realized with growing alarm. He's... different. Like he has experience that I don't.
What Vincent couldn't know was that Carsel's mind now contained the hunting instincts of three dire wolves—apex predators who had survived in the wild through superior tactical thinking and perfect timing. Every movement Vincent made was predictable, every attack telegraphed, every defensive position flawed.
Vincent's sword sang through the air in a wide arc intended to force Carsel into a defensive position. Instead, Carsel stepped forward, inside the range of the swing, and drove his elbow upward into Vincent's wrist.
The sound of bones cracking was audible throughout the arena.
Vincent's sword flew from his nerveless fingers, clattering across the stone floor. He staggered backward, cradling his injured wrist with an expression of shock and pain.
"My wrist—it's broken!"
"Do you yield?" asked Carsel in a tone that was polite but carried an undertone of eagerness.
Vincent looked at his dominant hand, clearly useless for the remainder of the fight. Standard protocol would be to yield, acknowledge defeat, and seek medical attention.
But pride, audience pressure, and growing anger made a different choice.
"No," he snarled, drawing a backup dagger with his left hand. "I don't yield to a class 1 freak."
Carsel's smile widened. "Good. Neither do I."
What happened next would be talked about in the academy for years to come.
Vincent lunged with the dagger, a movement that was desperate but still technically sound. Carsel moved to intercept, but instead of a simple disarm or incapacitation, he did something that made the entire crowd go silent.
He grabbed Vincent's wrist in a grip that was impossibly strong, twisted with a motion that was both precise and brutal, and drove Vincent's own dagger into his thigh.
The sound that Vincent made was not quite a scream, not quite a sob, but something primal and broken.
"That's for calling me a freak," Carsel said in a voice that was conversational but carried an edge of absolute cruelty.
Beyond Sparring
Professor Hendricks started forward to stop the fight, but froze when Carsel's eyes met his. Something in that gaze promised violence that would extend to anyone who interfered.
Vincent, impaled with his own weapon and barely conscious from the pain, made a weak attempt to crawl away. Carsel followed with an unhurried pace, like a predator toying with wounded prey.
"Please," Vincent gasped. "I yield. I yield!"
"Too late for that," Carsel replied in a tone that held no mercy. "You had a chance to yield with dignity. Now we do this my way."
He reached down and twisted the dagger deeper into Vincent's thigh, eliciting a scream that echoed throughout the arena. Then, with deliberate slowness, he withdrew the blade and drove it into Vincent's other leg.
The crowd was silent except for Vincent's sobbing. This was no longer a sparring match or an educational exercise. This was systematic torture.
"Stop him!" someone shouted from the crowd. "Someone stop him!"
But no one moved. Something about Carsel's presence, about the aura of controlled violence that surrounded him, kept everyone frozen in their seats.
Carsel knelt beside Vincent, who was now barely conscious from blood loss and shock. He spoke in a voice quiet enough that only Vincent could hear, but the crowd could see his lips moving.
"This is what happens to those who underestimate me," he whispered. "This is what happens to those who think they can use me for entertainment. Remember this, Vincent. Remember that mercy is a privilege that must be earned, not a right that can be demanded."
He stood, dropping the bloody dagger beside Vincent's prone form. Then, addressing the crowd with a voice that carried clearly throughout the arena:
"Does anyone else need a demonstration of my capabilities? Or are we all clear on where we stand?"
Silence was answer enough.
Professor Hendricks finally found his voice. "Medical team! Now!"
As healers rushed to aid Vincent, Carsel walked toward the exit with the same unhurried pace he had maintained throughout the fight. As he passed the royal tribune, he paused to make eye contact with each of the four royals.
No words were exchanged, but the message was clear: I am not your toy anymore. I am an apex predator in your environment. Adjust your expectations accordingly.
In the medical wing, healers worked frantically to stabilize Vincent. Both legs would require extensive healing magic, and the psychological trauma might take much longer to address. But he would live, which was more than some had expected after watching Carsel's display.
"Savage," whispered one healer to another. "Absolutely savage. What kind of child does something like that?"
"The kind that has been systematically broken," replied an older healer with sadness. "And apparently rebuilt himself into something far more dangerous."
Meanwhile, in the administrative office, an emergency meeting was taking place.
"We can't ignore what just happened," Professor Marlena was saying. "That wasn't sparring. That was attempted murder."
"But he didn't kill Vincent," pointed out Professor Hendricks. "Technically, he stayed within the bounds of the duel rules. Horrifically, brutally, but technically legal."
Headmaster Aldeon rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building. "What's the status of Vincent's condition?"
"Stable. Healers say he'll recover fully, though it will take weeks. But the psychological impact..." Professor Marlena shook her head. "That boy is traumatized."
"And what about academic implications? Defeating a class 7 student in a formal duel..."
"According to academy rules," sighed Professor Hendricks, "any student who demonstrates the ability to defeat an opponent two classes above their current level automatically qualifies for advancement testing."
"So Nightshade gets promoted?"
"Unless we change the rules specifically to prevent it, yes. He's demonstrated combat capability that clearly exceeds class 1 level."
The Headmaster stared out the window, watching storm clouds gather in the distance. "Promote him to class 3. Skip class 2 entirely. Maybe additional responsibility will channel his... talents... in more productive directions."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then God help us all."
Royal Council
In their private quarters, the four royal students held an urgent meeting to discuss the implications of what they had witnessed.
"That wasn't enhancement or training improvement," Princess Seraphina said in a tone that was clinically analytical. "That was a fundamental change in his nature. He moved like a predator, thought like a predator, acted like a predator."
"The question is," added Prince Lucian, "are we dealing with an enhanced human, or something else entirely?"
"Does it matter?" asked Princess Lyanna with practical bluntness. "The point is, he's dangerous now. Really dangerous. Our previous methods won't work anymore."
Prince Aldric, who had been quiet throughout the discussion, finally spoke. "Actually, I think this is a perfect development."
The others stared at him with surprise.
"Think about it," he continued. "We wanted to break him, to remake him into something more... useful. We succeeded beyond our wildest expectations. He's no longer a victim—he's a weapon. The question is, can we aim that weapon properly?"
"And if we can't?" asked Princess Seraphina.
Prince Aldric's smile was cold and calculating. "Then we'll have to be very, very careful about how we dispose of him."
That evening, news of the duel had spread throughout the entire academy. Students who had previously seen Carsel as a safe target for bullying now gave him a wide berth. Faculty who had dismissed him as troubled but harmless now watched him with a wariness that bordered on fear.
But for Carsel himself, the day had been a revelation. Not just about his own capabilities, but about the psychological effect his actions had upon others.
Fear, he thought with satisfaction as he walked through corridors that now parted before him like water. Real, genuine, primal fear. Not respect based on titles or inherited status, but fear based on demonstrated capability for violence.
This is what power actually feels like. Not begging for scraps of approval, but commanding attention through strength.
Vincent will recover. Physically, anyway. But everyone who watched today learned an important lesson: I am no longer someone to be trifled with.
I am someone to be feared.
As he entered his dormitory room, the roommates who had once treated him with casual dismissal now avoided eye contact entirely. Even Vex, who usually showed interest in dark magic, kept a respectful distance.
Good, Carsel thought. Let them all remember what happens to those who mistake me for a harmless victim.
Tomorrow, I begin classes as a class 3 student. A new level, new challenges, new opportunities to demonstrate exactly what I've become.
And everyone—students, faculty, royals—will watch and wonder what other surprises I might have in store.
Outside his window, the storm finally broke, rain lashing the academy walls with a fury that seemed to echo the violence of the afternoon's events.
But for Carsel, the sound was soothing rather than ominous. Storms, after all, were simply nature's way of reminding the world that some forces could not be controlled, only endured.
And he was becoming such a force himself.
To be continued...