"The Spirit Duel Tournament (and Way Too Many New Faces)" ⚔️🐄✨
The announcement came just after breakfast—which meant Tomlin was holding a spoonful of honeyed oatmeal halfway to his mouth, steam curling lazily upward like a polite ghost, when the Sky Chimes rang out across the academy with the dramatic enthusiasm of a brass band falling down stairs.
"Attention, Spirit Tamers!" boomed a voice amplified by wind spirits swirling overhead. "The Annual First-Year Spirit Duel Tournament begins today!"
The cafeteria erupted into pure pandemonium.
Cheering that rattled the silverware. Groaning that could curdle milk. Bragging so loud it drowned out the clatter of trays. One particularly dramatic student actually fainted face-first into his porridge with a wet splat that sent oats flying like confetti.
Tomlin swallowed hard, spoon trembling. "Today…? As in today today? Not next month today?"
"Relax," Bessy said around a mouthful of premium clover hay that smelled sweetly of summer fields. "Worst case, you embarrass yourself in front of hundreds of peers, several professors, and at least one floating spectator cloud. Builds character. And humility. Mostly humility."
"That's not reassuring," Tomlin squeaked, oatmeal now dripping forgotten onto his uniform sash.
🏟️ The Spirit Duel Arena
The academy's duel arena was a massive circular field carved from gleaming white stone that caught the midday sun and flung it back in dazzling sparks. Ancient runes etched beneath the surface pulsed faintly with soft blues and greens, humming like distant bees. Floating platforms—smooth disks of polished obsidian—hovered several feet above the ground, shifting lazily to match each upcoming duel with gentle whooshes of displaced air.
Students gathered in excited teams and cliques along the tiered stone benches that smelled of warm marble and nervous sweat. This was where reputations were born, legends launched, and egos gently (or not-so-gently) crushed.
Tomlin quickly realized one heartbreaking truth:
Everyone else looked prepared—like they'd been born holding spirit contracts and practicing dramatic poses in mirrors.
👥 New Supporting Cast Enters
🔥 Rowan Flint
A loud, red-haired boy whose freckles looked sun-kissed and whose Fire Mole Spirit constantly trailed wisps of smoke that smelled faintly of barbecue.
"Oi! Farmer boy!" Rowan shouted across the arena, grin wide enough to light kindling. "Try not to faint into the dirt, yeah? My mole hates cleaning ash off losers!"
"I like him," Bessy said, sniffing the smoky air appreciatively. "He smells flammable. Like a walking campfire marshmallow."
💧 Selene Vale
A calm, silver-eyed girl with hair like moonlight on water, accompanied by a sleek Water Serpent Spirit that coiled gracefully around her shoulders, dripping cool mist that sparkled in the sun.
"You're the one with divine resonance," she said politely, voice soft as a brook. "I hope we duel. I want data. Detailed data. Possibly graphs."
Tomlin nodded nervously, already feeling like a specimen. "I… also want data. I think. Maybe footnotes."
🌿 Bran & Root
A shy, mousy-haired boy who never spoke much—because his massive Tree Spirit familiar, Root, did all the talking in a voice like creaking oaks and thunder.
"BRAN IS NERVOUS," Root boomed, branches rustling overhead and scattering a few anxious leaves.
"ROOT IS EXCITED FOR VIOLENCE."
"ROOT IS ALSO HUNGRY."
"I like the tree," Bessy said approvingly. "He's honest. And probably excellent shade on hot days."
⚡ Yara Quickstep
A hyperactive girl with wild curls, twin gleaming daggers strapped to her hips, and a crackling Lightning Cat Spirit that zipped around her in blue-white arcs, leaving the faint smell of ozone and singed grass.
"If I beat you," she blurted, bouncing on her toes, "can I pet the cow? Just once? Maybe twice?"
"If you lose," Bessy replied instantly, "you brush me daily. Full spa treatment. With the good comb."
"Deal!" Yara whooped, cat spirit yowling in agreement.
Tomlin blinked rapidly. "Why am I not consulted on bets involving my cow?"
🐺 Kane Blackthorn (Returning)
The quiet swordsman from before stood off to the side, arms crossed, his massive Shadow Wolf Spirit watching Tomlin with glowing crimson eyes that reflected like embers in dusk.
"Don't hold back," Kane said quietly, voice low and serious. "I want to see what you really are."
Tomlin swallowed, throat suddenly dry as parchment. "So does everyone, apparently. Including me."
🔮 Tournament Rules (Explained Very Loudly)
Professor Rilwen floated above the central platform on a cushion of shimmering air, robes billowing dramatically, her voice amplified to carry over the excited roar of the crowd.
"Duels are decided by Resonance Control, not injury!" she declared. "If your spirit destabilizes, you surrender, or you're knocked from the platform—you lose. No permanent harm. No crying in public. No blaming the ref."
Bessy leaned in, warm breath tickling Tomlin's ear. "Translation: don't die, don't cry, don't fall. And definitely don't sneeze mid-duel."
"Got it," Tomlin muttered, knees already wobbling.
⚔️ First Match: Tomlin vs Rowan Flint
Tomlin stepped onto the hovering platform opposite Rowan, boots scraping nervously against the smooth obsidian that felt cool even through soles. The crowd's cheers washed over him like a warm, overwhelming wave scented with popcorn from the spectator stands.
Rowan grinned like a fox in a henhouse. "No hard feelings, farmer. This'll be quick!"
His Fire Mole slammed stubby paws into the platform—flames burst outward in a roaring sheet of orange and red, heat shimmering the air and carrying the sharp scent of scorched stone.
Tomlin panicked, heart hammering like a blacksmith on overtime.
"I—Bessy—I don't know what to do! Commands? Gestures? Dramatic shouting?"
"Then don't do," she said calmly, voice steady as a summer pasture. "Listen."
He closed his eyes against the oncoming inferno.
For the first time, he didn't frantically reach for Bessy's power like a man clutching a lifeline.
He let it reach him—like opening a barn door to morning sunlight.
Warmth spread through his chest—not overwhelming, not blinding. Just… steady. Comfortable. Like coming home after a long day in the fields.
The platform beneath his feet glowed soft, radiant gold that pulsed gently, like a heartbeat.
Rowan's flames sputtered mid-roar, flickering uncertainly as if caught in a sudden breeze.
"What—my fire—?!" Rowan yelped, yanking at his resonance thread. "Come on, buddy, burn hotter!"
"Overexertion," Bessy announced to the entire arena, loud enough for the back rows. "You're shouting at your spirit. He's whispering back, 'Maybe chill?'"
Tomlin raised his hand instinctively, palm open—not commanding, just… inviting.
The golden aura expanded calmly, like dawn spreading over quiet hills.
Rowan's Fire Mole blinked slowly, flames dimming to cozy embers… gave an enormous yawn that revealed tiny, sooty teeth… and promptly curled up for a nap right there on the platform, snoring soft puffs of smoke.
Absolute silence blanketed the arena—broken only by a single confused cricket somewhere in the stands.
Then—
"Winner: Tomlin Hayfield!" Professor Rilwen declared, voice cracking slightly in disbelief.
The arena exploded with noise—cheers, gasps, one very loud "Moo of approval!" from Bessy that somehow carried over everything.
😱 Reactions Everywhere
"What kind of technique was that?!"
"He didn't even attack! He just… napped the mole?!"
"Is that suppression magic? Divine lullaby?!"
"No—resonance harmony! He made the spirit feel safe enough to snooze!"
Selene's silver eyes sparkled like starlight on water. "Fascinating. Must document immediately."
Yara bounced so high her lightning cat had to zap her back down. "I wanna fight him next! I wanna see if he can nap my cat!"
Bran fainted dead away into Root's supportive branches.
"BRAN HAS FAINTED!" Root boomed helpfully. "FROM SHOCK! AND POSSIBLY LOW BLOOD SUGAR!"
🌙 After the Match
Tomlin stumbled off the platform on legs that felt like overcooked noodles, the cool evening breeze now carrying the scents of night-blooming academy flowers and distant victory bonfires.
"I won…?" he whispered, staring at his faintly glowing hands. "I actually won. Without violence. Or yelling."
"Of course you did," Bessy said, nudging him proudly and nearly knocking him over. "You stopped trying to be strong and started being steady. Much harder. Much better."
Kane approached through the dispersing crowd, shadow wolf padding silently beside him.
"That wasn't Rank 3," he said quietly, respect flickering in his dark eyes. "That was Proto-Merge. A glimpse of Rank 4. Maybe higher."
Professor Rilwen watched from the judges' platform, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"Impossible," she murmured to a fellow professor. "No student should access that state without years of rigid training… or a bond forged in something far older."
As the sun dipped low in a blaze of peach and gold, painting the floating platforms like molten metal, the tournament bracket updated on the massive glowing scoreboard with a triumphant chime.
Tomlin's name sat in the center—circled in shimmering gold that pulsed gently, like a heartbeat.
And beneath it, whispered rumors began spreading faster than gossip in a henhouse:
"He doesn't command his spirit…"
"He coexists with it. Like partners."
"What kind of tamer bonds with a divine beast like that? One who listens?"
Bessy looked up at the emerging night sky, stars winking on one by one, unusually quiet for once.
"Careful now, Druid," she said softly, voice warm as fresh milk under moonlight. "The academy is starting to notice what you really are."
Tomlin flexed his still-tingling fingers, a nervous but growing smile tugging at his lips.
"Then I guess," he said, straightening his crooked sash with sudden determination, "I'd better learn fast. Before I accidentally nap the entire tournament."
Somewhere in the stands, Root boomed approvingly: "ROOT LIKES THIS HUMAN. HE SMELLS LIKE GOOD SOIL."
And for the first time since a certain talking cow upended his life, Tomlin didn't feel like a fraud.
He felt like maybe—just maybe—he belonged.