Corvin Arcturus was already waiting for him. The golden-haired youth in a crimson cloak regarded Kayian with faint condescension.
"The Wellstream heir," he drawled. "I expected more after the first test. Two first-rank schools… disappointing."
"I'll try not to disappoint you," Kayian replied, settling into his stance.
Corvin smirked.
"Do try. I need a worthy sparring partner, not a—"
He didn't finish. Kayian struck first.
A flash of Lightning—not to his legs as in the previous bouts, but to his fingertips. The discharge hit the floor in front of Corvin, kicking up a cloud of dust. While he was shielding his eyes, Kayian dove into the shadow cast by his own figure and emerged from the side.
A strike to the torso. Corvin doubled over but managed to activate Flame—a wave of fire hurled Kayian back.
"Nice trick," Corvin hissed, straightening up. "But you've made me angry."
He raised his hands, and a whirlwind of fire began spinning around him. Kayian could feel the heat even from a distance. This wasn't just an attack—it was a show of force, meant for the audience.
Kayian took a step back, feigning retreat. Corvin, smiling, advanced, burning everything in his path.
That's what I was waiting for, Kayian thought. Pride. The weakest point of the strong.
When Corvin closed to a critical distance, Kayian did something no one expected. He dropped to his knees and slammed his fist into the stone floor, putting not Lightning or Shadow magic into the blow, but raw physical force.
A crack ran through the stone, and the fiery vortex, robbed of stable footing, began to sink. Corvin lost his balance for a fraction of a second—but that was enough.
Kayian thrust his hand forward, releasing a Lightning discharge amplified by all his remaining energy. The strike hit Corvin in the chest, throwing him to the very edge of the arena. The flames around him died out.
Corvin lay on his back, trying to rise, but his body was still seized by electrical discharges.
Kayian walked slowly toward him.
"Surrender," he said, his voice calm, almost gentle.
Corvin glared at him with fury, with hatred, but he understood: if he tried to continue, he would simply be thrown out of the arena, and the disgrace would be even greater.
"I surrender," he ground out through clenched teeth.
The examiner raised his hand, but before he could declare victory, a voice rang out from the stands:
"Wait."
From the upper tribune, a man in a fifth-rank Flame mage's robe rose—the Academy's rector, Archon Verius.
"Show me your hand, young Wellstream," he said, his voice tinged with cold interest.
Kayian froze. His left hand, the one he had struck the floor with, trembled slightly. He knew that at the moment of the impact, Blood magic had responded—just a little, at the threshold of sensitivity. But apparently, not quite little enough.
Slowly, he raised his left hand. The glove was intact, but beneath it, the black script of the system pulsed.
"I sense no blood magic," the rector said after a long pause. "But there was something… unusual about your strike. What was it?"
Kayian held his gaze. Cold, calm.
"Physical training, Rector. My fencing master always said magic is all well and good, but sometimes you need to know how to use your fists."
Laughter rippled through the hall. The rector narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
"The fight is over. Victory to Kayian Wellstream."
Kayian left the arena to applause that was more surprised than enthusiastic. He had won, but his victory was "dirty" in the eyes of the aristocrats—to win not by magic, but by cunning and physical strength was considered almost indecent.
He sat down on a bench and exhaled.
The system issued a message:
[Combat complete. Evaluation: unconventional tactics, concealed use of Blood magic (undetected). Fate Points awarded: 50.]
[Attention! Rector Verius has shown interest. Suspicion level: +15. Reduced activity advised.]
Kayian looked at his hands. Blood magic had responded on its own, instinctively, when he struck the floor. That was dangerous. He needed to control himself better.
"You were magnificent," a voice said beside him.
Selena sat down on the bench, her eyes shining.
"I used a dirty trick," Kayian replied. "Nothing magnificent."
"You defeated a second-rank Flame mage using only first rank and… hand strength. That's not dirty. That's clever."
Kayian looked at her. There was no flattery in her voice, only genuine admiration.
"The final is tomorrow," he said, changing the subject. "Who are you up against?"
"That girl in the hood," Selena answered, her voice wavering. "I saw her fights. She doesn't even exert herself."
Kayian frowned. Selena against the unknown girl? That could end badly.
"In the final, I'll face the winner of your pair," he said. "If something happens to you…"
"Nothing will happen," Selena interrupted, though her voice lacked confidence. "I'll try not to let you down."
Kayian wanted to respond, but at that moment a shadow passed through the corridor. He turned—no one was there.
But the system issued a brief warning:
[Presence detected. Temporal line anomaly. Source: unknown.]
Kayian slowly stood up.
"Selena, go back to the dormitory. Don't go anywhere alone."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"Just do as I say."
She looked at him, wanted to argue, but something in his face made her fall silent. She nodded and hurried away.
Kayian was left alone in the empty corridor. Silence pressed against his ears.
"Come out," he said into the void. "I know you're there."
A second passed. Another. Nothing.
Then a figure detached itself from the shadow against the wall. Short, in a dark cloak, face hidden behind a mask. Kayian couldn't see the eyes, but he felt the gaze—heavy, probing, ancient.
"You're quicker than I expected," the stranger said. The voice was distorted, but Kayian thought he heard a strange echo in it, as if two were speaking at once.
"Who are you?" Kayian asked, readying himself to attack.
"My name is Crow," the stranger replied, the shadow of a smile appearing on his lips. "And I'm here to warn you, regressor."
Kayian went still. The word "regressor" struck him like a slap.
"Your game has only just begun," Crow continued. "You've altered a few fates. That's enough to draw attention. But what you do next… could ruin everything."
"What do you mean?" Kayian's voice hardened.
Crow took a step back, melting into the shadows.
"Tomorrow, in the final, you will face a choice. Don't give in to emotion. And remember: some doors, once opened, cannot be closed again."
"Wait!"
Kayian lunged forward, but the figure vanished as if it had never been there. Only a small object remained on the floor—a black feather, strangely shimmering in the dim light.
Kayian picked it up. The feather was cold, almost icy. As he touched it, the system issued a new message:
[Artifact obtained: "Raven's Feather"
Properties: unknown
Warning: this item is connected to the Keepers of Time. Use may accelerate the arrival of an Inquisitor.]
Kayian clenched the feather in his fist. Tomorrow is the final. Tomorrow, a choice. And someone—or something—named Crow already knows about my regression.
He looked toward the end of the corridor, where the mysterious stranger had just disappeared.
Keepers of Time, he thought. The system warned me about them. So they're already here. And they have their own plans.
He tucked the feather into his inner pocket and headed toward the Academy's exit.
Tomorrow's final promised to be more than just a tournament.