JARKATA

Past | London — Magic Academy, Classroom 1-5

Rain patters against tall, lead-framed windows. Outside, first-year mages unsteady fireballs at iron dummies. Jarkata stares through the glass, shoulders slumped, boots tapping out a silent rhythm of boredom.

Faces blur together in the classroom— until the door bursts open.

Celeste strides in. Raven-black hair pinned back with a tiny skull, a simple black dress flowing over mismatched stockings— one crimson, one black. She stops at the front, crimson eyes scanning the rows.

“The headmaster thought it brilliant to let me teach you.” she says, her voice sharp. “Most mages are not worth teaching.”

Whispers scatter through the benches.

“But I’ll give you one chance. Answer a single question and I might take you under my wing.”

“Strongest battle-mage alive.” someone murmurs.

“If we answer right…” Another leans forward, wide-eyed.

Jarkata yawns.

Celeste taps the desk once. The entire room falls silent.

“What’s the one thing a mage absolutely needs to grow truly strong?”

A nervous boy raises his hand. “K-Knowledge, ma’am.”

“Good guess— wrong.” She smiles, cold. “In battle, knowledge is dead weight if you can’t force it into reality.”

Jarkata’s eyes flicker, interest finally kindling.

Celeste paces, fingertips trailing sparks across the wood.

“I’ve mastered red magic, blood magic, black magic, and death magic. Yet on the battlefield, no one cares what I know. They care what I do. Damage and utility— nothing else matters.”

She stops. Her voice slices like chalk across slate.

“Define evolution in the context of modern spellcraft.”

A timid apprentice in the front row raises a hand. “Evolution of magic means… being stronger— making something new.”

Celestia’s smile is thin ice. “Incorrect— or rather, incomplete. Evolution is the only reason our kind still breathes. The day humans forge a weapon efficient enough to erase us, unadaptable mages will die first. Any mage who resists change is not a mage at all— just wasted potential.”

Murmurs ripple through the students.

Celeste’s eyes sweep to the back row. “You— orange hair, slouching like you’d rather be anywhere else. Enlighten us.”

Heads turn toward Jarkata:tousled orange hair, half-lidded eyes, full with boredom. He shrugs and speaks, voice steady. “Ideals. Without them a mage is empty.”

Laughter spikes. “Ideals? How quaint.” someone whispers.

Celestia lets the noise rise— then drops a single word: “Shame.”

Silence falls like a guillotine. “He’s right.” she says. “Evolution keeps us alive. Ideals push us beyond the possible. The hunger to know everything, the vow of absolute freedom, the doctrine that only the strongest may rule— whatever banner you carry, never betray it. Abandon your ideals and your magic will collapse.”

Jarkata’s brows lift; a crooked grin tugs at his mouth. A low, menacing chuckle escapes him, drawing a few uneasy glances.

Celestia meets the grin with a subtle one of her own. “Your name?”

“Jarkata.” he answers, sitting a little straighter.

“And your mage name?”

“Cerbaz.”

Her eyes gleam. She inclines her head, then murmurs her own mage name— not aloud, but woven directly into his mind like silk pulled through a needle.

Shock ripples through the room.

“Did she just reveal her mage name…to him?” one student hisses.

“…to that orange-haired freak?” another finishes, wide-eyed.

20 Years Later | England | Library | Chamber

A single candle burns on the desk, wax dripping like blood onto parchment scraps. The fireplace crackles, shadows flickering across stone walls. A medieval rice sack hangs from the ceiling, torn and dented, swaying like a punching bag.

Jarkata sits cross-legged on the floor, black pants and undershirt clinging to sweat-soaked skin. His orange hair sticks to his forehead. In his hands: a worn book titled The Right of the Strongest.

The door creaks open. Celeste enters barefoot, her black nightdress thin, hair cascading down her shoulders, red eyes reflecting candlelight.

“Scholar.” she says softly.

“Try to sleep. That endless pounding on the sack is... irritating.”

Jarkata looks up, a tired smile cracking his face. “Then fight me.”

Her eyes soften. “The right of the strongest. Simple. Effective. But…” She kneels beside him. “Jarkata, your virtue was never to fight the strongest. Or to be the strongest.”

He stares at her. “Then what is my virtue?”

She touches his cheek. Her fingers are cool, trembling. “If I died by a strong enemy’s hand… would you follow him?”

Jarkata shakes his head. Once.

“But if your ideal is strength above all— you should follow him ”

“I’m honest, Celeste.” His voice breaks. He glances toward the frost-laced window where moonlight bleeds into shadows. “I want— I want—”

Silence.

“I want this beauty. The beauty of the real world. Not the illusions mages create. Not realms. Not empty crowns. I want to feel the rain, taste the wind, live every moment like it matters. Is it battle? Is it knowledge? Is it death? I don’t know. I just want this world— and myself— to keep living.”

Celeste’s smile is soft, weary. “But mages, humans, supernatural beings… we are the cause of instability.”

Jarkata rises, towering in the candlelight. “Then I’ll stop the instability. If someone strong helps this world heal, who am I to cut him down? But if that strength is used to burn it, to break the peace it gave us…”

His hand clenches around the book.

“I will erase him.”

Celeste lays a hand on his shoulder, warm and proud. “You’ll die in regret because people are selfish or led by maniacs. The selfless never gather followers. The just are crushed by those who lead with fear. You’ll die to an enemy that will never satisfy your justice.”

A bitter laugh escapes him. “Who said I will die? I still plan to beat you in a fight.”

“You still need to learn.” Celeste murmurs.

“I know.” His eyes drift back to the window. “But listen… I won’t regret dying. Because I’ll die trying to protect what I believe in. This world is too beautiful to hate. And if I must risk everything— even sacrifice the innocent— for peace— I will.”

The Time Domain

Äon hovers above the dunes, white organic wings twitching, tendrils folding like breathing cloth. Beside him, Doppelgänger crouches— a constantly shifting shadow, its human form unstable, limbs melting and reforming like smoke.

Jarkata raises his fist toward the heavens. Lightning dances across the sky, reflected in his amber eyes, pupils twisting into the shape of a clock.

Äon’s arm morphs into a pale hand, reaching out.

“Take my gift, Cerbaz.”

Jarkata’s lips crack into a jagged grin. “I will be victorious.”

Their fists meet. Light explodes.

Jarkata’s body ignites in white fire, thunder rippling from his skin. His pupils spin— clock hands ticking.

“Zeitverzögerung—fünf Sekunden.”

Across the dunes, Kibo raises his own fist, shadows bleeding from his knuckles.

“Doppelgänger—Kopie.”

The shadow figure floats forward, touches Kibo’s hand. Darkness curls around them. His amber eyes ignite. His body glows with an all consuming power.

Kibo exhales, voice like a blade. “Back to basics. Our hands, our feet, our bodies— the oldest weapons in the world.”

Tic. Tac. Tic. Tac. The unrelenting ticking of the timer.

Jarkata moves. A flash of lightning. His right fist smashes into Kibo’s face, snapping his head back, skin splitting, bone creaking.

Kibo’s counters— his fist slams into Jarkata’s cheek.

Pain. Blood. Blurred vision.

Jarkata only grins.

His left fist drives into Kibo’s gut like a cannon.

Kibo mirrors the blow, ribs cracking under pressure.

Jarkata feels nothing.

Kibo launches a kick—but Jarkata meets it midair. Bones snap. Pain floods in.

Kibo stumbles back, panting.

“Argh— what are you!”

Jarkata’s eyes gleam, clock-hands spinning. “You can copy me all you like but no copy adapts like the original.”

He snaps his fingers again.

Kibo’s left eye bursts into red dust. A ring of light opens in his gut. His leg shatters a heartbeat later with a sickening sound.

He falls, blood spewing out of him mid-air— but Jarkata doesn’t give him the chance. Äon dives, a blade forming from his wing— white, singing, arcing toward Kibo’s neck.

Doppelgänger intercepts, limbs twisting into cables, blocking the strike in a flare of shadow.

Jarkata leaps high— fist glowing— descending like divine judgment.

“I thought you were worth the trouble.”

Power coils in his knuckles, light pulsing.

Then— everything stops.

Pain.

It blooms in Jarkata’s eye, in his guts, his leg, everywhere. Cracks web across his skin like lightning.

His fist flickers.

Kibo rises— barely alive, body broken, blood dripping, bones jutting under torn skin. His remaining glowing eye burning.

“Maybe you’re right.” Kibo rasps. “I started to think. You said you are nature’s protector. Tell me— if nature really needs to be protected, why doesn’t it adapt?”

Jarkata’s gaze hardens. “What are you talking about?”

Kibo’s jaw crunches back into place, blood dripping as he smiles.

“I need an ideal. No— I have one ideal. I will adapt. I will protect every innocent soul I encounter.No casualties. No madness. None of it allowed.”

He steps forward, broken but burning.

“I. WILL. DEFY. EVERYTHING.”

Lightning cracks above.

“UNTIL MY ENEMIES ARE DEAD.”

His laughter echoes through the desert like a war cry. His promise to the world.

Jarkata narrows his eyes, his pupils spinning. His voice is quiet.

“So you want to protect the innocent… the souls that never wanted this fight.”

His stares blankly, time itself pausing seemingly pausing with it.

“Then show me, Ryushin. Show me if those words are real— or just the noise of a dying man, doomed with me.”

Kibo glances down— blood dripping from the slow-healing wound in his gut. His eye healing slowly. The timer is nearly done. Its ticking unbearable for Kibo.

He can’t keep playing time anymore.

He ignites a golden flame in his palm, screams as it sears the wound shut. Smoke rises.

But Jarkata moves— blinding speed, faster than sound, faster than light itself. A blur that almost looks like teleportation.

Äon and Doppelgänger close in behind. Their shadows boiling against each other.

Kibo’s flame sputters. His wound is only half-cauterized.

Jarkata appears before him, fist glowing with lethal brilliance.

“Zeitverzögerung—Null.”

Kibo’s eye flares. “Zeitverzögerung—Null.”

Pain floods him as he lunges forward. Screaming with his fists flying into Jarkata’s belly:

He is punching as hard as he can. His hand cracks.

More punching. Now his arm splinters.

Even more. His hand fractures, bones giving in.

He keeps at it. Until his arm breaks and shards of his bone tear through his skin as blood begins to gush again.

He stops— gasping— staring at Jarkata’s torso.

Perfect. Pristine. Untouched.

Kibo’s whispers. “You’re kidding me…”

Jarkata raises his fist slowly, fully wrapped in pale flames, the air around it falling into a cacophony of noises.

He drives it forward— slow and heavy, almost imperceivable movement.

Kibo can’t dodge as the blow lands.

His chest caves in. More bone shatters. Blood fountains. His heart seemingly stops.

“I… can’t… lose…” Kibo gasps as he collapses in the sand.

Jarkata snaps his fingers.

“Release—Null.”

Jarkata's blow is doubled the moment his magic releases.
It’s tearing Kibo’s chest even wider, splitting even more of his body apart. More blood covering the ground. Jarkata staggers, coughing blood, as bruises start blooming on his stomach.

He wipes his mouth and looks at Kibo’s corpse.

“You were strong… Stay proud. Ryushin— we’ll meet again in the afterlife.”

He turns to leave, wind swirling around him.

“Now… double-check.”

He looks up. The final seconds of the timer are ticking down. A soft hum rises in the desert.

Looking back, Kibo’s shadow vanishes.

“Celeste… I hope you can handle it. He was strong. Maybe I really won’t survive this fight… I’ve sacrificed too much of my lifespan but I will leave this domain and I want to tell you something before I die.”

Behind him— a sound. A ragged gasp. Foot dragging on sand..

Jarkata turns sharply. Kibo is standing again.

Chest blackened, flesh ruined across his entire body, bones exposed on his skin. Eyes burning, wild and unbroken.

Jarkata stares. “Impossible… You should be dead? Why are you still standing?! This spell is absolute! The timer is long over!”

Kibo lifts his head. Pain and defiance twisting his expression, voice a roar:

“CERBAAAZ!”

His body is shaking, mangled, collapsing into itself— yet he keeps rising, step by step.
Above them the timer turns:.

Red— Then Blue.

Jarkata’s eyes widen. Deep breath followed.

“...It’s impossible… You… copied Todeszeit…”

The air hums, lifting the sand around them. As the blue light arc between them.
The final duel has begun.