Chapter 3—Juggernaut Unchained

“The measure of strength is not in restraint alone, but in what escapes when restraint breaks.”

The clash of wooden weapons and the thud of boots on packed earth faded with the call of a horn. Another round ended. Sweat-drenched students staggered off the field, bruised and limping, while others leaned on shields or wiped blood from split lips.

Carn raised his hand. “Break. Rotate for the next set.”

Randall’s group stepped aside with Maron, victorious but winded. Their opponents trudged to the edge, heads lowered. Randall passed Raiden and Ophelin without a word, but the slight nod he gave carried approval. Raiden knew what that meant—he had to carry his own weight now.

“Next bout,” Carn barked.

Garid’s laugh carried even before he stepped forward. Surrounded by his little entourage, he looked far too smug for someone in the middle of training. His frost-slick blade rested across his shoulder, ice mist curling faintly along the edge.

“Well, well. The Calamity boy,” Garid called, loud enough for the entire field to hear. “Seems fortune’s placed you across from me. Fitting, isn’t it? Wherever you go, disaster follows. I’ll prove it here and now.”

Raiden’s eyes sharpened. As I thought.

Garid sneered, then gestured with his blade toward Ophelin. “First I’ll break the Harg rhino you hide behind. Then I’ll take my time with you.”

Ophelin smirked. “Try me.”

Their second opponent remained silent: a broad-shouldered fourth-year, Rad, who bore not one but two heavy wooden shields strapped to his arms. He was massive—built like a fortress—and his expression was blank. His role was obvious: absorb, endure, wall off.

The last of Garid’s trio stood behind, cloaked head to toe, face shadowed. His hood never shifted even when the summer wind caught his cloak. He raised one pale hand briefly, as if to acknowledge Garid, but said nothing.

Raiden narrowed his eyes. Garid’s wall up front. Himself in the middle. And that cloaked one in the rear. Not a formation for sparring—this is a setup.

At Raiden’s side, Ophelin folded her arms and tilted her head toward Lynda, who stood stiffly behind them. “So, little miss attitude. Still planning to boss us around, or just stand there shaking?”

Lynda flushed scarlet, but her lips pressed thin.

Raiden exhaled and bent close to the two of them. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Listen. Don’t panic. Let them think they’ve got us pinned. When they break formation, we strike.”

Ophelin raised an eyebrow. “Playing cautious? Not like you.”

“I’ll handle Garid. You watch the wall.” His gaze flicked to Lynda. “And you—just focus on her. Back Ophelin when the time comes. I’ll keep you safe.”

Lynda blinked at him, wide-eyed. For a moment she seemed about to argue, but the horn sounded. No time.

Raiden adjusted his grip on his short sword, then went to Ms. Lila for a replacement shield. She inspected his splintered armguard with a faint frown, her fingers brushing lightly over the bruise already forming on his forearm. Her lips parted, as though to speak, but she said nothing, only giving him a fresh shield with a curt nod.

The horn blew again. The match began.

Ophelin took her place at the center of the field, and Raiden followed suit behind her at an angle so that he could clearly see his opponent’s moves.

Garid threw back his head and laughed. “Cowards! Hiding already?” His voice cracked with glee as three ice spears formed in his grip, glistening white-blue under the sun. Mist curled around his boots.

Rad stepped forward, shields raised, his blank eyes locked on Ophelin. The cloaked mage stayed perfectly still, one palm raised toward Garid.

The spears shot forward.

Ophelin slammed her shield to the ground, pummeling two out of the air. Raiden twisted his wrist, knocking the third aside with a clang. His eyes tracked the flight lines—one true at Ophelin, one a decoy, and the last streaking for Lynda.

Lynda froze. Her lips parted in a breathless gasp, her whole body shaking.

Raiden barked, “Ophel, brace! Next wave incoming!”

Ophelin glanced back, reading his intent, and readied herself. Raiden surged forward, planting himself between Lynda and Garid’s line of fire.

The second volley came—five spears this time, three sharp, two delayed behind them.

The first hammered Ophelin. She smashed the straight shot from her chest, but the second came from an angle, striking her shoulder. She hissed, teeth bared, her stance staggered. She barely caught her footing before the third spear screamed toward Raiden’s face.

He deflected it upward, but the delayed pair followed instantly. He blocked one, but the last smashed into his thigh. Pain shot through him, white-hot. The weight behind it wasn’t practice weight—it was heavy, fast, brutal.

Raiden grimaced. This isn’t sparring strength. That cloaked mage… he’s seen real fights.

Garid smirked and advanced. Sliding across thin ice trails, he closed the gap with predatory ease, blade raised. Rad crashed into Ophelin, locking her in a shield bind.

Raiden tried to brace, but Garid’s strike clipped his cheek and sent him sprawling. Sky, stormclouds, the faint echo of a screaming eagle—then ground.

Ophelin roared and shoved back against Rad, but her boots stuck fast—ice locked her in place. More spears rained from above, sharper this time, dozens at once. She dropped to her knees and raised her shield, wood splitting under the force, shards grazing her sides.

Ms. Lila stiffened at the sidelines, taking a half-step forward, her healer’s hands twitching—but she stopped, jaw clenched.

Garid loomed over Raiden. “Pathetic. Needing girls to fight for you. Should I carve your mage first, see if you finally act like a man?”

Raiden twisted, sweeping his leg, knocking Garid off balance just long enough to shove him away.

“Lynda!” Raiden roared.

Her head jerked up, eyes wide, breath ragged. His earlier words echoed: Focus only on Ophelin. I’ll protect you.

Hands trembling, Lynda thrust out her palm. A sudden gale roared across the field, invisible until it caught the falling icicles and hurled them wide. Ophelin gasped as the sky cleared for the briefest instant.

She seized the opening—club smashing into Rad’s knee, once, twice, thrice. The giant buckled, shields sagging. She twisted her hips and slammed her weapon into his arm, the crack of wood on bone echoing. Rad staggered, but still he held.

On the other side, Raiden scrambled up. Garid lunged again, sword high, fury written in his face. Raiden blocked weakly, shield nearly caving, until he caught Garid’s ankle with a desperate kick and shoved him back.

Then Raiden turned and sprinted—not at Garid, but at the cloaked mage.

Ophelin, free from Rad’s bind, caught on instantly. She angled wide, flanking the backline.

“Damn yo-“ Garid cursed, too enraged to think, and charged after Raiden.

The cloaked mage raised both hands. Twenty spears of ice formed in the air, glinting like crystal teeth. He waited.

Raiden closed the gap. The mage flicked his fingers, spears hurtling—not at Raiden, but at Ophelin. She ducked, weaved, her shield splintering under the barrage.

Closer.

The mage lunged forward, cloak parting just enough to reveal—a wooden sword in one hand, wooden dagger in the other. He sprinted straight for Raiden.

Raiden’s instincts screamed. He slowed, braced, ready for the clash. But from under the mage’s cloak, three more spears of ice darted out, hidden, delayed.

Three angles. No escape.

Time slowed. Memories not his own surged—clouds, thunder, an eagle’s piercing cry. And a sidestep, smooth and low.

Raiden dropped, sliding sideways across the ground, mimicking Maron’s earlier movement. The ice spears screamed past, two dissolving, one impaling Garid’s thigh.

The field gasped. Carn leaned forward. So he can mimic…

Ophelin didn’t hesitate. She slammed her shield into the mage with such force he lifted from the ground, cloak billowing, limbs flailing before he crashed, unmoving.

Garid staggered, clutching his wound, trying to form another spear. Raiden hurled his sword, the wooden blade striking Garid’s hand and breaking his focus.

And then Ophelin was there.

She loomed over him, shield raised. His spell fizzled uselessly. Her eyes burned. She struck once. Twice. Thrice. Wooden blows rained, not killing strikes, but heavy, mocking, terrifying in their rhythm.

Garid’s bravado shattered. Terror twisted his face. He threw up his hand. “I—I yield! I—!”

Ophelin’s shield crashed down one last time, inches from his skull. The ground shook. Silence fell.

Carn raised his hand. “Match over!”

Raiden staggered upright, panting, shield arm shaking. Randall let out the breath he’d been holding, muttering thanks that Ophelin hadn’t lost control entirely.

On the sidelines, Maron leaned against her daggers, smirking. “Rough edges. But the boy’s got steel.”

Raiden stood over Garid’s cowering form, chest heaving. Ophelin lowered her shield slowly, her face unreadable, save for the faint quiver in her clenched jaw. For the first time, Raiden felt a flicker of unease—not at Garid’s threats, but at the sheer force Ophelin had unleashed.

The horn blew again, signaling the next bout. Yet no one on the field moved. All eyes were still on the Calamity Child—and the Harg juggernaut at his side.