Through The Fire

“BEGIN!”

Sylas’ hand dropped. The duel began.

Minato stepped back immediately, widening the distance between himself and Darian. The noble’s smirk spread like slow poison as he opened his stance and addressed the crowd.

“What’s wrong, commoner? Why so scared?” Darian called.

Minato kept his eyes on him and did not answer. Darian raised a finger; a pale magic circle sprang to life at his fingertip, glyphs turning with smooth motion.

“I wouldn’t block this if I were you. Miniature Sun: Tenfold.”

Heat flared before the beam arrived. A narrow column of fire shot toward Minato. He started to block, felt the raw force in the attack, and instead rolled cleanly aside. The blast hit the floor where he had been standing, cracking the tiles outward in radiating fissures. Dust kicked up. Darian laughed, amusement sharp in every syllable.

“Hah! Running away? Minato, tsk tsk, that won’t do.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, taking his time. “Do you see it now? You could never match me, street rat. Now then dance for me, COMMONER!”

Beams followed. They came in quick, disciplined bursts; Darian’s hands conducted them like an orchestra. Minato moved around the arena, sliding over scorched stone, ducking, angling his body so the attacks passed overhead or missed by inches. He avoided most of them, but the floor betrayed him: a tile shifted underfoot, a seam he hadn’t noticed. One of Darian’s beams sliced through the gap and struck his left bicep.

Pain lanced up his arm. He went down hard, cursing through grit as blood ran, warm and immediate. Shadows snaked from his sleeve and wrapped the wound, cool and tight, stopping the worst of it. Minato forced himself up, jaw clamped, scanning Darian with narrowed eyes.

Darian’s smile widened at the sight of him hurt. “Minato, poor Minato. For this duel I swallowed every mana enhancer I could stomach. I’ll cripple you and make sure you never think of using magic again.”

He held out his palm. Glyphs spun faster now; something older and heavier condensed into the centre. Embers gathered and folded together until they formed a small, black sun, roiling and packed with heat.

“You remember this one, don’t you?” Darian said. “The same move you miraculously protected others from. Let’s see how you handle it face-to-face. VULKARIS ORIGINALITY: COLLAPSING DAWN!”

The black sun fell. Minato barely avoided the full impact; the blast threw up tiles and grit in every direction. The force knocked people off their feet in the nearest rows. Smoke and dust filled the arena; the first wave of coughing rippled through the crowd. Rowan’s hand tightened on the rail; Tristan’s jaw was a hard line. Isolde raised an umbrella against the grit and glanced at Caius, whose grin looked a touch too eager for comfort.

Darian’s voice cut through the haze. “Minato, you’re a crazy bastard, aren’t you?”

He waited for an answer that never came. “Show yourself, commoner! Bow and apologize, and maybe I’ll show mercy.”

Figures moved in the smoke. At first the crowd thought they were stray shadows, but those shapes resolved, one by one, into humanoid silhouettes. Ten of them rose from the dust, perfectly still, made of dark, matte shadow. Thin threads no thicker than a hair ran from their shoulders and limbs up to Minato’s hands.

Silence hit the stands like a physical thing. Faces went blank. Even some of the nobles who had been certain of Darian’s victory drew back a little.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? SINCE WHEN COULD YOU DO THIS? ANSWER ME, MINATO!” Darian shouted, stepping backwards.

Minato’s lips twitched into a small smile. He stepped forward, his hands steady with the strings attached to the figures. “What’s wrong? Surprised? This is my newest creation. Dance of Ten Shadows: Act One.”

The marionettes moved with smooth, mechanical precision. They attacked in waves not wild, but coordinated, limiting Darian’s ability to focus a single devastating attack. He flailed with fire at them, but every figure burned away into smouldering ash and reformed almost immediately from the threads attached to Minato’s fingers. For everyone destroyed, another took its place.

Sylas’ eyes narrowed. He leaned to the side and made a subtle signal. Darian saw the chance and smiled cruelly, escalating without hesitation.

“How about one more, Minato? COLLAPSING SUN FULL FORCE!”

The ground detonated beneath them. Tiles flew up like broken teeth. Dust and smoke billowed into a choking cloud that filled the arena, forcing the front rows to stumble back. The heat beat against Minato’s face and lungs; he coughed as he was thrown upward by the blast. The marionettes broke apart in the blast, but where smoke roiled, threads still trailed back to his hands and reassembled his constructs.

When the dust cleared enough for shapes to be seen, Minato was in the air. Shadow gathered along his spine and exploded outward into wings not two, but four sets, broad and layered. He pushed up and hovered, the wings catching light and shadow as they moved.

“Angel’s Regalia: Archangel,” he announced calmly.

Darian froze, mouth open. “Last time I saw you you only had two wings. Explain yourself. Do you just enjoy mocking me, Minato?”

Minato looked down at him. “Oh shut up, right here and now I’ll crush you without mercy.”

He dispersed his lower wings. Feathers sliced the air and circled Darian like a small, controlled cyclone. The tips hardened into quills on contact and scored the noble’s skin shallow cuts, but enough to draw blood. Seeing his own blood seemed to crack something in Darian.

“AHH! BLOOD! IT’S MY BLOOD! HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME BLEED, YOU BASTARD? I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL FREAKING KILL YOU, MINATO!” Darian screamed, fury and confusion mixing into raw panic.

Beams slashed back and forth. Minato formed a shield with his wings, feathers clamping together until they glowed faintly at the edges where Darian’s magic struck. He held the line, every muscle tensed.

“Darian, you’re pathetic,” Minato said, voice even. “Just look at yourself. I almost feel sorry for you.”

The words hit harder than any magic. Darian’s face contorted. “You feel sorry for me? You, a commoner, feel sorry for me, a noble? Why is this happening? Someone tell me why!”

He clawed at his arms, fire licking at the wounds he made himself. The motion only stoked the flames; his magic, driven by rage, spiralled out of control. Screams tore from him as the flames surged, uncontrolled. The barrier Sylas had ordered in place shuddered under the strain.

At the crowd’s edge, students scattered. Someone screamed; others began yelling for help. Sylas’ grin evaporated and was replaced by a hard set to his jaw.

A pillar of flame shot toward the stands. Minato did not hesitate. He dropped between the blast and the students, catching the fire with his wings and taking the heat meant for them. Smoke stung his eyes; his breath came ragged, but the students behind him scrambled to safety.

“This is between us, Darian,” Minato said, voice loud enough to cut through the crackle. “Leave the other students alone.”

Darian seethed. “Minato, this is your fault!” he spat. He called fire again and again; each attack and counter burned minutes off Minato’s stamina. Feathers caught and flared; some singed and fell away.

Minato fell back to the ground, panting. He folded his wings in when they no longer held against the heat. “I can’t use the marionettes or my wings right now,” he thought, glassy-eyed and calculating. “Those flames are too fierce. I’m not fast enough to knock him out without being burned.”

Darian reappeared in front of him like a vengeful force and launched a point-blank fireball. “Pay attention, Minato!” he yelled.

Minato raised a quick shield, but the blast slammed into him and threw him toward the edge of the ring. He crashed, skidding over a stone and forced himself up on shaking legs. His left bicep already pierced before opening again, trickling blood. He swallowed bile and steadied himself as best he could.

“Damn it. Not now, body,” he muttered.

“MINATO! SHOW YOURSELF!” Darian called, raw with need.

Minato pressed his palm to the ground to steady himself. He could feel the crowd’s agitation, the students’ fear, and Sylas’ mounting horror. He counted breaths, slowing his heartbeat, letting the world narrow until a single target remained in his mind: one shot.

The arena around him was chaotic. People were being evacuated. Seniors stayed, believing they could handle danger; some first-years were being helped out. Sylas looked like a man for whom plans had gone wrong. Isolde watched quietly, umbrella against the settling dust, expression unreadable. Caius stayed, leaning forward with that same intense interest.

The smoke thinned. Darian staggered into clear air, his skin split with burning fissures, and an Archana glow appeared on his forehead. He howled like someone who had lost a tether to sanity.

“MI…NATO!” he screamed.

Opposite him, Minato knelt. Shadows wound around his left arm and a rifle-shaped construct had been attached to the limb, fixed by cords of darkness to his body. His right hand gripped the stock to steady it. He looked pale, his breathing heavy, but his eyes were steady. He had poured most of what he had into this single weapon.

“Shut up already… your yelling’s giving me a headache,” Minato said quietly, almost conversational, the faint humour sharp against the tension.

He fed the last of his mana into the rifle, into the shadow threads, into his will. Time thinned as everyone in the stands felt the same little hitch of a collective intake of breath. Even the headmaster leaned forward. The arena fell into a hush so deep that the wind sounded loud.

“Get ready, Darian,” Minato said.

Darian rushed, flames coiling around him. Minato whispered the invocation and then shouted, “Phantom Arsenal… MIDNIGHT CALIBER!”

The rifle fired. The report was a single, absolute sound. The round punched through the space between them with clean, terrifying force. Dust and stone burst outward from the blast, and the impact sent Darian flying across the ring. He hit the far wall with a heavy thud that broke stone and made the ground shudder; a shallow crater marked where he landed.

Everything stopped for a heartbeat: smoke hung midair, the echo of the shot rolled through the arena, and then the silence shattered into a roar. The crowd erupted, some with triumphant cries, some with frightened shouts. Rowan and Tristan collapsed, hands over their heads, then cheered breathlessly. Isolde lowered her umbrella slowly, face unreadable. Caius’ grin at last turned into something like real awe.

Minato let the weapon dissolve back into shadow. His knees trembled, and his sleeve was dark with fresh blood. He exhaled, a long, ragged sound.

Across the ring, Darian did not move. The duel was over.

Against the odds, the sabotage, the enhancements, the crowd, and Darian’s rage Minato had done what he needed with a single shot. Victory arrived not loud but exact. The arena filled with noise: cheers, sobs, a few scattered curses. Minato allowed himself a small, tired smile, then lowered his head and felt the cost of what he had used.