The Devil of Majes'kil Peak

ISOLDE

This was bad, this was bad, this was bad...!

How? How did Solveig just take it and brush it aside like it was NOTHING?!

And now Solveig was grinning at her like that?

For the first time in Isolde's life… perhaps she felt something akin to fear.

It wasn’t just her predatory gaze or strength…

There was an indescribable aura that was neither magical or physical—but spiritual. It was ancient, it was massive and it was angry.

Then, in a flash, Solveig made her move.

She was like an animal. The speed of a cheetah combined with the intent of a polar bear.

Left, criss-cross, right. Solveig was a blurry silhouette.

Just how fast was she?! She wasn't using any spells at all. There was no hesitation in her step; each step had one goal and one goal only.

To be in Isolde's direct field of view!

"Catch!" she said. "[FIRE: SPARK]!"

"A... a level one spell?!"

The formula, simple as it was, was nonetheless cast.

SHEEWWWW!!

H...

Huh?!

The spell missed Isolde's body completely?!

"What was your game, you commoner scum?!" she cried.

But that, Isolde was about to find out soon enough.

BURST!

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

A blinding white light flashed across her eyes. The spell had stopped short and burst right in front of her face instead.

Isolde felt a rough, forceful kick land from behind. It was involuntary. It was genius.

Isolde's knees instantly buckled.

Isolde needed to get out of here. Cast a wind spell, a weight spell, anything she could use to get far enough away to think.

But it was too late.

She was about to find out just how strong someone as small as Solveig really was.

"Ghhkkkkk...!"

Solveig had wrapped her arm around Isolde's throat from behind, forearm locked in tight, almost lazy about it.

"Fun fact, most people choke wrong. Sometimes people think crushing one's windpipe is enough. But it only causes further unnecessary pain and harm for the victim. Plus, it wastes time. The jugular veins are actually toward the side. But once you get the right angle…"

Stop. Please.

I’m begging you…

So many eyes… viewing my weaknesses…

My pathetic nature…

There for the class to see and realize...

Tears formed, fruitless breaths ungulped, muscles straining and flaying in hopeless struggle…

Solveig choked as hard as she did before…!

"It cuts oxygen near instantly. Did you know it takes about five to ten minutes for your brain to just... die?"

The world...

Going... dark…

But in the oxygen-starved state of her mind…

At some point… it almost felt like bliss…

“ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH.”

Instantly, the pressure valve was let loose.

Instinctively, Isolde gathered the biggest gulp of air she ever gobbled in her life. She crawled on all fours, spit and grime coming out in violent hacks of coughing.

This girl…

This girl…!

She TROUNCED me…!

Made me weak! Put me in my place!

Hehe…

Hehehehe~!

\\

SOLVEIG

Solveig did not expect this outcome. She expected more of a fight. Honestly!

Perhaps Isolde was too arrogant, or maybe she'd simply underestimated her.

She felt Harold's hand come down to ruffle her hair the more she stepped back from Isolde’s collapsed form.

"You have the makings of a killer, you know that?" he said, pitched low enough that no one else could hear.

Why…

Why was he praising the part of her that felt disgusting even to think about?

But slowly, Solveig realized something grave.

She was a killer. Wasn’t she? She'd always been a killer.

But it didn't have to be that way anymore! It couldn't be. She'd promised herself that, back when none of this had started.

But maybe it was time she believed it too.

She could never change. She would never change. Violence had built her, raised her, kept her alive through things she still didn't let herself remember clearly, and violence, in the end, was probably the least of what she deserved in return.

"I… I don't know about makings," she said tepidly.

"Hah. Of course you can, you… wait a minute. So you've…"

"Hehehe… please don't tell anyone," she softly pleaded. "I just want to be a good mentor to Cain from now on, that's all."

For a moment, Harold looked like the most judging person in the world, rivaling even herself.

"...So long as they were bad people, I don't care what your reasons were." Harold grinned. "Cain growing a spine is what we need right now anyway."

Harold turned back toward the observing crowd. "What you just saw was no fluke! It was deadly, unflashy, honest combat! This girl is a TRUE Illustrian! Solveig wins by knoooooockoooouuuuutttt!!"

Just like that, about half the crowd erupted. The other half… what was the opposite of erupted? Imploded?

"Solveig's savagery… knows no bounds! She's a danger to the school!"

"Oh man, Isolde got taken down like five pegs. Solveig… what a fighter! Quick and easy, one two BLAM!"

"Cain's got a mad one on his side."

Harold’s voice soon overpowered the students’ voices combined. “Alright! Show’s over!” He looked down at the collapsed dux-to-be. “Girl, you need a healer?”

Isolde spat on the ground. “I… am… alright.”

“Good.” He clapped his hands once. He flashed a finger gun at Solveig. “You may take custody of Bobby now.”

Solveig didn't even celebrate. She just stood there, lamely, like a statue.

“Now please; let the first period begin already!” Harold boomed. “Oh wait, I should be doing this point thing, shouldn’t I?”

Harold soon lifted his hand in the air, a blue light trailing on his fingers as he crafted the formula.

Solveig’s brows perked up. “What I just did counts?”

Cain nodded. “A-Arena Combating is a form of marked assessment.”

The boy shrank from her as he said that. For obvious reasons, to Solveig's mind.

HRAFEN RANKINGS

1. ISOLDE BLACKMORE: 182 (~)

2. D’IGOLL SHARPCLAW: 160 (~)

RANK UP (+2) -- 13. CAIN CUNNINGHAM: 78 (+10)

“Hey!” Rick cried from the back. “How come Cain gets the points? He just sat back all pretty while the real winner did all the work!”

Solveig fought the urge to blush.

“Solveig ain’t a proper student,” Harold said, deadpan. “She’s Cain’s tutor, ain’t she? Both of them are extensions of the other.”

Rick made a sound that she registered as disgust before sitting down.

“Now pipe down! We’ve already deviated from my lesson plans, and unless you want to suffer for it, shut up and listen up!”

As Harold began, some tight feeling settled around Solveig’s chest and her stomach.

Part of it was due to her mind being her own worst enemy. Again.

The other was the amount of eyes she noticed looking her way. Rick, D’Igoll, the twins, hell—Bobby, with stars in her… his eyes…

The expectations were growing and growing by the second.

Solveig couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

\\

SOLVEIG

They were out of the Grand Hall now. Miriam was still with her, alongside Cain and of course, Bobby.

The rest of class was… fun! Surprisingly… if not for the endless thoughts of doom that sometimes invaded her brainspace.

When Solveig learned about the concept of modern classrooms, she thought she’d be the worst student ever.

But really, it was no different from getting lessons from Uncle Hrafen! Rest in peace…

Additionally, there were no retaliatory forces from Isolde's gang yet, from what Solveig could tell. Which was a huge relief.

“Where to next, Master? Where to next!”

Cain made a peculiar expression. “I—I’m sure Miss Solveig doesn’t appreciate being swarmed like that…”

Solveig waved him off. “Who are you to stop a minion from fulfilling their purpose?”

Bobby wagged his tail and flipped his ears. “No one!”

“Oh, by the gods above…” Cain groaned.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Something in Solveig’s subconscious stirred. Danger. Danger!

Her head whipped toward the source of it.

Her eyes went wide the moment she realized who it was.

The pounding of feet against the marble floor made the whole scene feel unnecessarily dramatic, but honestly, given who was making that sound, it earned it.

What stood in front of her group was several pounds of lean, conditioned-to-hell muscle wrapped in fur, and every ounce of it was aimed squarely at her.

Solveig swallowed. "You're, heh, rather tall, now that I think about it..."

"Solveig," he said.

"Eep!!"

"If that is indeed your real name."

"O-of that I'm sure. One hundred thousand percent!"

D'Igoll's voice was so low it seemed to travel through the ground before it reached her ears, a bass reverberation she felt in her molars before she registered it as words.

"Congratulations on your win. If anyone deserved that humbling, it was Isolde."

It was hard to believe someone like this was her own age, judging from the way he spoke. More like a career soldier than anything else.

"I wanted to speak to you about something." D'Igoll paused. "But first…"

D'Igoll turned to a rather unexpected member of the group.

"Bobby of Aenthwick."

The puppyboy lost his color.

Cain raised an eyebrow. "Was that a title?"

"A title that belongs to one of the last great Houses of the Concordat, yes."

Bobby shivered. "Just about everybody in this academy has a title, don't they?"

"Oh, but yours… yours has implications." D'Igoll's gaze didn't waver. "See, his House has the blood of Progenitor—the demihuman who was the Demon King’s most prized experiment—running in his veins. He was bred for combat. Bobby is not as weak as he likes to present himself. He should be on the frontlines. With me."

The Progenitor?

A favorite of the Demon King?

Could it be…

“Was that Progenitor’s name Number Sixtyone?”

D’Igoll huffed. “Some of our old, outdated religious sects called her that, yes. Why would a human know of any of that?”

“Nothing. Forget about it.”

"Whatever, it is Master—D’Igoll is off his Rut!” Boddy interrupted. “You shouldn’t listen to someone who only thinks to sharpen his claws first before negotiation! He blocked my House’s efforts. We could have negotiated with them. Bought ourselves some time!"

D’Igoll’s nostrils flared. "You'd have signed our death warrants."

"I vehemently disagree!"

Solveig coughed. "Erm… can I ask what this treaty thing is?"

"Bobby would have institutionalized slavery," D'Igoll said flatly.

Bobby growled. "It's a lot more complicated than that, Master." He steadied himself before continuing. "Within every demihuman, in each of us, is a sort of disposition. A disposition of Servitude. It essentially meant not everybody has the same ability to be controlled by a Demon Device."

“And you know what Bobby’s grand solution would have been? Work with the Quadrant to send certain slaves off on contracts.

“Those contracts would have been the reason they would have been still alive. It is a terrible thing. But it gives them rights they would have rather not given! It is not as terrible as extermination!”

“Those chosen by your plans were mere lambs to the slaughter. We have dignity.”

"The enemy was already at our doorstep. What else were we supposed to do?! And now all of us are under their crosshairs." Bobby’s voice cracked. "Because a particular House did one too many terror attacks."

"You call it attacks. I call it retribution."

"It doesn't matter what we think. I don’t think they were terror attacks either. What matters is what the people of the Quadrant think. And you have forced their hand one too many times, Sharpclaw."

D’Igoll sighed.

“Enough. I’m done talking about this.” The larger demihuman leaned his head back to a certain girl. "You know, I've been observing you for a while now. Ever since I first saw you in person." His head lowered, nostrils flaring. "Your scent is... incredibly powerful."

Then D'Igoll did something that did absolutely nothing for the stereotypes surrounding his kind.

Sniiiiiiifffff.

His nose dragged a slow line up her, starting at her collarbone and ending somewhere around her forehead.

KYAAAAA?!?!?!

"There it is,” D’Igoll said, satisfied. “Without a doubt."

"What are we, heh, doubting exactly?"

D'Igoll's eyes didn't blink.

"Why do you smell like dead demihuman?"