On the arena, two prodigy girls stood eye to eye: one sober as granite; the other twirled golden hair like sunlight, gaze blazing with absolute confidence.

“Have you packed your bags yet, commoner?” Her words cut like frost on glass.

“No need for that!” The reply snapped like a spark in dry straw.

Skela bristled; her grimoire snapped open, tension humming like drawn steel ready to sing.

“Then let me witness your resolve.” Her voice rang like steel under dusk.

Mira leveled her blade; mirror-bright steel caught her beautiful, icy eyes. “Under the Eyes of the Sumalt gods, I swear by blood, order, and law—”

“—in the fight to come, I’ll pour in all my strength and respect like a full tide.”

As their voices finished in unison, they moved together, like twin arrows loosed from one bow.

“Nénar pilin (Water Arrows).”

Skela’s fingers left azure sigils like ripples; her chant hardened them into arrowheads ready to fly.

In mere seconds, over fifty water arrows hovered above Skela like a school of piranha.

A thought could launch them anywhere; enter her range and meet a porcupine’s fate.

Mira didn’t care; her feet tapped light as swallows, yet power surged, and in a blink she halved the gap.

Skela’s pupils tightened; her left hand touched the array’s heart, and half the arrows whooshed to carpet Mira’s path.

She’d gauged Mira’s escape lines; the girl would have to take the hit—so Skela thought.

Mira dipped low; a violet-blue lattice of lightning flared underfoot, and she stepped on air, accelerating again.

Water arrows combed her golden hair; she slid into close range and lunged at Skela with lightning-quick steel.

So fast—like a hawk stooping.

The blade tip was about to pierce her badge; panic hit first, action second.

Skela’s slender fingers closed; the array shattered, and missed arrows yanked back, flipping midair toward Mira’s back.

At once, the remaining arrows wedged between Mira’s sword and badge, then swelled and burst like overripe fruit.

Blocked up front, arrows at her back, Mira finally slipped aside like wind through reeds.

Mira stayed light and composed, a willow in a storm; Skela used the blast to scramble for distance.

Her ever-present hat spun away, and shallow cuts bloomed on her face and clothes like red petals.

Her own spell did it; when Mira slipped the arrows, they shaved past and nicked Skela in passing.

Yet that was the best outcome; without it, Skela would already be down, like a candle snuffed.

Up close with Mira’s terrifying speed, Skela’s breath scattered like leaves; she slapped her cheeks back to focus.

No—can’t fold. If she quits, she fails the abbess who sent her to Holywell Academy, and she fails Adelaide, who worries for her.

Resolve settled like stone; Skela wiped blood from her cheek, and her grimoire opened again like a black wing.

She set her stance, spirit rekindled, and looked up—catching a crescent rise at Mira’s lips.

The sunset cast shadows across Mira’s face; only Skela saw a brief softness there, like mist over steel.

For a heartbeat, warmth rose—maybe Mira had acknowledged her, like a lantern lit.

“Still want to continue, commoner?” Her voice dropped cold as frost.

The frost snapped Skela back. The softness vanished with the shadow; Mira stood again like an arrogant thundercloud.

It had to be a mirage. Skela cast it off and snapped back, fire under her words.

“Of course. You still owe Adelaide an apology!”

Her mouth was bold; her body tightened with nerves like a drawn bowstring.

She’s a ranged caster; against a close-quarters mage like Mira, the ground tilts like a steep slope.

If she keeps bursting mana to escape, she’ll burn out first, like a lamp draining oil.

Looks like, to win, there’s only that option left, the last card of winter.

Skela eyed the water-beaded blade and set her resolve, quiet as snowfall on stone.

She knew the next clash would decide it, like a single stroke naming fate.

Her voice spilled in weaving pitches; slender fingers traced paths exactly inked in her book.

Wood-aspected mana budded as pale green motes; Mira moved in the same breath, sharp as a gust.

In less than a blink, their gap collapsed into the sword’s radius, like tides meeting.

Skela swept her hand; green motes sprouted branches, a wooden shield blooming between them.

A breath later it shattered under Mira’s blade, but the heartbeat won let Skela step back and finish a second spell.

“nixëtarwa (Frost Field)!”

The arena’s temperature plunged, enough to prickle skin like early snow.

Mira didn’t care and readied to chase—then her face changed; her sword moved slower, like wading through slush.

Layered ice crystals had climbed her blade, unseen; clothes, hair, the badge on her right arm now wore white frost.

—It worked!

As an ice variant of water magic, Frost Field doesn’t drain heat; it flash-freezes moisture within range like winter snapping shut.

“You can’t control water in her body; but if Mira steps into your field, she’ll feel it.” Adelaide had offered a towel and counsel, warm as a hearth.

Skela had thought a moment. “So, area magic is my only edge?” Her doubt hung like fog.

Adelaide had smiled, wiping sweat from Skela’s brow, eyes bright with starry expectation.

“No. Your greatest edge is freedom—the freedom to use any magic.” Her words rang like a bell.

Yes—her greatest strength was being unaligned, a sky without borders.

As Mira slowed, Skela’s chant rose high like a lark. Pages tore from her grimoire, shredding to confetti.

They burned fiercely midair, coalescing into three colossal serpents of fire, scales rippling like embers.

Mira drew back to guard, but the fire serpents didn’t rush her; they lunged for wooden shards and swallowed them like furnaces feeding.

Next moment, the serpents visibly swelled, releasing heat so fierce it warped the air like desert mirage.

Her earlier firefield barely spanned five meters; now waves of heat rolled from the trio, turning the arena into a boiler of molten iron.

Combo magic: fire unlocks energy stored in wood, sparks birthing a blaze greater than sum of parts.

That’s the strength of multi-aspect mages; with the right pairing, combo spells do twice the work for half the strain.

But this alone wasn’t enough; the storm still asked for thunder.

“raima cala (Web of Lightning).”

The fire serpents struck in a flash; Mira stepped aside, slipping past each angle, and leaping, she still had breath to chant.

Before she landed, one serpent was chained in crackling links; with a sweep, she slit another’s throat with her lightning-lit blade.

The conjured serpent hit the floor without a sound, dissolving into motes, leaving the caster exposed like prey in moonlight.

Clearly, fire-plus-wood alone couldn’t threaten Mira. Only—

—Crack.

Metal split with a crisp sound; Mira glanced at the badge on her sleeve, while Skela’s smile flickered like flame.

Her combinations didn’t stop at fire and wood; her palette was the whole sky.

For most, two affinities are rare; more than three is a unicorn on a misty ridge.

It means most can only weave a few set combos alone, hands tied like knots.

But Skela wasn’t most—she was unaligned, a genius; with “extreme” affinity to all, those limits didn’t exist.

If she wills it, any elements can be strung together, like beads on one thread.

For example: water and ice to chill metal fast, then fire and wood to heat it in a blink.

Thermal shock makes it crack; exactly what’s happening to Mira’s badge, lines blooming like frost.

The badge’s material isn’t rigid, and its curved shape is fragile like a shell.

The heat won’t harm mana-shielded Mira, but the freshly frozen badge has split, the fracture spreading like creeping ice.

The ticking cracks are a timer; Mira has one strike at most before her badge shatters.

Mira knew it; her expression hardened, calm gone like a smooth lake before storm.

Near-white, ultra-dense lightning bled from her sword tip—her strongest strike yet was coming, thunder at the horizon.

But if she blocked this one, she’d win; Skela braced, breath held like a drawn string.

The last fire serpent threw its body before her; her grimoire flipped to a defense page like a shield unfurling.

But change, sly as a fox, crept in then, under the roar.

Eyes onstage and off fixed on the duel’s center; none saw the serpent bound by lightning still swelling.

Its mouth was shackled; heat couldn’t vent; pressure tore flame-scales, puffing it up like a spiny pufferfish.

Then, as Skela began her chant and Mira crouched to sprint, it reached its limit.

Before sound arrived, searing red light flooded the eye, dawn exploding across stone.

The serpent burst; compressed mana erupted like a volcano, a crimson mountain broken open.

Most jets fired upward and dispersed to raw mana before landing, sparks dying into cold air.

But one mass flew sideways—dense as magma, lightning trapped within like caged stars.

It punched through the ring’s barrier and screamed toward Adelaide at the student council seats.

It should have happened in a blink; in Skela’s eyes, the disturbance stretched into slow motion, like honey poured.

She’d heard crises make time feel slow; was that why? Doubt fluttered like moth wings.

No—impossible. Everything was too slow; the explosion’s sound stretched raw like torn cloth.

Human reflexes have limits; not like this, not beyond bone and breath.

This level of anomaly pointed to one thing, a single bell tolling in the mind.

—Time Domain.