The day of the first simulated bout.

9 a.m.

Lance walked with War Magic Class 1 to B3 of the Experimental Building, steps echoing like drums in a cavern.

The place lay under a tainted haze, yet opened like a bright temple under cold dawn light.

The opposing class and the referee panel waited there, still as statues under watchful lamps.

The rival class was Guardian Arts Class 2, with the transfer recommendation student known as the Rose Knight.

She smiled with a face dark as ink, and greeted Lance like silk hiding thorns. “Lance, good morning~~”

Trouble prickled like nettles; courtesy smoothed it like warm tea. “Madam Walz, you look lovely today.”

Reina’s shadowed face deepened from gloom into carved despair, like frost spreading over glass.

She wore a porcelain smirk and breathed knives. “Yes~~ As Madam Walz, I’ll try my best to split you and Yuna today~~”

Lance’s fists tightened like iron bars, yet his tone poured like honey. “As the Blazing Fire Knight, I’ll stop all crime. I hope you’re not part of it.”

Three lines lit a fuse, and gunpowder thickened in the hall like storm-smoke.

Anxious air filled the vault like winter fog, pricking skin like sleet.

The referee panel spoke, voices like gongs. “Pre-match pleasantries end here. Announcing the format.”

With those words, hearts leapt to throats like startled birds, and silence rippled like a pond.

War Magic and Guardian Arts spoke for themselves, like thunder and stone.

War Magic thrived on fast casting and agile shifts, like lightning skipping over water.

Guardian Arts hardened through fortitude and protective wards, like granite under a shielded sky.

Their strengths lay in different fields, like wind in some sails and sand in others.

So the specific format would tilt the board, like a river’s course favoring one shore.

Half a minute dripped away like wax from a candle.

The referee panel finally declared, voices cutting like knives. “The format is—”

“Ball tossing!”

A ground basket dropped with a thump, like an altar set on a battlefield.

“Rules. One: toss from your zone’s yellow line center into your own basket. No crossing in any form.”

Two yellow lines flashed out like twin snakes across a dusty floor.

“Two: balls are different colors. At time’s end, higher count of one color in a basket wins.”

Outside helpers rolled in two big tubs of volleyballs, red and blue, rattling like fruit carts.

“Three: you must stay in your own zone. No violent harm. No casting at the opposing team.”

Rules settled like seals on parchment. The air felt caged like a beast.

“Ten minutes to start. Some rules take effect now. Prepare well.”

Seconds ticked like raindrops, steady and cold.

Spectators gathered like a tide, faces bobbing like buoys on a crowded sea.

Because of Lance’s bet with the Frost Knight, the crowd swelled like spring flood against a dam.

Heads packed like seeds in a pomegranate, voices buzzed like a hive.

The bout hadn’t started, yet necks craned like reeds, chasing the wind of results.

“Hey, senior, who’s got the edge?” The question fluttered like a sparrow.

“No need to ask. Guardian Arts,” the senior said, arms crossed like a closed gate.

“Why?” Curiosity pecked like a small bird.

The senior’s calm sat like a stone in a stream. “I smell rigging—ball tossing fits Guardian Arts like tailor-made armor.”

“How so? I don’t quite get it.” Doubt hung like mist.

“Look. If Guardian Arts score first, they pile on wards like lids. Then no ball from the other side gets in.”

The junior laughed like a bell. “I bet on the Frost Knight to win. You?”

The senior wore a bitter melon face, long and sour. “Damn it! I bet on the Blazing Fire Knight!”

Tension simmered like a pot barely covered, steam fighting the lid.

Their analysis rang true, clear as a struck string.

Ball tossing hurt War Magic like sand in gears, heavy and unfair.

War Magic Class 1 groaned like winter wind under eaves, low and bleak.

Some felt the match lost before the whistle, like night decided before sunset.

Jasmine, the discipline captain, played parent and coach, warmth like a blanket over cold shoulders.

Before the bout, she soothed. “Don’t lose heart. We’re War Magic Class 1~!”

Jasmine pointed to speed like sparks from flint. “We cast faster. If they plan to seal the basket, we rush a first score and win!”

Hope rose like lamps in fog for many.

Lance doused it like rain on embers. “Impossible. If the thrower is the Rose Knight, we won’t beat her to it.”

Truth came like steel on bone—clean and cold.

Lance was an aura-type knight, a blade wrapped in flame.

Reina was a qi-refining knight, a body honed like tempered spring steel.

They weren’t on the same physical tier, like falcon versus fox in a sprint.

Reina’s raw physique outstripped Lance, like river over brook, fast and full.

Understanding cut hope like frost, and faces fell like leaves.

“Then do we just surrender…” The words sagged like a wet rope.

Lance wagged a finger like a willow twig, and his smile tilted like a crescent moon. “No.”

Confusion rustled like dry reeds. “Why?”

Confidence lit his voice like a torch. “Because we’ve already won.”

They felt the logic wobble like a table with one short leg.

“Won? What do you mean?” Questions chirped like crickets at dusk.

Lance smiled like sunrise. “You’ll see.”

Ten minutes ended. Whistles sliced the air like arrows. Both sides took positions.

Tension burned hot, bright as coals in a brazier.

The referees scanned both sides like hawks, then dropped the flag like a falling leaf.

“The bout begins!”

Boom!

Almost with the crack of a gun, Reina sprang from beyond the yellow line, blue ball arcing like a comet.

The ball slammed the basket’s floor, then pinged off inner walls like a trapped bird, finally settling like a stone.

Before the ball stopped, Guardian Arts layered protective wards over the basket mouth like trash-can lids stacked tight.

The sequence flowed like water down slate, smooth and inevitable.

The crowd erupted like thunder, claps rolling like surf.

War Magic students tried to break the wards, but wrong tools struck wrong stone, and nothing gave.

Lance spread his hands like open skies. “See? Just as expected.”

An afro-haired announcer appeared like a kite dropping into a square, voice bright as brass. “Whoa, is the Blazing Fire Knight drooping? Is Red giving up?!”

Reina took the mic, words sweet as perfume and sharp as glass. “Give up, Lance! Your luck’s rotten. You can’t win this simulation!”

Lance snatched the mic with a grin like a cat’s. “We’re not surrendering.”

He pointed at the crowd like a conductor calling a crescendo. “Watch me.”

“Binding Flame Lock!”

He knelt, palm to the floor like a seal on stone. A fire dragon shot from the basket like dawn through clouds.

The rising flame cradled the blue ball and lifted it out, like a tide carrying driftwood past a reef.

With the ball out, the basket sat empty like an open bowl.

The crowd roared again, amazement sparking like fireworks.

The announcer’s eyes nearly popped like marbles. “What?! The Blazing Fire Knight can do that?!”

Behind Lance, classmates yelled with joy like boys after a goal. “As expected of the Blazing Fire Knight! He did what we couldn’t! We’re in awe!!”

Red boiled and cheered like a kettle fit to burst.

Blue sank into tight silence, heavy as storm-earth.

Wards are one-way gates, like windmills that turn only with one wind.

If Blue blocked balls entering, they couldn’t stop balls leaving, like water slipping out the drain.

A miscalculation cut like a knife. Relief bled away like warmth from hands.

No one, Reina included, had expected Lance to pull that flaming lever.

Blue warders hesitated like deer at a river, eyes flicking to Reina.

“Madam, should we drop the wards—so you can score?”

Reina’s shadowed stubbornness sat like iron in ice.

She said first, voice clipped like a chop on wood. “Don’t drop all. Leave two to block entry.”

Then she weighed Lance’s trick like a scale. “Use the rest to block exit.”

“Understood.” Obedience fell like snapped chalk.

Mana in the arena shifted like wind changing across a lake, ripples fanning out.

Eyes locked on the basket like arrows set to flight.

The afro-haired announcer hammed it up, arms windmilling like sails. “Whoa! Blue changed tactics. But now neither side can score. What’s their plan?!!!”

Reina took the mic, voice lazy as a cat in sun. “To score, of course~!”

Then—she launched another jump throw from outside the yellow line, body cutting air like a blade.

This wasn’t just a throw. She bared her killing move like a rose with hidden thorns—Battle Aura Rose.

“Watch!” Her shout cracked like a whip.

The ball left her hand plain as a pebble. In the blink after release, it burst into petals like a rose in wind and vanished.

A miracle hung in air like starlight. The crowd shot to their feet like grass after rain.

“Unbelievable—?!!” The announcer’s afro nearly flew like a startled bird, wobbling on his head.

A breath later, petals drifted and pooled in the basket like a blue tide filling a bowl.

The petals reformed into the blue ball like clay finding its shape again.

The hall inhaled together and settled like a flock taking roost.

The announcer pressed his afro down with both hands like a cap, sweat beading like dew. “N-no wonder she’s a kingdom prodigy. That Battle Aura art’s finer than most spells.”

Lance tried again, a fire snake surging like a river to tip the ball.

Blue had armored the mouth like a fortress. Seven of ten wards faced inward, smothering any surge out.

The fire snake battered glass, but heat met stone and faded like spent embers.

Flame trapped in the basket thinned like smoke, then vanished like a sigh.

Only one blue ball sat inside, like a single eye behind bars.

The crowd’s hopes pulsed and fell like waves under a moon, wan and slow.

Time bled away like sand through fingers.

Blue’s confidence climbed like a hawk on a thermal, steady and arrogant.

The announcer rang his words like a judge’s bell. “Ooh~~! Red’s got no way in. Keep this up, Red’s losing!”

Lance grabbed the mic, voice like a blade drawn under sun. “We won’t lose.”

The announcer mirrored the crowd’s doubt, brows knit like tangled thread. “Why?”

Lance’s conviction hit like drumbeats. “Because I’m the Blazing Fire Knight. That’s Red’s one reason—and it’s enough.”

His tone surged like surf; doubt shrank like crabs into rocks.

Yet the facts glared like noon. The basket cradled one blue ball like a sealed pearl.

Under ten seconds remained, ticking like nails on wood.

By the rules, Blue would win as clean as a bell.

Reina held the mic, words drying like rain turning to dust. “Lance, you’ve lost it.”

Many thought Lance had snapped, like a string pulled too far.

Maybe he couldn’t face parting with his beloved maid, and refused the tide, like a rock defying waves.

Lance spoke steady as a cliff. “We won’t lose.”

He struck almost in the same breath as the final whistle, timing like a falcon’s stoop. “Because we’ve already won!”

At that cry, the blue ball’s color faded like dusk and bloomed red like dawn.

Every eye widened like doors flung open. Minds lagged like slow horses behind the cart.

The referee’s words fell like snowfall. “Simulation over! Checking results now.”

Several mages descended from the referee stand, robes swishing like streamers.

They lifted the ball and inspected it like jewelers, turning it in light.

One raised a hand, voice clear as a bell. “Only one red ball in the basket. By rule—Red wins!”

The arena erupted like a volcano, smoke and joy rising in the roar.

Red hugged and shouted like a spring festival, hearts bright as lanterns.

Reina and her team stood lost like winter birds with no wind, scattered and cold.

The announcer fussed with his afro for a long breath, fingers fluttering like moths.

He reached the podium and offered the mic like a goblet. “Tell us—how did War Magic Class 1 win?”

The question echoed like a drum, shared by most minds in the hall.

Lance’s answer flowed like water. “They focused too much on putting the ball in.”

“Too focused on scoring?” Doubt hung like fog.

“Yeah. The moment I pulled their ball out, they’d already lost.”

A replay flickered like a lantern in the dark, showing truth in slow light.

While everyone burned their gaze on the basket, Jasmine and a few students turned one red ball blue, then hid it with a stealth weave like mist.

They slid it, unseen, into Blue’s tub from afar, placing it in an easy-grab spot like a fruit at the lip.

Recognition dawned like sunrise. The trick proved simple and cruel as gravity.

The announcer sighed and shook his head like a bell’s last note. “As expected of War Magic Class 1. As expected of the Blazing Fire Knight. Against joint strength, Blue’s loss isn’t unfair.”

Reina took the mic with hollow eyes, voice brittle as frost. “Three real blue balls and the disguised one sat in easy spots. Why assume we’d pick the fake?”

Her question stirred the crowd like wind in wheat. Probability glimmered like dice in a cup.

Four balls in reach meant a one-in-four pick, like drawing lots from a bowl.

A mere twenty-five percent isn’t certainty, like clouds that may or may not rain.

Lance answered like a mountain speaking through a valley. “A fierce belief can bend fortune.”

He smiled, light as fire on oil. “They believed in me, Lance Morrison. They believed in the Blazing Fire Knight—so we won.”