Winning looked simple. Beneath the calm, schemes lurked like an undertow.

First came the floating platforms of the water park—no plastic gleam, just rough-hewn raft boards, wood dark with spray like soaked bark.

On paper, each raft held four like a small pier under morning mist. In truth? Different story, like ice that looks thick but cracks underfoot.

They had five minutes to prepare, ripples ticking like a wet hourglass. On Blue’s side—Lance’s side—an apprentice tried a solo jump.

His foot hit the board; momentum shoved the raft down like a seal diving. Waves heaved; the platform bobbed like a skiff in chop.

The rocking went wild—before he found his balance he went “waaah”—splash—into the cold, the sound popping like a burst bubble.

Blue and Green watched, laughter rising like scattered birds, yet a bitter pit sat in every gut like unripe gourd.

Obvious as noon sun—standing up there was hard. Unless you moved like the Blazing Fire Knight, a rash leap meant waterborne “death.”

Someone drooped like wet laundry. “There’s no way across at all!”

“No. Not quite,” Lance said, voice steady as a plumb line.

“Did you forget you can cast?” Lance reminded them, his tone a bell on clear air that drew every gaze like swallows to a wire.

“Levitation... right?” one apprentice mumbled, voice thin as smoke.

“Isn’t Light Skiff better?” another cut in, sharp as a blade flashing.

Not everyone knew that higher spell. Second Battalion Commander Jasmine advised, cool as shade, “Use Levitation later, all of you.”

The assertive apprentice stayed bristly. “Why unify spells? Isn’t Light Skiff better?”

Fair point, like a clean stroke. Let high-tier casters spearhead, the other three follow—on paper, the river seemed placid.

Lance didn’t argue. He pointed at the sprawling water park, lanes long as silver snakes.

He indicated the channel, a ribbon of green-blue. “How many times can you cast Light Skiff?”

“I can—” he started loud, then thinned like wind. “Four times.”

“But with a mana potion!” he insisted, clinging like a leaf in current.

“Those cost a fortune, right?” Lance loosed words like arrows one after another. “Once we start, how do you drink it? How do you carry it up there?”

Silence fell like a damp towel.

Exactly so. To steady a raft, they needed simple, low-burn magic, like a steady flame instead of fireworks.

So the Level 1 telekinetic spell—Levitation—became the shared choice for both Blue and Green, as obvious as oars to a boat.

But with Levitation chosen, a thicker knot tightened like wet rope.

“How do we move forward?” a timid voice asked, soft as drizzle.

Right... how to advance. Everyone knew Levitation could float an object; with fine control, it could steady a raft mid-jump like a hand on a bowl.

But to keep it steady, someone had to hold the spell, like a lantern never set down.

That meant: when Student A leaped from Platform A to Platform B, someone had to cast on both—two hands holding two bowls.

A and B were separate bodies, bobbing like two corks, so two of B, C, and D had to maintain A and B.

Put simply—

To move across two rafts—

All four had to relay the spell like a baton, passing steadiness back and forth like breath.

It tested craft in the fingers and trust between hearts, timing like drumbeats across water.

This course hid blades in its foam; its demand for teamwork cut deep, a fatal net if you slipped.

Facing that wall, Blue sagged like sails in a dead calm.

Lance looked at the long faces, sighs heavy as fog. He said, warm and still, “Easy. We’ll make it.”

His voice was a winter sun—thin warmth, bright hope, a pale light that still draws buds to open.

The gloomy faces eased into smiles. “True. You’re the Blazing Fire Knight.”

Yes... the Blazing Fire Knight. The title flickered in every mind like a banner in wind.

They believe in me—Lance Morrison—first came the warmth, then the thought. They win because they believe in the Blazing Fire Knight.

No logic to it, like fire warming snow—yet—

“We will win,” Jasmine said with a spring-bright smile, petals opening after frost.

Her smile spread like dawn. Confidence surged like a tide; the gloom washed clean, leaving stones shining.

“Even so,” someone asked, doubt like a thin cloud, “how do we pick the crossing team?”

The rules were clear as a gong strike: one person falls, the whole squad fails.

They could come back and send a new team, but time would slip away like sand, far behind the other side.

So the starting lineup mattered, a bowstring tight in every chest.

From the judges’ dais came a prompt, crisp as a whistle: “Five minutes to start. Blue and Green, take your lanes.”

Green—Stephen the Unyielding Knight—had long chosen his squad, himself the spearpoint like iron at the tip.

Their four stood brimming with intent, confidence written on their faces like ink on paper, while Blue still weighed the scales.

Blue clenched their teeth, nerves taut like harp strings; no one felt sure about the weave of coordination.

“Lance, it’s your call,” Jasmine said at last, like handing him the helm.

“Yeah. Listen up...” Lance set the starting four and laid out the winning path, a route through waves like a line drawn in the sand.