The announcement landed without suspense, like a stone dropped into still water.

Once the crowd heard the battleground was the domed peak behind the Academy, guesses drifted like snow on a stiff breeze.

The rules allowed non‑offensive interference, and hearts wobbled like leaves in a winter draft.

Lance looked over Warfare Class One; worry showed on their faces like a thin frost.

He kept his voice light, a sun‑glint on ice. It’s a long run, you good?

Jasmine blinked, her tone crisp as a bell. As a discipline officer and a near‑mage after two years, she answered for them.

Right. Long‑distance movement built for combat is our craft, like rivers trained into spears.

It isn’t about raw stamina; half our spells are made for it, like wind tucked under your feet.

A Lightbody Charm makes you light as a swallow; an Enduring Body spell hardens strength and grit like packed snow.

Put them together, and a hundred miles in a day feels like a level road.

Warfare Class One could cross the Domed Mountains like stepping over low walls.

By that measure, Blue side should take the third mock duel, a fire set to easy tinder.

They didn’t drink blind optimism. Unease still etched their brows like knife marks in ice.

The class leader spoke, a bell tolling through fog. The rules allow spell attacks that don’t harm. That favors White over us.

What do you mean? Lance asked. Inside, Fulin had already guessed, but caution clenched first, then speech followed.

The leader pointed to the ground and lifted his boot, leaving a deep print in the snow, a dark oval in white silk.

See this snow? he said, power gathering at his fingertip like a warming ember.

He cast a Warmth Spell on the print. Heat pooled in the hollow like spring water under a crust.

The footprint turned to slush. He stepped and slid, like a boot in a mud pit—like hitting a banana peel on bare stone.

He skidded wide and had to brace with a hand, or he would’ve hit the ground hard as iron.

I see, Fulin thought, eyes narrowing like shutters in wind. In small things, magic here has big teeth.

If White pulls that while we climb, what if we slip off the mountain? the leader voiced, worry rising like a chill fog.

It’s a problem, Lance said, steady as a post, but we can do it too, can’t we?

Jasmine sighed, a thin plume in the cold. We’re Warfare; they’re Elemental. Specialties diverge like forked streams. We don’t match them in elemental spells.

Right, Fulin concluded, thought settling like snow. We own the long‑run edge; they excel at interference.

By the rules, Blue and White stand neck to neck, two blades crossed in still air.

Then the key is relay order, Lance said. Where we place our weight decides the climb, like picking stones to cross a river.

Mm. Jasmine nodded. Droplets born of melted snow slid from her braided knot and glittered like tiny stars.

Like the old racing trick, the first and last legs matter most, the leader said, a chess piece set on the board.

Blazing Fire Knight, do you run first or anchor? he asked, the question hanging like a bell note.

It’s a twenty‑kilometer relay—four legs of five kilometers, one shared track like a single riverbed.

Lance has Blazing Raid, a strike art that rides the air with Battle Aura, like flame roped to wind.

If he runs first, he hands the next three a head start, dawn breaking on their path.

Finishing ahead on the same track means our later runners might avoid contact, shadows never touching.

They’d dodge enemy spells and play to our strengths, like sailboats catching clean wind.

But White could counter by putting the Frost Knight second, a shard of winter set midstream.

It’s a snow‑mountain home field. Frost Knight moves like a hawk in a blizzard, cutting through white.

Even if Lance crushes the first leg, White’s later runners might still catch up, like the tide crawling back.

If they reel us in on the second or third leg, we lose the lead, and the rhythm slips like a drumbeat broken.

Once the lead drops, they seize the tempo, cold hands on the reins.

So first leg gives a huge spark, but their targeted plan could snuff us out like wind over a candle.

It’s too critical to leave to chance. Fulin wanted her own hand on the key, resolve iron‑dark.

I’ll run anchor, Lance decided, voice steady as forged steel.

Relief rippled through Warfare Class One, mixed with a soft hush of disappointment, like warm air meeting snow.

Knew you would, sir Knight, the leader murmured, half a laugh steaming into white breath.

Settled, Jasmine said, resolve bright as ice under sun.

She lifted a pale hand. Cold had pulled color from it, but not strength, not the tightness of her fist.

Fists rose, ringed and touching. A spark skittered through the circle, and gloom blew out like smoke.

Voices fused into one flare. Even without reasons, will burned. We will prevail!

The audience watched, puzzled yet moved, like pine boughs bending under fresh snow.

As a knight‑recommended student, Lance’s unruly shadow loomed in their minds like a storm cloud.

A rise like legend, two dazzling mock duels, and that recent arson case—yet he stood untouched, ember‑bright.

So this is the Blazing Fire Knight… one spectator sighed, voice thin as smoke.

After the sigh, the scene fell under a complicated hope, like clouds layered over a pale moon.

As if by pact, the crowd kept silent and prayed without words, a hush that felt like snowfall.

May the Blazing Fire Knight bring another impossible win, they wished, hope coiled like a spring.

Without Blue’s flame‑hot mood, White stood severe and mute, a field of hard ice under a gray sky.

Seeing Blue’s surge, the Frost Knight snapped, A bunch of idiots! His voice cracked like black ice.

His anger froze the air within three meters, and the wind, already knife‑cold, bit deeper like fangs.

For many reasons, the Frost Knight never lacked loyal hands, followers gathering like ravens.

An Elemental Class One apprentice knelt on one knee, like a knight before his lord, snow dusting his boot.

Lord Julius, he said, worry and unease leaking through his voice like thin water. What do we do next?

Do as I say. No matter their play, they’ll lose this mock duel, the Frost Knight replied, words hard as hail.

Understood, the apprentice said, bowing like a reed in the wind.

The judging mage announced, Preparation is over. In three minutes, pick your four runners, his tone ringing like a gong.

Line them by relay order, front to back. Form two teams and stand before me, he added, hands cutting the air.

Three minutes later, the referee eyed the two lines of eight and nodded, chin dipping like a pendulum.

Follow the inspection mages to your relay points along the mountain road, he said, voice smooth as ice.

Once the runners headed uphill, staff raised a giant standing curtain in the cleared field, canvas billowing like a sail.

Vultures carried as familiars served as lenses; a crystal orb blasted prismatic light onto the cloth, a rainbow hammered flat.

Like flipping channels, the screen alternated between the four legs of both sides, images fluttering like banners.

The audience got their live broadcast, eyes lifting like sparks.

First‑leg runners already stood at the start. The other three rushed to their handoff points, feet beating like drums.

A world robed in silver streamed past like turning pages, the view flying fast as a hawk.