The roar of the relentless thud of dodgeballs against walls and shields filled the gymnasium. The game had reached a fever pitch, each remaining student pushing their abilities to the limit. Flames, feathers, dolls, and ice constructs danced in chaotic harmony—a flurry of power that had long since transcended any notion of a “friendly” match.
Iris loosed another volley of flaming arrows, her eyes narrowed with fierce determination. Across from her, Maxwell soared, his angelic wings flaring wide as he darted through the air, effortlessly cutting through any attempts to strike him down. Xavier, stationed closer to the center, maintained a cool composure, manipulating the temperature and, at times, the very concepts of movement. Anya smiled slyly, carving faces into more dodgeballs, breathing twisted life into them. Sarah and Emily worked in eerie synchronization, their mantis-like arms slicing incoming balls in half. Noah, blind but eerily aware, dodged projectiles as if guided by an unseen hand. Ashe and Charles were gone, eliminated in previous skirmishes, but their absence only intensified the determination of those still in the fight.
Amid this swirling chaos, Cynthia stood off to one side, breathing heavily. Her condition had worsened throughout the match, her head throbbed, and the cursed darkness lurking beneath her skin pulsed ominously. She tried to focus, to summon what strength remained, but her vision swam. A sudden rush of movement caught her eye too late, a ball, wreathed in frigid mist from Xavier’s lingering chill, came hurtling straight toward her, thrown by an animated doll-ball that Anya had created.
Cynthia tried to raise her arms, tried to conjure the slightest defense, but her body refused. For a heartbeat, she stood frozen, the ball’s approach reflected in her wide, fearful eyes. It would strike her any second, ensuring her elimination.
Then, a blur of motion. Rook, his tentacle-arms twisting fluidly through the air, leapt in front of Cynthia. He caught the ball with one twisting limb, his grip tightening with remarkable force as he redirected the projectile. The impact reverberated through his body. Yet, even as Rook stopped that ball, another soared in from an unexpected angle, Anya’s cunning was endless. She had thrown a second ball almost simultaneously, a hidden strike intended for Cynthia. Now it zeroed in on Rook instead.
Rook tried to pivot, to shield himself with his tentacles, but he’d expended too much effort saving Cynthia. The ball struck him squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from him. He staggered back, tentacles reverting to normal arms as he dropped to a knee.
“No…” Cynthia managed to whisper, her voice cracking. She reached out as if to pull him back, but Rook smiled wanly, shaking his head.
“It’s alright,” he said, breathing heavily. “I couldn’t let you take that hit, not in your state.” He rose shakily, his posture proud, before trudging off toward the bleachers, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Above the clamor, Mrs. Stone’s voice rang out, “Rook is out!” Her tone carried regret, acknowledging the sacrifice he’d just made.
Cynthia clenched her fists, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. Another teammate gone, someone who had saved her at his own expense. As the match pressed on, the realization settled heavily in her chest. She was vulnerable, a liability. Her curse lingered beneath her skin, waiting to erupt at any moment, and it had almost cost her everything.
Cynthia steeled herself, ignoring the pain throbbing through her body and the sickly heat of her curse. This battle was far from over, and every loss only sharpened the surviving players’ resolve. The lines had been drawn, the stakes raised. Now more than ever, what mattered was endurance, cunning, and the will to protect those who still stood side by side.
Out from Cynthia’s arm, a sudden burst of darkness erupted, caught between a scream and a sigh of despair. It took form as a massive sickle, its blade fashioned from pure void. Feather-like shards of midnight peeled away from it, drifting like tattered black leaves falling from a rotted tree. The gym was immediately filled with a suffocating odor—an acrid stench reminiscent of decaying flesh, as if the very concept of life had turned rancid in that single instant.
The sickle sliced through the air, its trajectory erratic and furious, so swift and unexpected that not even the most vigilant teachers could react in time. Iris, Maxwell, Anya—none of them saw it coming until it was too late.
Then, in a blur of movement, Baal materialized on the court. One moment he was seated, the next he was standing between the students and that blade of darkness. His arm twisted, flesh warping into a grotesque maw that gaped wide. With a sickening crunch, he devoured the darkness whole, swallowing Cynthia’s deadly strike as if it were nothing more than an unpleasant morsel.
The entire gym fell silent, the only sound the echo of Baal’s teeth clacking back into place. Every set of eyes, wide with horror, turned toward the demon who had just casually consumed what felt like raw, weaponized death.
“That attack was too dangerous, even for this game,” Baal said, brushing invisible crumbs of malevolence off his lips. “Do be careful.” Without further ceremony, he vanished back to his seat, leaving behind an uneasy quiet.
Cynthia stood frozen, her arm still raised as if to fling more darkness, her eyes brimming with terror. She had no idea what she’d just unleashed. Her body trembled, tears welling up and threatening to spill over her lashes. She clutched at her cursed limb, uncertain and panicked. “What… what was that?” she managed to choke out, her voice thin.
On the sidelines, Mrs. Stone’s voice quavered, struggling between concern and curiosity. “Baal, what did that attack taste like to you? It… it looked so strange.”
Baal tilted his head, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Death,” he answered softly, each syllable resonating with grim finality. “Not the mundane, natural death known to mortals. This was death infused by a power akin to my own—an authority type ability at my level. Far too potent for a mere child to wield.”
Ivan let out a nervous laugh, though it lacked any real humor. “I thought Cynthia was supposed to be one of the normal ones. Looks like I was wrong,” he said, trying and failing to lighten the mood. The truth was all too clear: something had awakened in Cynthia, something monstrous and beyond her control.
Cynthia’s tears finally escaped, rolling down her cheeks as she realized the horror lurking inside her. Her teammates looked on, unsure how to console her, or even if it was safe to approach. Sensing opportunity, Anya took full advantage of the chaos. She swiftly animated multiple dodgeballs, each now a snarling doll under her command, and flung them at Cynthia, seeking to eliminate the fragile girl before she could regain her footing.
Far away, in the distant future, Superbia smiled, his crimson hair swaying as he turned to regard Future Iris. His draconic eyes gleamed with vicious amusement. “The Dead Face is starting to awaken,” he purred, savoring the words. “A true massacre is about to occur.”
Future Iris’s voice rose in desperate defiance. “No… no! I won’t let you succeed with your damned plans!”
Superbia chuckled, a dark melody of malice. “She’s not at her breaking point yet, dear Iris. She’s in that perfect middle ground, where she can still cling to some semblance of control. Just before the hunger within consumes her completely.” He burst into laughter, the sound sending chills down Iris’s spine, even across time and space.
The game in the gym and the twisted machinations of gods and devils now converged toward a single, terrible moment. Cynthia stood on the precipice, balanced between humanity and monstrosity, while forces beyond mortal comprehension watched and waited to see which way she would fall.
A flicker of something inhuman crossed Cynthia’s face—just for an instant, a mask that shouldn’t exist winked into being, as though reality itself hiccuped. In that same instant, the dodgeballs hurtling toward her dissolved into shredded rubber, their remains dropping to the floor in foul-smelling scraps that reeked of rot and decay. The stench sent shivers through the onlookers, and a hush fell as Cynthia staggered backward, blood trickling from her nostril. She looked pale, unsteady, as though she’d just wrested a piece of some terrible force and barely kept it leashed.
From the sidelines, Mrs. Stone’s voice trembled with concern. “Sir, are we certain she’s stable? None of us have any idea what’s happening right now.”
Jonathan’s gaze never left the unfolding scene. “I don’t know. Baal, if this spirals out of control, end the game immediately. For now, we observe.”
Baal inclined his head, his golden eyes narrowed. “Of course,” he said, quietly pleased at the chance to intervene if needed.
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Wallace, rubbing his temples and looking more haggard by the second, sighed heavily. “Are we getting paid extra for this? My gut’s telling me everything is seconds away from going to hell.”
Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “We’ll have to see,” he said, each word measured and tense. The atmosphere had grown suffocating, as if fate itself hovered on a knife’s edge.
On the court, Maxwell sprinted toward Cynthia, worry etched into his features. “Cynthia, are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice cutting through the tension like a lifeline.
Cynthia forced a smile, though it wavered. Her skin looked ashen beneath the harsh gym lights. “I’m… fine,” she managed. Her voice shook slightly, betraying her uncertainty. “If I were too dangerous, the professors would have ended the match already.” It sounded more like she was trying to reassure herself than anyone else.
Maxwell nodded firmly, resolve burning in his eyes. “I’ll end this game quickly, so you can rest.” Without waiting for a reply, he stretched his wings wide, plucking several dodgeballs from the air with his feathers. The balls hovered around him like a small planetary system, each one ready to be unleashed.
With a swift motion, Maxwell fired them off in rapid succession, a barrage raining down on the opposing side. Students scattered, powers flared, and chaos reigned as everyone tried to evade the assault. There were several close calls but miraculously, no one else was struck out.
No one except, ironically, Wallace, who yelped as one stray ball smacked him square in the forehead. “Ow!” he complained, clutching at the spot. “I’m not even playing!” The surprise of it forced a snort of laughter from a few on the sidelines, a momentary break in the tension.
But the laughter died quickly. Everyone knew the danger was far from over. Cynthia stood trembling, uncertain and unstable, Maxwell hovered protectively nearby, and across the court, rival students prepared their next moves in silence. The game had become a powder keg of raw power and frayed nerves, waiting for the slightest spark to set it ablaze.
Balls whirled through the air in a chaotic symphony of speed and force. The floor was littered with remnants of shattered projectiles—scorched scraps from Iris’s flames, fractured shards from Maxwell’s devastating strikes, and frost-rimed fragments where Xavier’s chilling influence had stilled them in mid-flight. Every student darted and dodged, each vying to maintain their position in this deadly dance of power and cunning.
Off to one side, Noah stood oddly calm, cradling a single dodgeball in his arms as if it were a fragile glass ornament. Blind as he was, he scarcely seemed bothered by the surrounding frenzy. If anything, he appeared amused, waiting patiently, listening to the roar of powers clashing and the rush of air displaced by passing missiles. He didn’t so much as flinch, even when a flaming arrow from Iris hissed past his shoulder. Noah’s tranquility was unnerving—he was a snake coiled in the tall grass, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Meanwhile, Maxwell hovered above the fray, his angelic wings beating steadily to keep him aloft. Around him, a constellation of dodgeballs floated at his beck and call. He’d launch them in arcs of terrible precision, each attempt aiming to corner an opponent or force them into a disadvantageous position. Sometimes he guided the balls with subtle nudges—other times he hurled them at full force, daring his adversaries to survive his ruthless assault. The flicker of hypercognition danced behind his eyes, allowing him to predict movements, exploit openings, and counter-attacks before they were even fully formed.
Iris battled below, her bow of flame drawn taut as she loosed volley after volley of blazing arrows. Each arrow left a streak of scarlet light as it soared through the gym, igniting the air with sparks. She aimed to corral the enemy team, forcing them to scatter rather than mount a collective offense. Xavier, not far from her, worked in tandem, calling forth gusts of freezing air and subtle manipulations of concepts. When flaming arrows threatened to be overwhelmed, he’d conjure a frigid barrier—when he saw a moment of opportunity, he’d freeze an oncoming ball mid-flight, robbing it of momentum.
Anya lurked behind a veil of cunning, her eyes darting over the chaos. She carved faces into new balls whenever she could snatch one, infusing them with crimson orbs that granted them wicked pseudo-life. Her dolls scampered across the gym floor, snarling and snapping at ankles, forcing opponents to waste energy dispatching them. She avoided direct confrontation, preferring to set traps and ensnare her foes with distractions rather than risk facing them head-on.
The twins, Sarah and Emily, were a whirlwind of coordinated violence. They called out to each other in clipped phrases, sharing signals only they understood. Their mantis-like arms, grown from their bodies, allowed them to slice through oncoming balls, deflecting strikes meant for their more vulnerable teammates.
Cynthia hid behind Maxwell, struggling to maintain composure. Her earlier slip, the burst of darkness and rot, still lingered in the minds of those who saw it. She fought to keep herself stable, fingers trembling, eyes darting around nervously. She knew something inside her threatened to erupt once more if she lost her focus.
A streak of blue and white flashed through the chaos—Xavier gliding across the floor, each step trailing a thin layer of frost. He paused momentarily to freeze an incoming ball that threatened Iris’s flank, then flicked his wrist, sending it spinning harmlessly aside. Though calm and collected, Xavier’s brow was slick with sweat. Managing these subtle manipulations took a toll, especially under such relentless pressure.
From the bleachers, Jonathan and the teachers watched intently. The tension was a tangible thing. Baal sat poised to intervene if Cynthia lost control again, while Mrs. Stone bit her lip, concerned for every student out there. Fate and Eden, from their distant vantage, exchanged anxious glances, and Pandora reveled in every dramatic twist with a manic grin.
Maxwell seized a moment of advantage, diving to snatch another set of balls and hurl them upward, creating a lethal downpour of rubber missiles. Iris fired arrows in tandem, forcing the enemy team to dart back and forth, their formation fracturing under the relentless assault. Noah’s ears twitched as he finally moved, raising his ball and hurling it with uncanny accuracy. His target, was Xavier, who stood a bit too close to Iris, focused on intercepting another deadly round that Maxwell had thrown.
Xavier sensed the motion too late. His attention had been on freezing a Maxwells barrage. He caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision—a ball coming in low, from an unexpected angle. He tried to twist away, to raise a hand and halt its advance, but he’d overextended himself. His powers dulled for a fraction of a second—just enough time for the dodgeball to slam into his side with a resounding thud.
The impact rippled through his body, and a chorus of gasps rose from the watchers. Xavier staggered, shock painting his features before he clenched his jaw. For a heartbeat, it looked as though he might shrug it off—then the realization set in. He had been struck. He was out.
The gym fell eerily silent as Xavier stepped off the court, his head lowered in quiet acceptance. Each footstep felt heavier than the last, the roar of combat and shouts of strategy fading behind him. He reached the bleachers, slipping into the ranks of those already defeated, his shoulders slumping with something like relief. It was over—for him, at least.
Mrs. Stone approached, her voice warm and gentle. “You did incredibly well, Xavier. I’m proud.”
But Xavier, true to form, didn’t bother to respond. He simply let himself drift into slumber, folding into the comfort of the seat, heedless of praise or reproach. Mrs. Stone couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh at his nonchalance. “I wouldn’t expect anything else,” she said, shaking her head in affectionate exasperation.
Across the temporal divide, in the distant future, Superbia watched the scene unfold as if through a pane of distorted glass. He lounged with an air of easy confidence, every detail of the present game relayed to him with uncanny clarity. With a knowing smile, he turned to Future Iris, who hovered close by, tension coiled in her every muscle.
“Would you like to make a bet?” Superbia asked, his tone smooth and deceptively casual.
Future Iris’s eyes narrowed, a spark of defiance igniting behind them. “That depends on what we’re doing,” she said warily.
“The rules are simple,” Superbia explained, steepling his fingers. “Predict which student will be eliminated next. A little game within the game, if you will. If you win, I’ll let you warn your past self on the bomb that is Cynthia.”
Future Iris’s voice dripped with disdain. “And what if I guess wrong, you damned devil?”
Superbia’s grin widened, revealing fangs of possibility. “A fair question. Offer me something of equal value. Something I’d find… interesting.”
Iris’s lips tightened. “I don’t know what you’d want—you already have everything.” Her words carried an undercurrent of bitter truth, acknowledging his vast power and influence.
“Good point,” Superbia said thoughtfully, as if mulling over the finest dessert on a menu he owned. “I suppose I do. But I have an idea. If you lose—” his eyes gleamed with sadistic delight “—you’ll become my bride. A king needs an heir, after all.”
The proposition landed like a hammer blow. Future Iris’s fury flared bright and hot. “You bastard, go to hell!” she hissed, summoning a burst of flame from the ether, hurling it towards Superbia’s smug face.
Superbia merely snapped his fingers. The flames flickered, glitched, and vanished as though they had never been. He smiled, as if amused by a child’s tantrum. “Oh my dear Iris,” he purred, “how many times have we played out this scene? You should know by now how it ends. I always have the upper hand.”
Rage rolled off Iris in palpable waves. She wanted nothing more than to rip that grin off his face, to undo him in ways he couldn’t imagine. But she knew better than to lash out blindly. Instead, she choked down her fury, letting it simmer into resolve.
“So, what do you say?” Superbia asked, leaning forward, his crimson hair cascading over one shoulder, his draconic eyes glittering with dangerous glee. “Care to play?”
Iris bared her teeth, her voice seething with venom. “One of these days I’ll make you a eunuch, you damned bastard.” She spat the words like poison darts, then took a slow breath, forcing composure. “Fine. I’ll play,” she said, each word weighted with reluctant determination. “And I’ll win.”
“Splendid,” Superbia said, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. He gestured grandly, as though inviting her to step onto a grand stage.
Iris’s eyes blazed as she prepared to name the next victim of fate’s cruel game. Her mind raced through the remaining players, weighing their strengths and weaknesses, all while feeling the noose of this twisted bet tighten around her neck.
“Fine I choose…”