Micah limped over to the bench, snatched up his bottle, and knocked it back. The room temperature water made him choke and he broke off with a grimace, then cast a spell before he tried again.

Ahh, much better.

It didn’t help that so many of their [Mages] preferred fire. They were two-thirds through the school year, they should have learned other elemental spells by now, but no, of course they had to use fire. His throat felt parched and his skin bristled for it.

Stupid [Mages].

“Hit me,” Myra said, holding her bottle out next to him.

Speaking of.

He frowned at her and wiped his mouth. “Not for a second do I believe you don’t know an ice spell.”

She rolled her eyes. “I need my mana.”

The implication being that I don’t?

“To breathe fire at people?” he asked, but threw a cloud her way. It was a rhetorical question. Unless in the mood, he knew she was too impatient for banter.

“Sorry. Thanks.” She didn’t look at him as she said it, waited a moment, and took a swig of her drink.

It was especially unfair since if they used fire, Micah couldn’t use the new tricks up his sleeve. And he’d practiced.

He still felt like he was recovering from his leg, five months later. Or maybe he was struggling to keep up either way. There were only a few kids his age, most had some sort of combat Path or formal training, and his few levels in [Fighter] didn’t make up much of the difference.

But he still tried to his best, just to keep up as the others improved just the same as he did.

He took a deep breath of chilled essences to fill his lungs and the flimsy few veins he’d managed to cultivate by now, and his body cooled from two points outward. For a moment, it felt like something had gone down the wrong pipe, but he pushed the feeling aside and it faded.

Out on the field, Ryan walked a form. With every other strike, flames guttered from the tip of his spear and burnt out. They slowly became more shapely as he practiced, now and in general.

If he did that too often, he’d become a [Spellblade] instead of a [Ranger], Micah knew, but he alternated often enough to prevent that. Training, spells, and fields of study. He really was going for it.

Half the workshop kids had projects they were working on by now or fields they were looking into. And he? What was his specialty? Was there anything he preferred or tended to in his works?

Idly, Micah twisted the ring on his finger, frowned, and tugged at it on a whim. It hit his knuckle and stopped. When was the last time he’d taken it off? A few days ago?

He remembered it getting stuck in his hair in the shower. Ryan had almost refused to help. A wonder he had been there; he used the guild showers, the ones with the stalls, most of the time nowadays after jogging. They barely saw each other in the mornings anymore, with their different schedules and everything.

Maybe they should start going jogging together again when they had the time, or … maybe Ryan could come with on his runs? That might be weird though, since Micah was technically working.

He pulled again, but the ring was really on there. He didn’t want it to grow on him like a wedding band, but … later. He’d probably need butter or something to get it off, and he needed it for combat training now.

Plus, he would have to buy something to put it on first, right? What would he even get? A necklace? Wristband? He ran through different options in his mind when Mr. Sundberg clapped.

“Alright everyone, listen up. Gather ‘round. C’mon,” he coaxed them closer. “You know you have to fulfill one final exam for this course. We’ve discussed the rules of proper tournament fighting at length, so you better have remembered those, because that’s exactly what we’re doing.”

A … tournament? Micah frowned as he walked up with the others, still pushing aside thoughts of cool accessories like older guys wore. Ryan didn’t, though. He wondered why or if he could buy him something.

An enchanted wristband to replace the one he’d lost?

“A bracket tournament,” the man said, as if correcting his thoughts, “following the actual rules.”

Wait, wouldn’t that mean that everyone could use Skills like [Fire Breath], not just Myra when their teacher wasn’t looking too closely? He already struggled enough against the others, if they got any worse …

Besides, wouldn’t that mean they would need personnel for wards and emergency first aid?

Mr. Sundberg swept his arm out to the far side of the gym where a small group of strangers sat. They were a mixed group and looked to be in their mid to late twenties. The oldest, a man, was in his thirties at best. One had a bulky bag that looked like a first aid kit and reeked of potions, metaphorically speaking.

He’d wondered about the group of adults in the gym, but none of them had dared approach because … well, they were strangers. And they had better things to do, like run laps or spar.

Now, they made more sense.

“And with that in mind, I would like to introduce you to a few guests from the Guild. Ms. Braden and Mr. Gelvez will be sitting in our lessons to observe for the rest of this school year. And Ms. Lindt and Mr. Nadeau will be overseeing the safety measures for your matches. Treat them with the same respect as you would me or any other teachers at this school.”

The group came over to introduce themselves in person, the two observers a little more reserved as they stood back.

‘Observe’? Micah wondered, mistaking the meaning for some kind of evaluation at first. But no, the two looked too young for that. They seemed almost shy. Maybe … new recruits? They would need new teachers come next year, when the number of students doubled.

But they looked too young for that as well. Their youngest teacher was probably Ms. Jo and she still had a career behind her. Would these even be high enough level to avoid education Classes?

Micah didn’t know if he cared.

Apparently, the other two were Guild employees who had volunteered to do this three times a week for some reason, instead of exploring the brand new Tower. He couldn’t wrap his head around that one either, but he only listened with one ear anyway. He was still stuck on thinking of ways to handle this. If his final grade in the course depended on how well he did against the others and he was already missing one grade from when he had broken his leg …

He needed to do well, in all his courses at this school. He didn’t have the luxury of failure. How the hell was he supposed to win against all of them?

Suddenly, each of his classmates became an enemy to be assessed and overcome. Even— Ryan? He frowned, shook off the thought, and took a mental step back on the [Savagery] scale.

No. Not yet.

“Today, we’re only going to do normal sparring matches to ease both you and our guests into it,” Mr. Sundberg said. “You can try out some of your more dangerous Skills, but do so with care. The five of us will be walking around the gym to observe, so wait for one or more of us to be there to supervise if you want to try something. Ask for resistances if you must.

Near the end of today’s session, we will do some proper rounds for those of you who would like to give it a try and draw ballots to determine your brackets. However, we’ll only be able to have three matches at a time as of next week—”

Three? Because their guests would also be acting as judges? Micah wasn’t sure if he would trust their judgment.

“So in the rest of that time, when you are not scheduled to participate in a match, we will section off part of the gym for you to prepare as you see fit. Keep in mind that your behavior and attendance will factor into your final grade as always, so don’t slack off. Are we clear?”

There were nods of assent all around. But of course, those weren’t enough—for him or any other teacher—so the man repeated himself and they did their best giving him a unified, Yes.

Yes, they were clear. They weren’t stupid.

“Now, are there any questions?”

Hands shot up.

Their teacher took a breath and called on them. Most were poorly-disguised ones about the exact nature of the rule changes. The first sessions had been months ago and they didn’t all remember. Micah had been absent then, but even he knew more than some.

Basically, it was just limited to scale and danger—both things he lacked.

Normal tournaments, or rather arena matches, were usually divided into groups for different levels. There was the beginner level, which couldn’t even be called a proper match, where people sparred against one another and the rules didn’t exist, or depended on what someone wanted to teach or learn.

Those were usually reserved for people who had just gotten their Skills, courses that focused on one thing alone, like hand-to-hand combat or sword fighting, or sparring matches that did the same.

Then there was the training level above that, where this course had been, and where you prepared for the proper matches in spirit but with the safety gloves still on. It was for people below level ten who, at best, could dish out more than they could take without items or help.

Truly dangerous Skills or spells, or ones that had been honed to be dangerous, were forbidden there—the difference between a [Firebolt] that was just fire and kinetic energy, like a burning baseball, and one that had been sharpened to punch through light armor or skin like a bolt.

He’d seen Stephanie practice the latter on training targets in the gym sometimes, probably to fight against some of the more durable opponents in the Tower, like Golems.

Above that was the lowest tier of the true matches, which could take place between schools in districts or tournaments, between climbers for fun on their downtime in the Guild, or in arenas and gyms that advertised that sort of thing—legal or otherwise.

Those were popular in many places, especially Anevos. Less so in Westhill because Westhill associated combat Classes with the Tower, which was the best place to level them by far.

But in those matches, people fought with everything they had, drawing the line just below possible lethality for their current opponents. And combatants were expected to have, or were given, enough tools to make sure as many things as possible would be non-lethal for them.

Skills like [Thick Skin], [Lesser Regeneration], and intermediate defensive Stats; wards, enhancements, and items that did the same—they were the minimum requirement to sign up, with the benefit that you could earn experience and money.

Lots of people gave those a try when they found themselves in a rut, level-wise, he’d heard.

Of course, some places had junior leagues or other options, like fighting summoned monsters, but those were less popular apparently. Brent liked to complain about a recent trend of ‘mock battles’ in some arenas, where people fought seemingly dangerous monsters in desperate battles, but the fighters were actually actors, or acting, and it was all fake. Even the blood was supposed to come from some sort of bags.

Not that he was an expert. He’d only heard about this stuff in passing from the other guys in the dorms. He knew most about the school fights, because that was relevant to him, and the ‘big’ fights because people liked to gush about those.

Fights between climbers, or groups of climbers around level thirty, where [Mages] at least of the same level had to put up massive wards to protect the audience from collateral damage.

His classmates liked to describe how waves of flames would crash against invisible barriers and the crowd would aah. Or how combatants would do the same and everyone would wince in sympathy.

Yeah, no, Micah didn’t think he was a fan of arena matches, without ever having seen one.

But the point was that didn’t have any more dangerous tricks in reserve which he hadn’t been allowed to use … right?

“If that’s all,” Mr. Sunberg said and pointed at the nearest student, “start a count. One—”

“One.”

“Two,” the next person said and the number went down the line until it was Micah’s turn and he wandered off. All of them knew which numbers were assigned to which fields by now.

He had three opponents, as usual. Seir, whom he hadn’t spoken much with, but who fought with summons. Vladi, who had shuffled around in the crowd to get here, and Thomas, the reason he had shuffled around.

They were friends, and Thomas was friends with Navid, which put him in Micah’s good books, but he’d never managed to have a conversation with the guy. They just hadn’t meshed. He didn’t know if that was a ‘yet’ or an ‘at all’. He hoped it wasn’t the latter.

“Any [Mages]?” the guy asked, turning to Seir and Micah. Stuff like that was part of the reason why. Why did he assume Micah was a [Mage]? He was almost as fit as the rest of them.

She nodded.

“Not really,” he said. “At least, I don’t have much use for my mana.” Aside from splashing water on people’s face or melting their summons, which were both generally frowned upon.

He did it anyway.

Thomas didn’t quite nod in acknowledgment and turned back to Seir. “Do you want to begin? You could take a break to regen afterward. Start and finish.”

She shrugged and headed for the other side of the field. “Sure.”

“I can go a few times in a row,” Thomas added as he followed for the near side of the field.

Micah frowned. “Don’t you also use mana?”

“Yep,” was all he said and headed there anyway.

Mmm … Micah had no problem with high self-esteem, or else he wouldn’t be friends with … almost everyone he knew. But he could at least be more open about it, as he had been in the first few weeks of school. He remembered him bragging to people he didn’t even know.

Competence and selective introversion made him come off as an ass, like he thought they weren’t worth talking to, not shy or humble.

Luckily, his group of friends and he weren’t like that.

Seir began by summoning a single flying monster that looked … sort of like a humanoid bat. But only sort of. Micah wasn’t quite sure what it was. It didn’t match any of the descriptions he’d read or pictures he’d seen, and he’d only encountered a handful of flying monsters himself.

The naked grey flesh, prominent bones, and sinewy skin reminded him a lot of the Coldlight Bats. Maybe it was a new monster? It could have been a vampire bat, imp, or pixie, or any number of other things and he wouldn’t recognize it if she had fiddled with the design any, by hand or by Skill.

Either way, it was a nasty asset. Even one flying enemy to harass an opponent from above was a major advantage.

Thomas glanced up at it as it flew over to perch on the net, but didn’t seem bothered. The moment the match began, the beast pushed off and Seir approached with sword and shield in hand. After a few testing strikes, she glanced up and her summon swooped down to attack him from behind.

If he paid attention to it, it left him wide open to an attack from Seir. If he didn’t pay attention to it, he left himself open to an attack from it and a follow-up from Seir, if it got him off-balance.

Micah doubted the monster could do much, or enough that it mattered, but since this was a match for points …

Thomas still went for the creature and took a hit to the arm for it, just as he struck. Seir’s sword pushed his aim off-center and the imp dodged away with a vicious grin.

He struck out at her to make her block, stepped in, and shoved her aside while the beast went for his head, then struck at it again. With better aim this time.

It still dodged. Micah thought of swatting flies. It should have been futile. But an arc of cold distortion followed his blade and hit the imp across the chest and half a wing, leaving a crystalline sheen of frost in its wake.

The imp tried to flap, the ice cracked, and it went tumbling to the ground toward Vladi at the sidelines.

Seir got another glancing strike in. Thomas stepped away and shoved her sword off at the last moment, but her monster struggled to get back up. Light leaked from its scrapes and bruises, she was alone, and Thomas was one of the top fighters in their course. The meaning was clear.

Micah wasn’t as interested in the match itself, because they obviously weren’t giving it their all. As always, they had to fight with the next two rounds and following three matches in mind.

But what was interesting was that Thomas used ice. He was a [Spellsword], he could have used sweeping flame slashes like the others, but apparently, he preferred ice to slow his opponents down?

Micah chewed on his lip. He could use that. It almost made him smile, but he doubted it would be enough. How would he deal with Seir? Or Vladi, who had learned sword fighting at the same place as his friend but hadn’t opted into magic like him? Or all three when they weren’t holding back?

Did he have any other cards in reserve at all? He thought of the scenes he’d added to [Savagery] through meditation, but none of them fit here. They were too extreme, one way or another.

Other tools, then?

He remembered something from the ninth floor, frowned, and turned back to Mr. Sundberg in the distance. He was pointing things out for their guests, probably things they had to look out for.

“Are you good for keeping score?” he asked Vladi.

“Huh? Uh, sure.” He didn’t look away when Micah asked, so that reassured him as he left.

Micah approached the group of adults and waited for a small break in the conversation to ask, “Uhm, sir?”

He received a curt, “Yes, Mr. Stranya?” in response.

“Uhm, for sparring matches—”

The man arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I was wondering, what are the rules surrounding fog?”

He waved him off and looked more at the guests as he said, “Of course, you can use fog. You should know that.”

Confirmation for them, as well. They didn’t look too thrilled about the idea but didn’t contradict him in front of a student. So he was right. He couldn’t trust their judgment. But if Mr. Sundberg was giving the okay, did that mean he would personally see to him?

“No, just—” Micah stumbled. “Because of vision? If I hit an opponent inside the fog, will it even count as a point?”

Because if even the referee couldn’t see it …

Sundberg stopped. “Ah, now I see.” He gave him his full attention. “I was a marine and a climber in Lighthouse for decades, Mr. Stranya. I can see my way through some loose mist.”

Loose mist?

“You don’t have to worry about me doing my job right, just make sure you don’t screw up yours.”

That wasn’t what he had meant, but Micah knew better than to try to dig himself out of a misunderstanding by now. And besides, he really didn’t care. He had all the confirmation he needed.

He thanked the man and nodded at the group before he left. Thomas and he could keep track of the score for now … assuming he was a good sportsman. If not, it was the tournament that mattered.

He headed for his things, checked to see if his bottle was full, topped it off, and cooled it. It had to be cold for this to work perfectly.

What else? He thought through his expectations and made adjustments, but a lot of it was guesswork. ‘Ifs’, ‘if nots’, and unanswered ‘what thens?’.

The match ended, Thomas won, and Vladi looked like he wanted to fight him next, but Micah butted in before he could claim it.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“I want to go.”

“Hell no,” Vladi said. “I still want to fight him when he’s fresh.”

“I can go twice?” he offered. “Me, him. You, me. You, him. Then you’re warm and he’ll have had a break for mana regen. Last match, he could use everything he’s got.”

“Mmm …” He seemed to consider it, looked annoyed, but said, “Fine.”

They turned to the guy in question, who shrugged with a, “Sure,” and headed over for Seir’s previous spot.

Micah took a deep breath and used the moments he had before the match began to clean his lungs. He thought of essence sludge, but inside of him, and it was all the motivation he needed. Plus, it helped that his lungs worked better if he did. More room, less baggage.

He moved his limbs a little, waited for the announcement, and carefully made his way toward his opponent just as Seir had in the beginning: testing the waters.

They touched swords and tried to strike at each other, but with their guards up, their shields blocked every strike and they simply stepped back from others. It was a slow start that did little for either of them, because this was not how they usually fought and it was hard to garner anything.

At best, you could spot habits. Like how Thomas always tilted his shield a little to look down at him. If he had been a monster, Micah could have used that to try and put a knife in his eye. As it was, aiming for that when they weren’t wearing full helmets was extremely poor form.

Did he know that?

He must have gotten bored. A slight furrow of his brows was his only warning and then the other guy went on the offense. He didn’t use Skills or spells, he simply picked up the pace.

A strike for his collar, side, leg, and stomach. Micah dodged the first, blocked the second, stepped back— The fourth struck his side and he winced. He’d barely gotten one chance to strike back and Thomas blocked it.

He must have been waiting for Micah to play a card and realized nothing was coming.

Either way, he still didn’t let up.

Guard up, guard up, he reminded himself as his opponent pushed the advantage. His strikes were quicker; his aim better. Micah used sword and shield to block as he backed off, but it put him on the back foot, a disadvantage.

[Savagery] urged him to throw caution to the wind, and Micah had to step back from it again and again.

Not yet. He had to be tactical about this, ensure that his plans would work the way he wanted them to before he could give them a try. That was the entire point of training.

A flicker of distortion caught his eye. Micah raised his shield and took a step to the side on reflex—to block most of the flames and dodge the rest, as he had done countless times before.

Stupid.

It was ice. Hoar frost spread the moment the sword hit his shield, the cold surprised him, and when Thomas pulled away, mana flooded and a chunk of ice rose with his blade, frozen to the wood.

The step aside and added weight dragged him off-balance. Thomas kneed him in the stomach, shoved, and struck again.

Damnit.

Micah stumbled away.

The last strike might not even count—badgering in context—but he wasn’t sure. The other guy didn’t pursue right away. Did he have the same fear?

He continued to back off and caught his breath as his stomach smarted. The ice still wore on him, pulling his arm off-balance. And Thomas still wasn’t pursuing. Was he waiting to see what he would do?

Either way, before the other guy could press the advantage again, Micah lowered his shield and hit the ice with his sword at the same time as he took a deep breath in.

He didn’t care about his own weaknesses, but Thomas might. If he knew how Micah did this, he might find a way to use it to his advantage or around it.

His light-blob lungs dragged the ice essence out of the crystalline mana at the same time as his sword struck. The cluster broke away in one go into fading pieces, both to him and others.

Blink and it was almost as if the ice had never been there. Almost. Hints still stuck to him. Goosebumps rose all over his body. He felt a headache come on as his chest was gripped by an icy chill as it filled to the brim.

Not the best essence to breathe in. Not that it was truly ‘ice’ essence. It was closer to ‘a dream of ice’ essence, considering its origin. Ignoring the overlap.

Thomas paused mid-step when he smashed the ice away in a single go. “I thought you weren’t a [Mage]?” he asked.

He couldn’t speak. What if his jaw trembled, he lost some of the essence, or showed his hand?

He rose his shield in salute instead, then hid behind the wood as if raising his guard and let out a trembling breath. It fogged in the warm gym. Could he use the rest of the ice somehow?

More importantly, he smiled a shivering smile. That had worked. He’d practiced with himself and Stephanie before, but not much. He’d only known how to do this for two weeks. One checked box on the list.

The only problem was that he was too slow. It was reactive, he needed a moment to breathe, and had to hide what he did. If Thomas hadn’t paused … He’d gotten a few hits in anyway.

His stomach still smarted. He didn’t go easy on opponents, did he? Okay, so Micah just had to step up his game.

Next box: be proactive.

Thomas attacked again and Micah kept up his guard, just waiting for another flicker of distortion. But he had enough troubles just blocking his regular strikes as the guy harried him.

He tried to back off again, but his legs felt slower, even less agile than before. And Thomas didn’t seem to have any problems. It couldn’t be exhaustion then. Was it a Skill on his behalf?

He thought of subtle auras that would slow opponents down over time, but couldn’t find any evidence of it.

His opponent cut a third glancing blow past him and Micah realized what was wrong. Not a Skill. His legs felt stiff, he clutched his gear, and his fingers wouldn’t move. His shoulders hunched and chest felt tight. He felt like he was outside without a jacket on in the winter.

The ice essence inside of him.

Thomas’ blade shimmered and he was too slow to do anything. Micah blocked, the blade drew up, and a thin sheen of ice rose like an extension of the flat of his sword or his own shield.

Thomas smacked it, the ice crashed against Micah’s face, and he could only feel the two strikes to his torso he got in for his mistake, not see them. His opponent backed off with a lowered blade and open disappointment. At least, he didn’t draw pleasure from picking on the weak as some other people did.

Because Micah was weak, right now. He’d hamstrung himself. He really wished he had a Skill like Ryan’s [Hot Skin], frowned, and glanced to the side, but the guy was too far away to ask him to switch.

Dammit.

Not that he would have done it. That technically would have been cheating even more than he already was with the help of his strength aura. The teachers knew about that, though.

So he just had to get rid of the ice, in the best way Micah knew how. He stuffed in some more wind essence on-top of the ice, controlled his breathing to whip it up into a flurry, and went on the offense himself.

Thomas raised his shield right away, blocked his first strike, went for one of his own, and Micah fibbed.

“‘Chill’,” he called and blew the ice into his face. His opponent almost stumbled back in surprise and Micah got a good hit in against his chest, then cracked a smile, because it was sort of funny.

He went for another strike and Thomas warded it off, saying, “That’s just petty.” He took two more steps back and lowered his sword. “Look, I can do that, too.”

He swung twice and phantom lines of cold came at Micah. He raised his shield, but they were just that—cold. Not ice or even frost. They broke against the wood, making him shiver, and Micah puffed the last bit of ice inside him in the general direction of his face in retaliation.

Thomas rolled his eyes and took a step forward, Micah breathed in as much wind essence as he could to get himself agile again, and their instructor called the round.

“Oh.” He huffed and deflated as he let some of the wind escape. Micah lowered his gear and headed for a drink.

“Micah,” Vladi said, “do you take constructive criticism?”

He considered as he knocked his bottle back, frowned, and shook his head once. “No, I do not.”

“Very well, then.”

Maybe after the next round or after the match. He still hadn’t gotten the chance to check the second box.

His opponent got a drink of his own and Micah focused on flushing the last motes of ice out of him. He replaced it with the spryest wind essence he could find in the closed and stuffy gymnasium. That involved lots of waxing and waning of essences—staring at nothing—and blowing curls into the air to see how it all moved. He probably looked like an idiot to anyone who was watching.

The next round came far too quickly.

“Not to be rude or anything,” Thomas said as he found his spot, “but do you have any combat Skills at all?”

“Uhh … active Skills?” Micah asked.

“Sure. Spells, too.”

“No?” Nothing that worked against him, anyway. Micah had things against monsters. He relied on tools and tricks, otherwise.

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

He supposed he wanted a good match, but just because Micah didn’t have offense Skills, that didn’t mean he didn’t have anything at all.

The moment the next round started, his opponent upped the pace from the beginning out and Micah struggled to keep up, still waiting for those flickers. Luckily, those came more freely as well.

A shimmering blade came thrusting toward him, and Micah stepped aside and resisted the urge to bash the sword with his shield—it would just earn him an ice crystal on his blade.

Instead, he focused and took in a deep breath. Not much happened. He got a puff of cold, which he immediately breathed out, and backed off. This worked better if he could see what he was trying to inhale.

Maybe visualization? He could still remember the flurry that had been inside his chest a few minutes ago.

He was still mostly on the defense and earned himself some hits for it, but Thomas eventually used another spell strike. Micah pictured the ice the moment he did and tried to breathe it in.

He got more this time, but not enough to cancel out the spell. He also forgot not to block.

The sword hit. He thrust it forward and dragged an ice spike out toward Micah’s arm. He pulled back and went for his waist. Micah had trouble moving his shield down to block without smacking himself in the face. The position and pressure made it hard to cut off as well—

To hell with it. He bit down on the ice and immediately took a deep breath. Thomas already knew the one strike hadn’t been a fluke, this shouldn’t have told him anything new. The ice crumpled like a leaf and he spat a shard at the guy’s face as he arched his back to dodge his blade, then went for a feint at his leg and dragged the blade up against his sword arm.

He hit.

“Magic resistance,” the guy grunted but didn’t pause. His sword followed up and Micah backed off.

Something like that.

He breathed out some of the ice and kept a bare minimum to see if he could manage it. If he could only hold some essences briefly, it would greatly diminish the value of the Skill he was training.

Another shimmer, before the strike this time. Something bigger? Visualization didn’t work, so Micah added two extra boxes, crossed both of them, took the next step down the list: Perception.

“[Lens: Affinity Sight],” he mumbled.

A cloudy blue mantel of fractal patterns bloomed around Thomas’ blade as phantom lines extended in waves. The world turned blurry, but his opponent and his sword, those Micah could see.

He went for the strike, aiming for his arm, and Micah went for the direct block instead of dodging. He breathed in and felt like he was tugging at an anchor. His opponent actively controlled the mana this time. It was his.

But that was fine. Micah had already learned to wrap his head around this. Thomas could keep the mana, Micah just wanted the essence. The subject of his Path. A part of the whole.

The anchor tilted. The fractal patterns cracked and dragged like claws in the dirt, and Micah forgot how to breathe for a second as it filled his lungs—

But Thomas’ sword hit his shield and nothing more than frost spread out in a puffed ring.

He frowned.

Micah smacked his shield aside with the hilt of his blade and hit his waist. Hah! he thought, because he had no breath to vocalize his thoughts. He would have smiled if he could without trembling. Payback!

The guy winced and Micah followed up with by shoving him with his shoulder and cutting just above his knee.

He backed off and looked like he wanted to say something, but Micah pushed the offense with another fake, “‘Chill’,” and a strike to his hip.

Thomas wasn’t surprised this time and managed to ward him off. Micah kept up the pressure.

He did much better than he had last round, especially after he filled his lungs with more wind … then he forgot to switch.

He aimed a strike just above Thomas’ blurry shield. Because if he lowered it, it lowered everything. Up and down, Micah tilted the blade to aim for his shoulder instead of his eyes.

He hit the tip of his shield instead and pain blossomed in his wrist as the bad angle punished him. And Thomas’ punishment followed right after when he batted his arm aside and attacked the side Micah had left wide open.

He turned his body away to minimize surface space, shifting stances to control the damage, and thought, [Lens: Nature Sight].

The world bloomed in rioting colors and his opponents’ gear was suddenly visible again. Switching back to nature sight was easier since he’d practiced often enough with Ryan. But he was already on the defense again, the back foot, and he’d lost the advantage he’d earned.

The pressure built until Thomas’ blade shimmered again and Micah panicked. “[Lens—” he blurted out.

Too late.

Thomas struck his leg and pulled the blade further, an ice block bloomed around his foot that stuck him to the ground, and the other guy only had to push.

Micah fell on his ass.

“Hrn,” he groaned. He’d felt that one through the gear.

Surprisingly, Thomas didn’t go for a follow-up strike or hold. He just pointed his sword at him as Mr. Sundberg called the round. Had he timed that?

“Were you about to cast [Lens] at the end there?” he asked with a slight frown. “To … dodge my strike?”

Oh, good. He thought he’d meant the spell teachers used to make worksheets appear bigger. Micah supposed that would be useful in a fight. “Can you remove the ice?” he asked instead. “It’s beginning to burn.”

“Can’t you?”

“I can’t go when somebody is watching.”

Thomas adopted a bewildered look at the joke and swept his sword over the chunk of cold. As easy as picking up a washcloth with a stick, it passed through and pulled the mana construct away.

“So it’s not passive magic resistance then,” he said as he walking away, a shimmering cloud still hovering around the tip of his blade. “Not [Lesser Magic Resistance] but something you have to actively do?”

Oh, great.

Micah headed over for the benches, Vladi gave him a look with raised eyebrows, and he shook his head.

One last box to check on his list. He had to practice switching between lenses more quickly, he knew. Definitely. But maybe he could make up for the difference by evening the playing field?

It was worth giving it a try. And it should be fine, given the spirit of today’s lecture. It was time to catch back up.

When the next round was about to begin, Micah walked back onto the field with his bottle in hand.

Thomas eyed it but said nothing. He probably assumed Micah would toss it away as soon as the round started as some others did. He didn’t. “If you splash or spit water at me,” the other guy warned him, “I will beat you.”

Micah gave him a bemused look, took in a deep breath to the brim, and knocked the bottle back. The other guy took a single step forward, Micah whipped the essence inside of him up into a frenzy, and with his mouth full of cold water, did something he had seen Myra do countless time over the last few months: he raised his hand along his chest and wiggled his fingers.

Thomas must have recognized the motion from sparring matches, because he began to rush at him.

With raised mana and two lungs full of wind essence, Micah spat the water out of his mouth and cast [Dissettle]. A cloud of dense fog erupted from his mouth and pushed at his opponents, who cursed and swiped it away.

He wiped his lips and ran back to create some distance between the two of them, sword still sheathed at his hip.

The fog pooled on the ground and pushed past the nets, but rose in billowing whisps in the center, and drew the attention of the other nearby fighters. Just one mouthful was more than enough to cover their field.

Thomas raised his arms. “Now what? We can’t see each other’s legs. What’s that supposed to?”

Micah nodded, took a deep breath, and knocked the bottle back a second time. Thomas cursed— Too late. He raised his hand and breathed another cloud of mist at his opponent, this one pushing into the last, kicking it up, and layering on top of it to cover them up to a foot above their heads in a thick, white haze. Just half his bottle was more than enough to make it so they could barely see each other unless they were standing a meter or so apart.

By the way his teacher cursed, the fog must have pushed into the fields of the other combatants, but Micah didn’t care. He probably had [Shape Water] or something to reign it back in.

“Great,” Thomas complained. “Now neither of us can see the other. If you think you can the last round out in here, think again. It wouldn’t work and I have more points than you.”

That last bit was true. He was in the lead. But the rest? Micah could probably wait him out. And besides—

“[Lens: Affinity Sight],” he mumbled.

A silver silhouette and pulsating lines of influence unfurled in the center of the field, its head looked left and right now and again.

Micah could see him just fine. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t see his blurry equipment and he didn’t have to switch back to nature sight anymore: he’d evened the playing fields.

He walked a slow circle around him, noticed the burly silhouette of Mr. Sundberg watching from the sidelines, and gave the other guy a poke in the back.

He spun around.

“Point!” their teacher called.

Micah grinned and quickly jumped back, letting the haze of white fill in where he had been a moment before. It didn’t fill in entirely. The fog continued to move for a moment. He frowned, got his bottle, and made some adjustments to keep up the thickness as he moved positions.

Thomas really couldn’t see him. One of the fighters on the next field stepped close to the net and his head twisted as if he thought it had been Micah.

It wasn’t like the gym was quiet. It was filled with the sounds of boots on sand, sword fighting, curses, calls, conversations, and fire tearing through the wind.

He didn’t have to be especially quiet as he stepped around and went for a slip in Thomas’ defenses that would earn him more points.

His sword still glanced off his shield, but he pushed past to hit him, then jumped back to avoid the counterstrike. A shimmer of fractal patterns followed it and Micah turtled to avoid the spell.

Ice stuck out the edges of his shield. He breathed in to break it off and used the cold to maintain his cloud with another blow of fog in Thomas’ direction. It faced it like an enemy and Micah only had to step around to attack him from the side.

Another point. Sundberg called and Micah smiled again. This was actually … sort of fun.

“This is stupid,” Thomas complained.

“Adapt!” Mr. Sundberg called at him. “You think you won’t encounter any fog in the Tower? Monsters love to hide in there as well.”

“Micah’s a little monster,” Vladi commented.

“Hey!” he shouted, then circled around when it earned him another sword swipe from his opponent.

Thomas groaned and said, “Fine. If you want to play like this. [Ribbon Edge].” He swiped his sword out at random, drawing a loose circle around himself in the center of the field, and a line of influence attached itself to his blade to expand out with each flick as if he were a gymnast.

Echoes of mana were flung from the ribbon like blades in the air. They hit the ground a meter to Micah’s left and left an arc of frost there.

He cursed, dodged the next one, and slipped to the side to stare at the next as it passed him by, but it was too quick for him to see. Breathing in the echoes would be useless, he had to—

The ribbon almost smacked Micah in the face like a whip. The strikes had cleared the fog enough for Thomas to spot him. Micah waved a hand to cover his face with fog, and took a deep breath in, pulling at that anchor.

He ran around, breathing, waxing, waning, and moving to manipulate the fog so his opponent wouldn’t see him and went for a strike.

Thomas heard him, stepped back, and block with his shield while he slashed with his blade instead of thrusting. The ribbon extended toward Micah’s stomach—and splashed like cold water against his own influence.

No ice. Either he hadn’t noticed before because of the fog or forgotten to reapply the affinity.

Micah pushed past his defenses, got another strike in, and backed off, drinking another quick sip from his rapidly emptying to bottle to thicken out the fog.

“Can you stop doing that?” Mr. Sundberg called. “You’re going to have to clean it up later.”

Oops. Shit. Micah hadn’t been thinking that far. But it didn’t matter. He still needed to catch up in points so he attacked.

Thomas was caught off-guard by him and too late to react. He’d been looking at his blade as if considering the neutral mana ribbon, and he called after him when he backed off, “Do you know [Aspir]?”

“The mana theft spell?” Micah asked, frowning.

He got a slash of ice in response, but managed to block it with his shield and breathe the ice away.

“Why haven’t I seen you do this before?” It sounded like a rhetorical question. He was thinking out loud. Shit, that was not good. “The fog is new, but that might have been because of the new rules …”

Micah began to harass him to get him to think of literally anything else, distract him too much before he could, but the guy just settled into a defensive stance as he continued to wonder.

“It’s something active, not passive. You don’t steal mana, you just neutralize affinities … or do you steal it?”

He actually managed to block one of Micah’s strikes then, as if finding the solution would magically solve his current predicament. Or as if he was more interested in that than winning a simple sparring match.

Micah tried for a follow-up strike, got a single point, and backed off. He was almost there.

“What’s the spell for stealing affinities again? Well, nevermind.” He shook his head. “I’m just going to have to step up my game so you can’t keep up.”

The ribbon disappeared all the sudden and his blade began to shimmer in fractal patterns again. Thomas slashed out at his feet and Micah did a short hop to dodge the arc of ice that formed beneath his feet. He followed up with a second strike to him in the air and Micah hid behind his shield.

When he looked, his blade was still shimmering. He had given up on conserving mana, then.

How the hell had Alex known where he would attack from, though? He went for the opening still and got the two-pointer he had been seeking in.

His opponent retaliated by hounding him before he could disappear back into the thinning fog with slashes that left arcs of frost whenever they hit. Those, he couldn’t always just block.

The next strike was normal, finally offering him a chance at respite, but when he glanced at his blade, it was still shimmering with mana. Was he building up to something larger again?

Micah could just counter it. He kept his defense up as they fought in slow circles around the ring, hoping he could get another chance at a last good before the time was up. It came far too late for his liking.

Thomas struck. Micah saw the shimmer, smiled, and breathed— Then panicked when he realized what he had just done. A sphere of sunking distortion slipped past his lips and a jagged vine arced off of it. He began to back up, almost tripped over his feet, limped, and then jerked and shook himself as his lungs filled with ‘a dream of electricity’ essence in him.

Thomas tripped him up, disarmed him, and got him a loose grapple as he leveled a training sword at his throat. Micah breathed the essence out and felt his hair stand on ends, but still felt like he had been zapped by a door handle in his ... everywhere. Expanding out from his chest.

“You screwed yourself over.”

Micah nodded. “Yep. How?”

“Your breath fogged or you’d breathe cold air into my face every time after you broke one of my spells. I’m not stupid. It’s a simple pattern to see and I can use elements other than ice. I'm guessing you can't handle the affinities?”

“Argh!”

Behind them, Mr. Sundberg called the match.

“You got cocky,” Thomas said, but stood up and held an arm out to help him up.

No, Micah corrected him again, I was having fun.

He dragged himself up, thanked the guy, and congratulated him on the match, but ultimately, he'd lost. If he had hurried to get one or two more strikes in during the last round and then backed off to wait it out …

Although, that performance probably wouldn’t earn him a good grade, either. He had to be better during the exams, and show that to earn a good grade. How had Thomas known where had been in the fog near the end there?

Mr. Sundberg raised an eyebrow when they stepped out of the fog and Micah looked around before he could ask him the question. The cloud was diffusing into the room, raising the humidity a bit on its own and slowly seeping into the other fields.

One of their guests flicked a hand from the benches and the edge of the cloud retreated as if by an invisible hand.

“Clean this up,” the man said.

“Yes, sir.” Micah got to work on casting [Condense Water], hoping he would finish before his mana ran out or the next round began. He could ask Thomas for tips later, when they sat around as the others fought or at the end.

“Hey,” Vladi said as he stepped up. “Did you just almost win against Thomas?”

“Yeah,” he said, caught on to his tone, and repeated himself with a smile, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.”

He slapped a hand down over his shoulder and laughed, “Congrats, man.”

“Thanks. I, uhm— I think I’d be up for that constructive criticism, now?”

“Mm, how about I show you instead? After you’re done here, of course. Just watch me beat him into the dirt after my next match.”

“How about you shut up, twerp?” came the reply from behind them.

Vladi waggled his eyebrows and left. Micah watched them for a moment and headed into the fog to clear out the rest. The cloud slipped into his bottle to refill it as water as he did. From a few fields over, he could see Ryan watching him and smiled at him.

Maybe he wouldn’t have such a hard time earning a good grade after all.