Reddy’s head throbbed.

His wrists burned where the restraints had been tied too tight. His ribs ached from where that bastard Ashbourne had kicked him.

He forced his eyes open and saw chaos.

Grace’s opening explosion had done more than break formations. The temporary alliance between Class A, Class B, and Class C was collapsing in real time, not through betrayal but through sheer incompetence. Their groups overlapped. Their signals conflicted. Students kept getting in one another’s way, blocking attacks or stepping into friendly fire.

The Class B student who had been assigned to guard him was gone.

Probably thrown aside during the blast, or dragged into the fighting when the lines collapsed.

Reddy twisted his wrists against the restraints.

The knots were tight, but whoever tied them had rushed the work. One loop had already loosened during the chaos.

He pulled harder, ignoring the burn, and felt the binding give.

Then his hands were free.

Reddy grabbed his fallen weapon from the dirt and pushed himself upright.

His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to move.

Nobody stopped him.

Nobody even looked.

Somehow that made him even more angry. He would show them that ignoring him would be a mistake.

Reddy moved through the battlefield’s southern edge, using debris and supply crates for cover.

The battlefield sprawled before him, and he hated how well Class S had prepared it.

Grace had turned the field itself into a weapon.

Hidden runes triggered beneath advancing groups.

Terrain chokes funneled attackers into overlapping fields of fire.

Even the statue’s placement forced everyone to approach from disadvantageous angles, as if she’d designed the placement for the statue itself.

Class S was not simply stronger.

They were prepared beyond belief.

Reddy scanned the field and spotted Class A near the northern flank.

They were still moving, still functional, but not as cleanly as they should have been. Their formations were scattered, commands hesitant.

Armani shouted orders, but half his students looked uncertain whether to follow him or Gareth, the upperclassman who had stepped in during Reddy’s absence.

They’re weaker without me, Reddy thought, feeling his ego rise at that realization.

Then he saw Elara.

She was near the southern side of the battlefield, injured from the opening explosion but still standing. Blood streaked her temple, and her movements were slower than usual, but she was shouting orders and forcing Class B back into formation.

Sapphire’s temporary runes created cover where none existed.

Mira’s group screened the flank.

Class B kept reforming around Elara’s commands, adjusting faster than they should have been able to.

Reddy’s jaw tightened.

Class B should have broken by now.

His plan to cripple them should have worked.

But they were still here.

Still fighting.

It pissed him off more than he dared to admit.

A shockwave erupted from the west, where Luca – the rank 1 – was being overwhelmed by coordinated groups.

The force rippled outward, scattering students and throwing debris across the clearing, even forcing Reddy, who was a good distance away, a few steps back.

Reddy stumbled backward, forced away from the main battlefield and into the outer trees.

He started running towards the outskirts, trying to get away from the battle as much as he could.

Right now he just needed to gather his thoughts and find a way to make an impact, and lead class A to victory. That would show them who the leader was. Not Armani. Not anyone. Him.

As he got further away from the battlefield, however, a strange phenomenon became present.

The noise began to dull behind him. In front of him. Everywhere.

The air also became strangely still, artificial almost.

Reddy slowed down, his weapon still raised, and realized something was wrong instantly. He was an elite warrior, realizing something like this was child’s play.

There were no insects.

No birds.

No normal mana flow.

The ambient sound that usually filled the southern forest was gone, replaced by an oppressive silence that pressed against his ears uncomfortably.

Reddy stopped completely, unsettled.

The area felt wrong.

As though the battlefield’s chaos had drained away and left something worse behind.

Then he saw him.

He saw Ronan.

Ronan was kneeling near the roots of a tree, unmoving, one hand limp beside the shattered remains of what looked like a detection ward.

His eyes were open but unfocused, staring at nothing.

Those pitch black eyes that always unnerved him – they looked dead.

But Ronan was not dead. That much was obvious.

Reddy’s first thought was that Ronan had injured himself.

Some failed spell. Some forbidden trick that backfired.

Then satisfaction rose in him.

Ronan was alone.

No Elara. No Class B. No one to protect him.

Reddy approached slowly, weapon raised, mana already channeling into his arm.

He did not necessarily have to kill Ronan.

He could break him. Drag him back. Make him beg for ruining his plans, that bastard.

"Look at you," Reddy said, his voice low and bitter. "The great Ashbourne. Kneeling in the dirt like the failure you always were."

Ronan did not react.

His chest rose and fell, but his gaze remained empty.

Then Reddy saw it.

A thin crimson ribbon drifted in front of Ronan’s chest, curling slowly through the air like silk caught in water.

It was beautiful.

Reddy’s grip on his weapon loosened slightly.

The ribbon moved with impossible grace, its surface shimmering faintly as it twisted and coiled.

There was something mesmerizing about it, something that made Reddy’s anger feel distant and unimportant.

Then the ribbon sank into Ronan’s chest.

Not through skin. Not through cloth.

It simply passed through, as if Ronan’s body were water – no, there was even less resistance than even water.

Reddy’s instincts screamed at him.

Leave. Now.

But his hatred was stronger.

Ronan had humiliated him. Kicked him. Captured him. Made him a prisoner in front of both classes.

And now he was defenseless.

Reddy channeled more mana into his arm and stepped forward, raising his weapon for a downward strike.

Fuck it. I’ll kill him here. The Academy instructors or whoever are spectating this ’war’ should all be focusing on the final battle, not on two random students far away from it. I will kill him here with no witnesses.

Reddy went to move.

The ribbon moved first.

It slipped out of Ronan’s chest in one smooth motion and passed through Reddy’s wrist.

He froze mid-step.

There was no pain.

No cut.

No wound.

But his mana vanished.

The energy he had been channeling into his arm simply disappeared, pulled from his control in a single silent breath.

Black lines spread beneath his skin, crawling up from his wrist toward his elbow.

Reddy tried to pull away.

His body would not respond.

His weapon dropped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud.

He tried to scream.

No sound came out, however.

The crimson strand coiled through him, threading through his veins, his pathways, his core. It did not cut or tear.

It simply consumed, draining everything his body had to offer. Mana, flesh, bones.

There was no dramatic struggle.

No final stand, no resistance.

Only a horrifying absence as the ribbon fed, using him as fuel, far away from the battle where the watchful eyes of the Academy were not present.

Reddy’s vision dimmed. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

His legs gave out, but he did not fall.

Something held him upright, puppet-like, as the crimson ribbon finished its work.

Then the world went black.