CHAPTER 40: WINGS AND MIRRORS

The clamor in the arena had started to shift. The cheers were growing more rhythmic now, less scattered, more grounded in expectation. The tournament was in full motion, names cycling faster, energy mounting with each call.

Student after student entered the ring—some nervously, some with steel in their eyes. A few duels ended swiftly, cleanly. Others dragged out with the kind of clawing desperation that left the field cracked and the crowd breathless.

One student collapsed mid-cast from mana fatigue. Another managed to secure a win with a last-minute counter, barely breathing as the referee called their name. There were upsets and expected victories, but beneath it all was a steady hum—the sensation that something was shifting.

A tension beneath the surface.

Darius leaned forward slightly on the bench, eyes narrowing as the next match concluded. A shimmering barrier reset the field below, casting a cool glow across the stone.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Aiden sat beside him, arms crossed, studying the fights with a quiet eye. "Some of them are folding too early," he murmured. "They’re fighting like they already think they’ve lost."

"They were never prepared," Darius replied. "Not really. A month is enough to survive, not master."

Another name echoed overhead, and another student descended into the ring.

Darius leaned back again, folding his arms loosely. His legs bounced slightly, not from nerves, but from anticipation.

He’d written most of this part. Not in exhaustive detail—just beats. The tournament arc had always been a proving ground. An early filter for the rising talents. In his draft, round one wasn’t about survival. It was about earning an official place at the academy. The real tests came after.

And the prize?

The Archmage’s attention.

Most didn’t know that. Not yet.

The headmaster had teased the presence of the Archmage—subtle references, careful showmanship. But no one truly understood what winning the tournament would mean.

He did.

Darius’s eyes flicked toward the upper observation box, veiled behind layers of shimmering wards and enchantments. Someone was up there. Watching. Judging.

Lucien’s final opponent.

Maybe his final opponent if he could beat everyone who was next.

He exhaled slowly.

But it wasn’t Lucien that lingered in his mind now.

It was Kai.

The sight of those massive arms of earth, rising from beneath the ice. That spike in pressure. The surge of power that had no business appearing in a first-year match. That wasn’t how the story was supposed to go. Kai wasn’t supposed to have that potential—not yet.

And yet.

Darius’s eyes drifted down toward the ring again as the next match ended. The victor stumbled off the field, barely upright. Their opponent had to be carried out.

From the corner of his eye, a familiar figure approached, brushing past a cluster of seated students.

Kai dropped down beside them, still favoring one side, bandages wrapping his knuckles.

"Just in time," Aiden said without looking at him.

Kai smirked. "Don’t tell me I missed anything good."

"No," Aiden replied. "But I think that’s about to change."

Above the ring, the crystal flared.

"Next match: Darius Wycliffe."

The murmur that followed wasn’t quite a cheer. It was something heavier. Anticipation. Curiosity. Some still watched him with suspicion. Others with growing respect. No one was sure what to expect anymore.

Darius stood, adjusting his collar.

Kai slapped his shoulder as he passed. "Go remind them who the hell you are."

Darius gave a faint smile, then walked.

Each step down the stairs felt strangely light. No nerves. Just a tight focus coiled in his chest. He stepped into the ring, letting his boots scuff against the stone.

His opponent was already standing on the opposite side.

A slim figure. Neutral stance. Short cloak, simple robes, black boots dusted from arena residue. They didn’t carry a staff. No visible rings or magical focus.

Except for the wand in their hand.

Darius blinked.

That wasn’t uncommon. Wands weren’t banned, and a few support mages used them for stabilization. But for someone entering a duel with one out already?

Odd.

He tilted his head slightly, studying them. No emblem. No house crest. Just... there.

I didn’t write you.

That realization sat cold in his gut.

Every major opponent in the tournament arc had at least a footnote. If not a full sheet, then a scribbled note—a concept, a title. This one? Nothing.

He knew the fight he was supposed to have here. It was one of the few he had deemed "safe." A clean win. Nothing flashy.

But this?

This wasn’t that.

He drew a slow breath and brought up his arm.

Let’s find out.

The crystal above pulsed. The field shimmered. The ring activated.

Begin.

Darius didn’t waste time.

He summoned a sharp whirl of wind, circling his legs as he stepped forward. The current rose in quick pulses—Zephyr Circulation to prime his movement, followed by Anchor Step to shift his stance cleanly to the left.

His opponent didn’t move.

Darius cast again—this time a sharp arc of air, spinning horizontally, a cutter made of pressurized wind.

The arc sliced across the ring.

The opponent sidestepped—fluidly.

Darius followed up, weaving a second gust and a narrow slicing crescent. He mixed the angles, stepped forward, and snapped a wind needle toward their legs.

Each spell was dodged.

Not blocked. Not absorbed.

Just—slipped.

The wand never raised.

Kai leaned forward slightly in the stands.

"Why’s he holding back?" he asked.

"He’s testing them," Aiden replied. "Which means something’s off."

Darius didn’t stop casting.

He spun, extended his hand, and launched a triple-threaded wind twist, more forceful now—still nonlethal, still refined.

The opponent raised the wand.

The spell struck it.

And didn’t pass through.

Instead, the air warped.

The wind vanished. Silently. No feedback. No blowback.

Darius froze for half a heartbeat.

Then—

BOOM.

The exact same wind burst exploded back toward him—amplified, accelerated.

A moment later, the burst collided with his chest and passed straight through—his Elemental Body catching the force like a ripple on water.

He staggered back slightly, but didn’t fall.

The crowd blinked.

Some students gasped.

Kai’s mouth opened. "...That was his own spell."

Aiden’s fingers curled tighter around his armrest. "It was."

In the ring, Darius stared at the figure now walking slowly toward him, wand still humming faintly with residual energy.

That spell should’ve faded. Or scattered.

Instead—it had come back.

Harder.

That wasn’t deflection. That wasn’t reflection. That was—

The opponent’s voice rang out, quiet, sharp.

"You should be careful, Wycliffe. I don’t just reflect magic."

They raised the wand slowly.

"I enhance it."

Darius’s breath caught.

The wand glowed again, soft and deadly.

"Your next attack might not miss. But I promise—if it touches this wand... you won’t survive the return."

Darius straightened, his aura rising faintly.

He hadn’t been afraid. Just cautious.

Now he understood why.

This wasn’t in the book.

This wasn’t in the plan.

His eyes narrowed.

And he smiled.

Darius stepped forward, the air around him drawing tight.

The opponent’s expression didn’t change, but the wand tilted just slightly—ready. Expecting another cautious test. Another burst of wind or pressure, neatly shaped and aimed with surgical caution.

But Darius was done measuring.

He raised his arm.

The wind responded—not just a flicker, but a surge, spiraling upward in a tight, violent helix around his wrist. It shimmered against the arena light, compressing with high-speed friction.

The wand lifted instinctively.

Darius launched the spell.

The compressed gust snapped across the ring—faster than the last, thinner, more refined. It struck the wand head-on.

The opponent didn’t flinch.

And once again, the wand lit.

BOOM.

The wind reversed.

Screaming back across the field—

And passed straight through Darius’s torso like a ripple through a cloud.

No impact. No break.

No damage.

The audience collectively inhaled.

The wand bearer’s brows drew together—confusion flashing across their face.

Darius didn’t stop.

He threw another.

Then another.

Each one more intense, crafted with shaped slicing currents or wide spread gusts.

Each one came back.

And each one—did nothing.

Darius’s cloak whipped around him in a blur of green and silver, the air alive with cutting lines of wind. But no matter how much came back at him, it all simply phased through his frame.

He moved through it like mist, unharmed.

Kai stood up in the crowd.

"Wait..."

Aiden’s mouth tightened. "This has to do with his elemental body."

Kai blinked. "Ah, yes, he told us about it during training, kinda jealous of the bastard."

"Same, after all, most attacks can’t touch him unless it’s reinforced or laced with mana from another source. So I doubt his own attack being turned against him would be useful."

Back in the ring, Darius stepped forward again—calm, eyes locked, wind curling around his ankles like dancing blades.

The wand bearer’s grip faltered slightly.

One more attack.

Darius swung his arm in a wide arc.

A spinning wind disc screamed through the air, horizontal this time, low to the ground, almost invisible.

The wand caught it.

It reversed.

It struck him full in the chest—

—and passed through without slowing.

Darius didn’t even blink.

And that’s when it hit them.

The counters weren’t working.

Not because Darius was dodging.

Not because he was predicting the attacks.

Because they couldn’t hit him.

The magic that should have overwhelmed any normal caster simply... couldn’t connect.

Darius didn’t wait for a reaction.

He closed the gap with a step that cracked the floor beneath him, Anchor Step pulsing once underfoot. A trail of compressed air followed him.

He launched a barrage.

Tiny Gale Bolts, sharp and controlled, fanned outward like dagger points. All struck the wand—some returned, all passed through. He stepped sideways, firing again. Then above, arcing one high over his opponent’s shoulder to force a reaction.

The wand was a shield.

But now it was useless.

The bearer stumbled back, overwhelmed, unable to find rhythm, every cast only fueling Darius’s assault.

Their free hand twitched once.

Not fear.

A shift.

The wand lowered.

For a breath, nothing moved.

Then the bearer raised their hand—not the wand, not defense.

Their casting hand.

Darius stopped.

His wind slowed.

They weren’t trying to counter anymore.

A hum echoed low across the field, heat blooming faintly in the air.

Their hand glowed—not the soft shimmer of wind, or the fluid gleam of water.

It was gold.

Hot.

Burning.

From the very skin beneath their sleeve, flames licked outward, curling like solar flares dancing off the rim of a dying star.

The crowd felt the heat first.

Even through the barrier, it tingled across skin.

A student in the front row covered their face.

Darius blinked once, his breath catching as the magic expanded.

He didn’t wait.

In a single motion, Darius thrust both palms infront him and blasted himself backward with a focused jet of wind. His body snapped through the air like a leaf caught in a gale, flipping once before landing hard near the edge of the ring.

The stone beneath his boots sizzled as he touched down, already warming from the pressure.

He exhaled once, fast, and spun his arm—drawing up a shell of swirling wind around his front. Then another gust behind it. Then one more. Layered shields of motion, built not to block, but to push the heat away.

The flames hadn’t even been released yet—and still, he had to defend.

From the center of the ring, his opponent stepped forward, wand now clipped to their hip, hand stretched toward the sky, flames coiling at their fingertips like a phoenix nestling into its own birth.

"Solflare: First Crest."

The words boomed like a chant across the field.

Darius’s eyes narrowed, the wind whipping at his coat.

"Alright then," he muttered, tightening his stance.

"Let’s get serious."