Chapter 84: The List (4)
Lucien sat slouched at one of the long cafeteria tables, cradling a steaming porcelain cup of tea between his hands.
It wasn’t the fancy herbal blend the nobles here seemed to favor, just a straightforward, slightly bitter black tea that tasted like someone had whispered the word “quality” into a pot of boiling water and hoped for the best.
He sipped it anyway, more for warmth than taste, while Balt attacked his plate of eggs.
Corin sat opposite, methodically slicing into what looked like sausages with the precision of a surgeon dissecting a patient.
The morning rush swirled around them: clinking cutlery, bursts of chatter, and the rhythmic thud of boots on stone tiles.
At first, Lucien thought nothing of the footsteps slowing as people passed… until the third time a tall upper-year gave him a grin and slapped him on the back hard enough to make his tea slosh.
By the fourth, Lucien had had enough.
When the next offender, a broad-shouldered second-year with a swagger that suggested he’d once wrestled a troll for fun, moved in for the ceremonial slap, Lucien intercepted him before the man could deliver the ritual spine realignment.
“Alright, what’s with the back-patting parade?”
The senior laughed, a low, knowing sound.
“Ah, so you haven’t heard. You’re the first to take part in a duel this year.”
Lucien blinked.
“…I’m sorry, what?”
“Yup. Word spreads fast around here,” the senior continued, propping one boot up on the bench beside him like he was about to narrate the history of warfare.
“You see, every year, everyone starts making bets, friendly, of course, on when the first duel of the term’s going to happen. Most people guessed a month in, maybe two, once the new blood got settled enough to start ruffling feathers. But the first week? You’ve set a new record. Even the staff are talking.”
Lucien tried to find a polite way to express the deep and ancient weariness now blooming in his soul.
“…And why exactly is this such a… spectator sport?”
“Oh, duels are always a spectacle,” the senior said, grinning like it was obvious.
“Two students, officially sanctioned, with the whole academy watching? It’s better than any festival play. You’ve got drama, pride,
sometimes grudges going back years. Not to mention, people love wagering on the outcome. The reason this one’s getting more attention than usual is simple, you’re the first. Doesn’t even matter who you’re fighting or why. First duel of the year always draws a crowd. Something about bragging rights for whoever wins.”
“Wonderful,” Lucien muttered, “I always dreamed of being free entertainment.”
The senior clapped him on the back, because of course he did, and strolled off with the parting words, “Good luck out there. Make it exciting.”
Lucien watched him go, then dropped his forehead into his palm.
“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”
Balt, chewing thoughtfully, offered a shrug.
“Could be worse. At least it’s not the aptitude test all over again.”
“Ahh,” Lucien grunted.
“Though…”
Balt speared a piece of bread, chewing as he spoke, “if you lose, the whole academy will remember it for the rest of the year.”
Lucien gave him a flat, slow blink.
“…You’re terrible at this ‘pep talk’ thing.”
“Just being honest,” Balt said with a grin.
Then he glanced at the clock mounted on the far wall and swore under his breath.
“Ah, hells, I’ve gotta run. Constructs Theory starts in five minutes.”
“Can’t you just slip in late?”
Lucien asked.
Balt barked out a laugh that carried genuine fear underneath.
“Slip in late? In that class? Are you kidding? The professor’s stricter than a debt collector during tax week. He locks the door at exactly the scheduled start, and if you knock, he’ll lecture you through the wood about punctuality until your ears fall off. Last year, a kid was thirty seconds late, thirty, and he made him write a thirty-page thesis on ‘Time Management as a Foundational Principle of Golem Maintenance.’”
Lucien’s face twisted.
“…That’s almost impressive in how petty it is.”
“Exactly why I’m not risking it.”
Balt stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Good luck with the duel, man. Try not to die. Or do die, if it’s funny.”
He grinned and jogged off, leaving Lucien and Corin alone at the table.
That was when Lucien noticed the shift.
The cafeteria suddenly felt… too quiet.
Not literally, there was still the background noise of hundreds of students, but the space between him and Corin seemed to hum with a strange, almost physical pressure.
Logically, Lucien knew he had no reason to feel this way.
Corin had fought side by side with him during the aptitude test.
The man had carried him, actually carried him, to the finish line when his legs had given out.
If anything, Lucien should’ve been grateful, maybe even a little impressed.
But now, without jungle beasts or enchanted statues trying to crush them, sitting across from Corin in the calm morning light… something in the deep, instinctive corners of his brain prickled.
His pulse gave a faint, confused jump.
It wasn’t exactly fear, more like standing too close to a cliff edge without knowing why your stomach suddenly felt hollow.
Corin finished the last bite of his food, his movements unhurried and deliberate.
Then he looked up and saw the faint trepidation in Lucien’s eyes.
Clearly mistaking it for pre-duel nerves, Corin set down his fork and leaned forward slightly.
What he wanted to say was, something along the lines of, ‘Don't worry, I believe in you and you will be victorious.’
But what he ended up saying was, “Do not be worried. I believe in you. You win. They fall, and they stay fallen.”
Lucien froze mid-sip, tea halfway to his mouth.
“…What?”
Corin frowned faintly, as if confused by his own choice of words.
“I mean, win. I mean they cannot defeat you.”
Lucien stared.
“…I’m definitely going to need more tea.”
***
The first few classes passed in a blur, or more accurately, in a slow, crawling sludge that left Lucien wondering if time itself had decided to punish him.
Advanced Arcane Theory was exactly what the name promised: advanced… and theoretical.
The professor spent the better part of an hour tracing ancient sigil diagrams onto the board with such precision you’d think each chalk line was a matter of life and death.
Lucien tried to keep up, he really did, but the moment they started discussing “the metaphysical integrity of transmutable ether” he knew this was the sort of thing he’d maybe appreciate when he was forty, sipping tea on a porch somewhere, instead of right now when he was trying to not get stabbed in an upcoming duel.
Foundations of Spellcraft was equally dry, despite its deceptively exciting name.
Half the lecture was dedicated to safety regulations, apparently, there were sixteen different ways to accidentally set yourself on fire before even finishing a spell.
The rest was a meticulous breakdown of magical notation.
Useful?
Probably.
Immediately life-saving?
Not so much.
Then came Elemental Manipulation I.
Lucien had expected something exciting here , maybe conjuring fire, bending water, or at least making a rock float.
Instead, the professor lectured for an hour about the moral implications of magical weather alteration.
He left the room with a notebook full of perfectly preserved boredom.
Still, as he gathered his things from the third class, Lucien felt a shift.
He glanced at the wall clock.
Almost time.
His duel.
The idle chatter of the hallways seemed to fade into a low hum in his ears as he made his way out.
He wasn’t walking fast, but the weight in his chest pressed harder with every step.
The corridors grew busier the closer he got to the gymnasium, students filtering in from every direction.
Conversations dropped to murmurs as he passed.
Some didn’t even bother to lower their voices, a few whispering in excitement, others making bets in half-joking tones, all of them throwing curious or assessing glances his way.
It wasn’t hostile.
Not exactly.
But it was the attention of people who wanted to see what you’d do, whether you’d rise to the occasion or make a fool of yourself.
Lucien kept his expression even, his hands loose at his sides.
He wasn’t about to give them a show before the actual show started.
Then he saw it.
The gymnasium doors were wide open, light spilling out into the hallway.
The sound hit him first, a restless murmur from the crowd already inside, the creak of boots on wood, the echo of movement in the large space.
He stepped inside.
The gymnasium was transformed.
The usual practice areas had been cleared, leaving a large rectangular dueling space in the center.
The floor was marked in clean white lines, forming a boundary that seemed almost ceremonial in its neatness.
On either side stood small raised platforms for the duelists to enter from.
Above, the stands were already filling , not just with students, but with a few faculty members as well, their robes adding splashes of color to the otherwise uniform sea of uniforms.
The air was thick with the sound of low conversation, a current of expectation running underneath it.
Lucien took a slow breath, the smell of polished wood and faint ozone from the magical wards filling his lungs.
The wards shimmered faintly along the edges of the arena, invisible unless you caught them at the right angle, protective enchantments to make sure the duel didn’t spill into the audience.
He stepped forward, the floorboards beneath his boots giving the faintest creak.
It wasn’t just a duel.
It was an event.
And now, it was his turn to walk into the center of it.
