Done

I'm panting, each breath forming a cloud in the chill air, a smoky twin to the dissipating fog that Isabella's rage has all but devoured. My heart is a jackhammer in my chest, reminding me that this is no longer a game, if it ever was.

Isabella's figure is a blur of motion, a conductor orchestrating a symphony of destruction with her wand. Lightning arcs, sparking with her fury, each bolt a near-miss that sends my nerves screaming. There's no time for witty banter now, no room for taunts or jabs. It's survival, pure and simple.

"Shit!" I curse as a bolt scorches the ice beside me, the heat incongruous against the biting cold. Each dodge is a desperate lunge, a frantic dance with death. The platform beneath my feet is treacherous, riddled with scorched patches and slippery spots where the ice is melting.

Another crackle of energy, and I'm diving, rolling, the world a blur of sky, ice, and white-hot lightning. I can't keep up, can't think. There's only reaction, muscle memory, and raw instinct.

Isabella's casting a spell, her voice a chant that's both melodic and terrifying. The air is electric, charged, and I'm waiting for the blow that might not come because I'll be too slow, and then—

A lance of purple lightning cleaves the space I'd occupied just a moment before. My breath comes out in ragged gasps, and my inner monologue is a looping record of expletives that would make a sailor blush.

I'm scrambling now, my feet unsure, my heart a drumbeat in my ears. Isabella's attacks are relentless, her precision a cruel reminder of her skill. She's not just trying to hit me; she's trying to encircle me, to pen me in with a cage of electricity that's growing tighter by the second.

"You can't run forever, V!" Isabella's voice is laced with an annoyance that chills me more than the cold. She's right, damn her. But I'll be damned if I make it easy for her.

I glance up, catch a split second of her eyes, and they're alight with a cold fire, a blue so deep it's almost black. It's the color of the storm, the heart of the tempest she's become.

A tendril of lightning snakes toward me, and I'm off again, sliding, nearly falling, catching myself with a grace I didn't know I possessed. My thoughts are a scattershot; they're not profound or particularly brave. They're just a mix of "Move!" and "That was too damn close!"

Breathing deeply, the sharp, cold air feels like knives in my lungs. I knew it would come to this—some twisted showdown in a room turned battlefield. But knowledge isn't preparation, and nothing could have truly readied me for the carnage.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Professor Feron lift his head, his expression dawning with the realization of Isabella's doings to the room. It's as if he's just come out of a trance, and now he's witnessing the chaos.

Isabella advances, her wand's movement leaving a deadly afterimage. Suddenly, an arsenal of elemental fury surrounds me—lightning crackling, flames licking the air, ice shards shimmering, and wind howling like banshees.

"This is the last chance I'm giving you before you get hurt," she spits out, her glare cutting deeper than the icy wind. "Get on your knees, apologize, and become my servant, you damn barbarian."

I can't help it; a whistle escapes me, an acknowledgment of the ridiculous power she wields. "Seriously, Isabella," I chuckle, despite the gravity of my situation, "as much as I hate to admit it, I've got to hand it to you. You have a shit ton of mana. But you should know, I'm not giving up just yet. You see, I've been waiting for the moment you let your guard down, you dumbass."

That's my cue. In an instant, mana courses through my feet, propelling me forward like a cannonball. Isabella's quick, conjuring a shield of magic, but I'm already too close, too fast.

With a smug sense of satisfaction, I grab her by the back of her head. Her eyes widen—a perfect mirror of her surprise—as I slam her face into the ground with enough force to leave a crater so grand it could be its own miniature battlefield.

"Oh, that feels good," I mutter under my breath, the smirk on my face probably looking as devilish as I feel. But this is Isabella, and I know it won't keep her down for long. "She'll be up in a second," I predict, casting a wary glance at the crater, expecting her retaliation.

Isabella struggles to her feet, determination etched in every line of her body, even as the dust begins to settle. She's like a phoenix, I think, albeit one I've just slammed into the ground. Twice. A twisted grin stretches across my face as I lean down and—with what I'm sure is a touch of dramatic flair—push her head back down into the dirt. "Oh, this is fun~" My voice is a sing-song, a mocking lullaby to her attempts.

She tries again, and I press her down harder, the impact sending a quiver through the ice beneath us. "Hehehe, that felt good," I whisper to myself, but there's a note of caution that keeps me from overdoing it. "But I can't do it anymore, or she might actually kill me."

Finally, Isabella rises, slow and ominous, the dust cascading off her in sheets. Darkness clouds her eyes, a tempest of anger I've clearly stoked. She touches her forehead, and I see blood—red as the fury I know is burning in her—drip down between her fingers.

"I told you I'd bash your head in the ground," I say, grinning like a cat that got the cream.

Isabella sighs, a sound like the last gasp of calm before a storm. "And here I thought being a bit nice might make you forfeit." There's a weariness in her voice that doesn't match the surge of fire and electrical magic that floods the platform, turning it into a deadly dance floor of destruction.

Then, Professor Feron is suddenly there, rushing in with a look of urgency that wrinkles his brow. As he passes me, I lean in, our faces close enough to share secrets. "Back off, and I'll give you the cure later." My whisper is a blade, sharp and precise, and I can almost feel him recoil, even as he continues on.

A chuckle bubbles up from my chest. The cult has him by the neck, and that's my leverage. "This should make him back off," I muse. I need Isabella to push her limits, to exhaust that seemingly endless reservoir of mana. "I need Isabella to go all out; otherwise, I won't be able to change that shitty attitude of hers."

I eye the wall with the clinical detachment of a strategist measuring distances on a battlefield. "Where should I stand... here we go," I murmur to myself, finding the sweet spot—an exact position necessary for what's to come.

Isabella's eyes are tempests, crackling with electric blue veins that illuminate her fury. She weaves her magic with a conductor's flourish, creating a circle that hums with power. Then, it manifests: a colossal lightning fist, crackling with energy, poised to strike.

Sigh, "Protective gear, check, check, and check," I whisper to myself, running through a mental checklist with a calm that belies my situation. There's an almost serene moment, a microsecond of silence before the storm.

Then it hits.

The fist connects with a sound like the world splitting, and I'm airborne, the impact sending me crashing through the wall. The world is a blur of spinning, pain, and debris, a cacophony of destruction that echoes in my ears.

I come to a bone-jarring halt a couple hundred feet away, right next to a gym—new, by the looks of it. I cough up blood, a crimson stain against the gray of the concrete, and grimace as I shove my dislocated arm back into its socket with a sickening pop.

"This is one of the new gyms being added, huh? Well, whatever, Isabella will have to pay for the damages." My voice is dry, a touch of humor in the face of agony. I whistle nonchalantly, the sound jarringly cheerful, as I enter the darkened gym.

"Ah, nice and dark, just what I needed." I let the shadows envelop me, a brief respite from the chaos outside. "Now I just have to wait for Isabella to come look for me." I settle into the gloom, letting my body relax—but only just. Every sense is heightened, every nerve tingling with the anticipation of her arrival.

I can picture her, the relentless storm of a woman, tracking me with predatory precision. Her eyes, those windows to a soul as turbulent as the skies, would be narrowed, her mind calculating, always calculating.

I don't have to wait long.

The silence is broken by the faintest of sounds—the softest whisper of movement, a telltale sign of the impending storm. I brace myself, a wry smile playing on my lips. This dance of death we're entangled in—it's as exhilarating as it is deadly.

I stand up, each muscle singing with the kind of tension that precedes a storm—or in my case, the storm that Isabella has become. "Ah, I'm going to beat her without any magic, just to humble her," I murmur to myself, a whisper of my resolve.

Isabella advances, her stride confident and menacing, her glare as sharp as shards of ice. I feel the weight of her eyes on me, heavy with the promise of a wrath uncontained.

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. "I need to completely destroy her fighting spirit. Make this fast," I muse. The air around me feels alive, electric even without my own magic. My aura pulses with a vitality that feels like an old friend, brimming with confidence. "Thankfully, all the conditions are now set. My aura has never felt better, and out of spite, I'm going to do this like so."

Reaching into my bag, I draw out a blindfold. The fabric feels cool against my heated skin as I tie it around my head, a smirk playing on my lips.

Isabella doesn't speak. Her silence is louder than any words, heavy with concentration. Her wand moves in precise arcs, casting a series of lightning patterns that interweave to create a lethal lightning field around us. It crackles with potential, a deadly web meant to ensnare and destroy.

But I'm already moving, speeding up the circulation of my aura. I feel it surge through me, a current of power that heightens my senses, sharpens my reflexes. And in an instant, I'm beside her, my body a blur of motion that not even her storm can keep pace with.

I send a punch her way, the air compressing before my fist like the gathering force of a hurricane. She doesn't flinch, not even a twitch, and a magic shield materializes out of the charged air, catching my fist with an impact that sends ripples across the lightning field.

★ ★

The atmosphere in the darkened gym is electric, thick with the tension of a duel that has transcended the ordinary into the extraordinary. Isabella, her every motion a dance of deadly intent, materializes a fire spear twice the size of her opponent right next to Kael. It's a manifestation of her wrath, the fiery lance of her indignation, poised to impale. But before the weapon can fulfill its purpose, Kael disappears from her sight, a vanishing act that feels like a mockery of her power.

Isabella spins, intuition dictating her actions rather than knowledge. She erects a magic shield behind her, not out of certainty but out of a gambler's chance, betting on the likeliest place an attack might come. Her lack of understanding, her inability to sense Kael's aura or predict his movements, grates at her. Her prowess with elemental magic unmatched, yet here she is, grappling with an unreadable foe. Her wand swipes through the air, tracing magic circles that come to life with a low hum, the preparations for a spell that could turn the tide.

Kael, unseen but ever-present, sees an opening. He lunges, a predator's grace in human form, and his fist connects with her spell as it's still forming. The electrical field, incomplete, fizzles out under the force of his strike. With a swift movement, he grabs her hand, forcing her wand to clatter to the ground, the sound echoing in the silence like a verdict. His other hand finds its mark in her gut, and she doubles over, blood staining her lips, a scarlet testament to Kael's precision.

Gasping, Isabella summons her resolve along with an array of chains, her magic lashing out in desperation. She gains precious distance, but it's a fleeting victory. Kael descends from above, his form a dark silhouette against the dim light filtering through the broken wall. The impact as he slams her into the floor is seismic, the ground yielding to his force.

But Isabella is not yet bested. With her adversary momentarily within her grasp, she sets a trap, her magic a flurry of incantations that sends countless attacks his way. Kael, however, endures the onslaught, his figure cutting through the magic as if it were no more than smoke, his resistance sowing seeds of doubt in Isabella's mind.

In an attempt to regroup, she envelops herself in a constant, shimmering shield, hoping to buy time, to strategize. Kael's response is immediate; a stomp that fractures the very floor beneath them, his strength an untamed beast that breaks through her defenses, his presence an undeniable force that renders her spells ineffective due to his constant intervention. 

Enraged, she unleashes large elemental blades in all directions, her magic running rampant as if to shred the very air. Silence befalls the gym, a heavy, waiting thing, punctuated only by the echoes of destruction. It's in this lull that Kael's voice, a quiet harbinger of the end, reaches her ears.

"Goodnight," he whispers, an intonation of finality, a simple farewell to the consciousness that slips away from her. Isabella's eyes close, her body going limp as the darkness claims her, the storm of her being finally stilled by the strategist who bested her without a trace of his own magic.