The Girl Who Throws Fire

For a moment, everyone stays quiet, until the two girls sitting at the very back start whispering.

"He seems… odd. You sure he is just a Seed-E student?"

"Just look at how skinny he is. No matter how you slice it, he's still as useful as a used toilet paper."

Atniel tries to tune out the whispers circling behind him, but it's like they follow the tilt of his head.

He looks back, they go quiet. The moment he shifts his gaze forward, the mockery swells again. Most of them think they're being subtle. But they're not.

"He's still got piss in his hair," one girl giggles behind a raised palm.

"I swear I can smell it," another rubs her nose with a cringed face.

His jaw tightens as irritation bubbles up. As a former holy knight, a wise philosopher who once upheld divine law, this grates on Irvine more than he'd like to admit.

Atniel knows this boy whose body he borrows has already endured so much. And these girls, they treat the boy's suffering as entertainment, like some grotesque little comedy.

"Mathias should've peed in his mouth," a girl tries to stifle a laugh.

"He probably liked it. Bet he's into that."

"That's the 'honor' of Seed E. Trash-born, piss-blessed."

And finally, their restrained snickering pushes Atniel over the edge.

"Be quiet!" he snaps, voice booming down the length of the bus.

The air seems to recoil. The windowpanes rattle from the force of it. Even the suspension creaks as the driver slams the brakes in surprise, lurching everyone forward with a groan of rubber and metal.

"Do you have any idea what this kid has gone through?!!"

Every head turns.

Only the driver, grizzled and unimpressed, glances up in the rearview mirror like he's too old to care whether a student's possessed or just poorly socialized.

"Hey, kid! You gone nuts or something?"

Atniel blinks, only now remembering where he is, or more importantly, who he's pretending to be.

This isn't a holy tribunal. This is a bus full of academy students. And he's currently inhabiting the body of the most ridiculed one among them.

Whispers bubble back to life as recognition sets in among the passengers.

"Elea, did you see that? That came from him," someone hisses.

"There's no way... He's just a Seed E recruit, isn't he?"

Though still spoken in a whisper, the words reach Atniel with unnerving clarity. And the realization stings more than it should. Irvine is not the kind of boy anyone expects to lash out, let alone hurl a voice full of molten fury through a steel bus.

Atniel raises his hands with a crooked, half-hearted smile, the heat still lingering in his voice. "Sorry. Let's all just... forget I said anything. Maybe we enjoy the ride quietly, no more whispering, no more mockeries, 'kay?"

But peace was never meant for this bus.

A girl stands slowly from her seat with the deliberate grace of someone who expects to be obeyed. Tall, lean, and glowing with athletic confidence, she draws the eyes of the entire cabin.

"Elea…?"

"Oh, no! He's dead!"

Crimson hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid, golden eyes sharp as arrowheads. Her sleeveless battle vest reveals defined shoulders and a flat, muscular midriff.

Her thighs are bare beneath her extra-short military shorts, smooth, tan, and lined with the kind of lean muscle that speaks of rigorous combat training. She stares at him with the kind of disdain one might reserve for rotten food.

"You got something to say about how I talk to my friends, punk?"

Atniel gives her a lazy once-over. There's something familiar in her stance; those pointed ears, calves wrapped in thick white fur, like she's wearing winter socks tailored by a mountain goat.

"That look and that much arrogance… So, you are a descendant of Princess Louisia, huh?" he mutters with a crooked smile, letting the name roll off his tongue like an old, dusty curse.

Elea freezes for a moment, catching the subtle note of disdain in his voice. It's unmistakable, someone just spoke ill of her ancestor, the sainted matriarch of the mountain elves.

She doesn't take the dismissal lightly, and steps forward.

"What… what did you say?!"

One of the other girls reaches to grab her arm. "Elea, don't! You'll cause a scene!"

Elea shrugs off the hand and bares her teeth. "Shut up! This guy has just mocked my ancestor. He needs a lesson in manners!"

Atniel throws her a bored look over his shoulder. "Funny. A girl barely dressed for decency, yet she claims the right to lecture on virtue. Remarkable."

That does it. She hisses under her breath, her hand already going for her collar. From beneath the flap of her battle vest, she produces a compact military blade.

Atniel's brows twitch. "Oh, you wanna kill me now?"

But she simply slices her own thumb cleanly. The blood, still fresh, she smears across the small socket embedded at the tip of her collar—a jewel-shaped gem with nine triangular facets along its surface, the base hidden inside the cloth.

The moment her blood makes contact, she begins to chant, words ancient and foreign, twisted into the arcane rhythm of the demonic verses.

"Nueyr, Ceva Jegambuqam... Zafikag recijis jejuasamlal..."

Atniel's eyes narrow. He recognizes the tongue, recognizes the language.

"…Ci asar alaqag xamf recamf lelzaqa!"

The gem glows. One facet flares red, bright, momentary.

The passengers begin to panic as the air around Elea warps with heat. From her palm, a small flame ignites and spirals into form, compressing into a tight, fiery sphere.

"Elea, stop!" a voice cuts through.

Aezel, white-haired and cold-eyed, rises from her seat with barely veiled disgust. "You seriously used a soul charge of your gem... for this? You could've knocked him flat with your knuckle."

Elea's lips curl into a grin. "It's just a cheap gem," she replies. "I'll let him off easy."

Aezel's hands clench at her sides, but it's already too late.

"Emberflare Aetherstorm!" Elea roars, hurling the flame projectile.

Screams erupt. The bus fills with cries and scrambling limbs as the students duck and cower, most covering their heads, some close their eyes entirely.

Except for Atniel.

He stands calmly. With his right hand, he draws spirit energy from the depth of his divine soul. Not mana. Not corrupted magic. Something purer. A faint shimmer runs through his fingers, soft and stable.

Aezel sees it, her eyes widen slightly. Whatever energy flows through that hand, it isn't anything she's ever studied.

But she doesn't see what happens next.

No one does.

As the fireball rushes toward him, Atniel waits. Then, with a light, precise jab, with his knuckles barely grazing the air, he releases the built-up spirit heat.

Zff!

The fireball scatters, light erupting like broken glass in midair. His strike connects invisibly with its core. And just like that, the fireball vanishes.

No impact.

No burn.

Just a burst of light and a few floating embers.

The students, still shielding their faces, assume it fizzled out. One even giggles nervously, thinking Elea must've messed up the chant.

"Eh…?"

"Did she fail to conjure the fireball?"

But Elea knows better. Her smirk falters as she stares at the dying embers.

"What just… happened?"

The old bus driver, blissfully unaware of what Atniel just pulled off, still has the nerve to bark at him.

"Brat! I've been generous enough to ignore the filth and stink you dragged in. Now get off my bus!"

Atniel brushes his right hand against his thigh as if flicking off invisible dust, and then steps off the bus without another word.

No one realizes what he's done.

And honestly, that's how he prefers it.

But Elea, clearly not satisfied, conjures another fireball above her palm.

"You… how dare you turn your back on me," she hisses.