Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School (126/?) WiP 1

Author’s Note 1: Hey everyone! Here is the Work in Progress for Chapter 126 I hope you guys enjoy! :D

Author’s Note 2: I’ve also attached the PDF and EPUB versions of the WiP, since Patreon is still working on a solution for the recent bug!

The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. The Hall of Champions. Local Time: 1205 Hours.

Qiv

Entertainment.

This was simply entertainment at its finest. 

The earthrealmer versus the pronarthiarealmer. 

The battle of the brutes.

The struggle of the uncivilized.

The expectant ends of the two extremes of barbarism, held within what could hardly be called a challenge, but instead the last remnants of a barbaric practice. 

Physical violence, and indeed any sort of physical exertion wherein the sapient were reduced to their flesh and body, was an activity unbefitting of the modern sapient. 

And yet… I found myself incapable of looking away from such brutish ambitions; finding this confrontation to be inexplicably tantalizing, 

Does this not make me, in a roundabout sense, an accomplice of the uncivilized? 

Perhaps it does.

But alas, such thoughts are best reserved for the drawing room. 

Because in the halls — this stadium of political ambition, it would be action which would come to dictate one’s place in the greater games. 

And in this case, it was the fate of the foolish Ping’s reputation that was on the line. 

Though, perhaps that was the real cause behind my investment in this display of barbarism. The fact that his losses were my gains weren’t lost on me, nor anyone paying attention for that matter. Indeed, in a strange twist of fate, I now found my interests aligning with the newrealmer of all people. 

Now the earthrealmer… that was a wildcard that I truly had no bearings on. 

Her enigmatic nature extended to her aims, in spite of all her self-reported claims to the contrary. 

Though frankly, it mattered little what her aims were in the grand scheme of things. Her very nature was an element of self-sabotage, and her actions spoke little to her aims in the greater games. So long as she remained a thorn in Lord Ping’s side, then she would remain useful in my eyes.

Lord Rostarion was adamant about that fact.

However, these thoughts, amidst many others, soon faded into the background as the Waltz began in earnest.

My eyes, non-elven as they were, remained poised on Ping’s opening moves.

The extent of which could only be described in a word befitting of the man himself — uninspired.

The man had augmented his form, yet had only elected to barrel forwards, resulting in the newrealmer sidestepping his opening assault in one effortless motion. 

This was… impressive, for reasons similar to the prior week’s gauntlet. However, I pushed those reservations aside for now, as it was clear Lord Ping wasn’t done with the newrealmer just yet.

Though it was his next move that truly drew attention not just from me, but the discerning eyes amidst the crowd. 

His next move, perhaps out of desperation, was to augment his physicality beyond what should have been necessary.

I could feel, even from here, the desperation in the sheer influx of mana into the man’s manafield. A growth of potential in both magical energy and an emboldened will, would surely result in the newrealmer’s demise. Or at the very least, the ability to actually make contact with this manaless beast.

This assuredness however… wavered. 

As unlike the zealous Ping, my mind dared to contradict proof of the impossible. 

Though frankly, the conflict of interest within me proved far too divergent to make heads or tails of this matchup.

I watched on, my brows narrowing, as I shifted my focus entirely away from my manasight to the corporeal world before me.

I dared not blink as I felt a surge of energy erupting from the field below.

The man had surged forward, his form nothing short of perfect, his tactics blunt and unforgiving, his victory seeming assured—

And yet… in spite of this, the earthrelamer was still able to react.

The sight was jarring. As I witnessed not a waltz, but a one-sided ballet. 

The Crimson Waltz’s namesake was drawn from the back and forths between the manafields of attacker and defender in question. With the former party attempting to obfuscate their manafields, and the latter attempting to sense and interact with the former’s in order to predict the course of an attack.

This ebb and flow of mana betwixt two adversaries painted a stunning display of light magic that the ancients likened to a waltz.

Yet all of that was absent here. 

Instead, what replaced it was nothing short of equal parts absurdity and foreboding.

A fact that continued, and was exemplified, as I watched as Lord Ping finally made contact with the newrealmer… only to be tackled up and over her uncompromising form.

There was no beauty nor grace in the earthrealmer’s movements. No sense of the martial arts to overcome the deadness of her lack of participation in this waltz. Indeed, there was an overwhelming, nigh, overbearing, sense of frigidness in each and every one of her movements after her first evasion. 

It was a coldness that bordered on lifelessness, a trait that I could only ascribe to the inanimate. 

The earthrealmer had replaced even the grace of movement with a cold calculating efficiency which extended to each and every one of her grapples.

It was… frightening in a sense. Especially when one took into consideration the lack of a palpable manafield, and the deadness of her armor.

A borderline sense of dread threatened to overtake me, as I watched the incorporeal tendrils of Ping’s manafield grappling and siphoning mana at distressing rates. Only to see these efforts result in assured defeat.

THWWOOOMP!

Time—

THUD!

—and time—

BONK!

—and time again.

Each defeat, seemingly at the hands of a being that simply did not care.

It was this… casualness of callousness, coupled with a lack of participation in the manafield waltz that truly beckoned a menacing aura from the newrealmer.

Though strangely, this didn’t seem to be the only peculiarity of the afternoon’s proceedings, as my eye spotted movement from the bleachers below.

My browridge quirked upwards as I spotted Lord Etholin Esila, approaching Lady Ladona of all people.

The match clearly wasn’t even over, and yet… there seemed to already be a preemptive discussion on the outcome of the challenge.

It was a shame both were wise enough to deploy a privacy screen before I could discern anything else.

Though despite that, one thing remained abundantly clear to me — whatever the outcome, I would remain a spectator to somebody’s fall.

The Transgracian Academy for the Magical Arts. The Hall of Champions. Local Time: 1225 Hours.

Chiska

I smelled blood in the air. Proverbial blood, but blood all the same.