“You know,” Professor Willow said, his voice echoing through the forest clearing, “I say I’m a Vanguard, but to be honest, the class system doesn’t really bind me. I can fill any role I damn well please.” He rested a hand on the long spear by his side, eyes glinting with amusement. “Need me as a Berserker? I’ll crush you in close combat. Need a Tank? Nothing breaks my guard. I can throw spears quicker and deadlier than any Ranger’s arrows. Assassination? Child’s play, I’ve silenced mafia bosses without them even knowing who ended them. And if I really wanted, I could Summon, Buff, and Debuff just as well as anyone else. The only thing I can’t do is heal… so don’t expect a patch-up after I beat you into the ground.”
A hush fell over the group, each member absorbing the cocky declaration. Overhead, sunlight wove through the canopy, catching motes of dust and dappled leaves. In that filtered light, the professor’s armor glinted ominously, like a steel promise of violence.
Isaac was the first to act, unwilling to let Willow’s braggadocio go unchallenged. The blood-etched magic circles on his arms flashed with crimson energy, and a swarm of ghoul hands burst into existence around him. Each gnarled, patchwork limb lashed out at Willow with frenzied force.
Willow’s smile deepened, his spear at the ready. He watched, almost languidly, as the ghoul hands swarmed. Then in a single sweep of his weapon, he shredded them, dark fingers dissolving mid-air into roiling wisps of blood. “Is that all?” he murmured, feigning disappointment.
His nonchalance was infuriating. The others took their turns, testing him with quick slashes and bursts of power. Lyra launched arcs of lightning, Karma conjured a swirling mass of fire spirits, but Willow simply parried and sidestepped with fluid ease. He barely moved his feet, batting aside each assault, almost bored.
“Guess I should warm up too,” Willow finally remarked, settling into a more aggressive stance. A predatory gleam shone in his eyes. “Let’s make this more interesting. Ability activate—Trumpeter.”
In an instant, a glimmering golden trumpet materialized in his hand. He lifted it to his lips, yet no one could hear a single note. Instead, a sudden pressure seemed to crush the surrounding air, and a dull ringing filled their ears, enough to make them hiss in pain as faint droplets of blood trickled from some of their eardrums.
“Awaken, Famine,” Willow intoned, his voice echoing unnaturally despite the quiet.
A wave of invisible force swept across the clearing. Only Isaac, focusing his demonic eye, could see the monstrosity that materialized behind Willow. The thing looked like a half-starved corpse granted wretched life, its skin a sickly green clinging tight to its bones, fungal growths sprouting from its sunken skull. It wore a tattered cloak that dripped with pestilential ooze instead of fabric. Where legs should have been, a serpentine tail of skeletal bones trailed behind it, scraping the dirt.
Eyes empty and hollow, the creature cradled a basket of rotten apples in clawed, black-nailed fingers. A rancid green vapor seeped from its maw, the stench of decay curling in the air. As Willow finished the summoning, the monstrous figure drifted forward like a herald of plague.
A chill shot down Isaac’s spine. Even though only he could see it, everyone felt the suffocating aura that Famine exuded, an oppressive dread that suggested an ancient hunger, bound in service to Professor Willow’s command.
Willow lowered his phantom trumpet, the corners of his mouth curled into a confident smirk. “Now,” he said, scanning their tense faces, “let’s see if you’re worth all that trash-talk.”
Famine hissed softly, lifting a basket of decaying apples, each one mottled with sickly green veins. One by one, it crushed the fruit between its bony claws, the rotten pulp melding into a viscous, black liquid. With eerie grace, Famine hurled glob after glob of the liquefied apples at the gathered students.
No one, not even Isaac with his demonic eye, could fully evade the barrage. The sticky black paste clung to clothes and flesh, burning with a searing, acidic sting. Their lungs felt tight as soon as it touched them, breathing became a labored task.
Willow’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he surveyed their discomfort. “I’ll be generous enough to explain,” he said, voice carrying over the crackle of distant fire and the thunder of clashing steel. “Any physical activity you try will consume more of your stamina, and using your abilities will drain extra mana. Consider it a parting gift from Famine.”
Before Isaac could respond, Willow lunged with his crimson-tipped spear. The blade slashed at Isaac’s torso, yet it stopped short of a fatal blow, as though weakened. Willow frowned, exerting a sudden burst of force that cleaved off Isaac’s arm, sending droplets of blood spraying across the nearby ferns, and then drove a brutal kick into Isaac’s face.
Isaac staggered backward, pain roaring through his senses. With a ragged gasp, he summoned a ghoul to snatch his severed arm, pressing it back against his shoulder. Tendrils of regenerating blood spliced the limb into place, leaving him panting but whole once more.
“Keep your ability up,” Isaac hissed through clenched teeth, cutting him off. “I’ll tell you when. Until then, use it on everyone.” He made sure not to name Karma outright, preserving some semblance of secrecy.
Not far away, Markus drew in a shaky breath, his lungs still struggling under Famine’s curse, and thrust out his regalia, conjuring threads that snaked around Willow’s spear arm. He tried to bind Willow in place, but the sluggishness in his limbs sapped his strength. Either Famine’s dark power or Willow’s cunning left him feeling weaker than he expected.
Meanwhile, Karma hung back, weaving a subtle spell of his own. His eyes flicked to each skirmish, carefully sapping the force behind attacks. Stockpile, his ability, allowed him to siphon power from the battlefield, weakening both friend and foe so that he could later amplify someone’s strike at a critical moment.
Willow parried Markus’s binding threads, rolling his shoulders in mild annoyance. “So there’s a debuffer among you. How… inconvenient.” His scowl deepened as Xander charged in, fist cocked for a punishing blow. Karma had deliberately spared Xander from his Stockpile effect, letting the Berserker’s unbridled will remain intact.
Xander’s gauntlet slammed into Willow’s chest, the impact echoed with a dull thud. Willow staggered back a step, genuine surprise flashing in his eyes. Before he could counterattack, Kenji flung a newly forged shield toward Xander, glimmering with protective enchantments. Xander, never one to show gratitude, grunted brusquely, “Thanks… bastard,” as he used it to block Willow’s retaliatory strike.
High above them, Adam Willow leapt into the air, seizing strands of his hair to fashion them into spears. Each twisted spear whirled in a deadly arc toward the group. Mars and Kenji combined their abilities, Mars shaping souls into ephemeral weapons, Kenji forging replicas from memory, to meet the onslaught midair. Sparks flew as conjured blades collided with Willow’s spines, shards of metal and mist scattering across the forest floor.
Observing this furious exchange, June spread her phoenix wings, ignoring the painful curse draining her strength. She channeled the warming flames of rebirth, radiating a gentle heat that began to burn away the black paste covering her allies. As the curse lifted from their skin, she heard them gasp in renewed relief.
“Good work, June,” Mars called out, summoning a massive greatsword of soul-forged steel and diving at Willow, the curse’s malaise mostly gone from his veins.
Willow parried with smooth efficiency, stepping away to let Famine reassert its curse. The invisible specter loomed behind him, preparing to fling more of its rotten apple mixture. Willow’s expression was tinged with smug calculation—he was content to let June waste her energy on purifying curses rather than saving it for healing. After all, in a drawn-out fight, stamina and mana were often the deciding factors.
Lyra stood at the edge of the chaotic fray, heart pounding as she readied her final, decisive move. All around her, the forest crackled with tension. Spears clashed against enchanted shields, lightning spat across the canopy, and the oppressive aura of Famine’s curse pressed on the group like a physical weight.
Yet Lyra’s focus never wavered. She clenched her teeth, muscles coiled, and quietly channeled the roiling storm in the sky above. Flickers of electricity danced along her arms, crackling with unspent power. She was waiting—watching for the perfect opening.
Professor Willow, high above, lunged into the air again, his hair-turned-spears swirling around him in a whirling dervish of deadly intent. June, realizing Lyra’s imminent plan, closed her eyes and summoned every ounce of her phoenix-based healing flame. With a burst of soothing warmth, she purged the curse clinging to Lyra’s body, freeing her from Famine’s draining grasp.
That was all Lyra needed.
“Get ready,” Isaac commanded, his voice ringing out through the clearing. “Release the stockpile!”
Nearby, Karma nodded. He exhaled and opened his hands, letting out the pent-up power he had meticulously siphoned from both friend and foe. Energy rippled outward—a pulse of raw might intensifying the swirl of thunderclouds overhead. A violent wind whipped through the forest, sending leaves spinning into the gloom, as the heavens rumbled in response.
A furious storm began to coil, converging with pinpoint accuracy around the airborne Willow. The sky flickered between shades of purple and white, each peal of thunder reverberating through the ancient oaks. Lyra’s eyes burned with a fierce determination as she let the power of the storm sink into her very being. Her draconic heritage awakened in a flash of brilliance, iridescent scales rippled across her arms and legs, and her horns elongated into elegant spirals. Azure sparks crackled around her, making the air taste like ozone and salt, as if the sea itself had taken form in her veins.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
The wind howled, the ground trembled. Lyra raised her hand skyward, her voice thunderous as it cut through the tumult,
“Trump Card—Skyfall!”
A monstrous bolt of lightning, surging with every color of the rainbow, tore from the storm’s heart. Cracks of pastel lightning branched outward, each branching fork glimmering with the combined energies of her dragon form, Karma’s Stockpile, and June’s healing spark. In that single moment, the storm’s wrath manifested as a cosmic hammer, descending upon Willow with a godlike force.
It struck him dead-on, bathing the sky in blinding light. The impact detonated in a cacophony that drowned out every other sound, the roar of thunder so deafening that it pressed on the chest and rattled the teeth. As the flash subsided, Willow plummeted from the heavens, trailing smoke, his spears dissolving mid-air, snuffed out by the sheer magnitude of the blast.
For a breathless second, nobody moved. Willow’s body crashed into the leaf-strewn earth with a dull thud, skidding a few feet before coming to a stop. His black armor was scorched, smoking tendrils rising from the molten edges of metal. The mighty Sentinel—this fearsome professor who seemed invincible—lay sprawled, struggling to push himself upright, shock plain on his usually stoic features.
Around them, the forest quieted to a stunned hush. June’s wings fluttered gently, sending faint embers dancing, while Karma slowly lowered his hands, the last of his Stockpile drifting away like a fading echo. Isaac, still grimacing in pain from Famine’s curse, tried to catch his breath, a glint of triumph in his eyes as he steadied himself.
Lyra lowered her arm, the last traces of dragon-scale flickering off her body. She swallowed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, adrenaline still surging. A small, satisfied smile curved her lips.
She had done it, they had done it. Willow was down, at least for now, and the forest, for all its shadows and terrors, momentarily bowed to the power of their alliance.
A hush fell as smoke curled off Professor Willow’s scorched armor. Even with his chest heaving, he let out a wild, throaty laugh, one that sent a chill through the battered students. “Holy fuck, that was strong,” he wheezed, his smoldering eyes filled with twisted amusement. “I’m not sure how Leonardo or that newcomer Mr. E would handle that, but it’d have easily roasted Fraser. Once again, it seems I was a fool for holding back.”
Nearby, Lyra gulped, her breath ragged from unleashing her trump card. Sweat trickled down her brow; she had poured so much into that lightning strike, and yet, here was Willow—still upright, cackling in near-delirious glee. The rest of the group shared her disbelief, their expressions shadowed by exhaustion and the eerie glow of the lingering storm.
Meanwhile, in the Headmaster’s Office, the professors were enveloped in an awestruck silence. All eyes were locked on the floating screen showing the forest battlefield.
“He’s still holding back,” Fraser muttered, knuckles whitening as he gripped the back of a chair. “Good God, how strong is he?”
Headmaster Ashe sipped his tea with calm poise, though the faint tremor in his free hand betrayed his excitement. “Adam is a pure monster. He hasn’t even summoned all four of his apocalypses, nor tapped into his black mist abilities.” Ashe’s voice carried the barest hint of reverent delight. “I’d love to see if, at full power, he could challenge you, Doctor.”
Dr. Sanguine, seated leisurely across from them, waved the idea away with a dismissive hand. “Tch. I left him in shambles our first time around. Sure, he didn’t use all of his summons, but I doubt the outcome would change now.”
Professor Jupiter folded his arms, his gaze unwavering on the scene. “It still baffles me how Deon replaced the Spear Lord while we have a monster like Willow wandering around.”
Each professor remained on the edge of their seat, drawn into the lethal dance below.
In the forest clearing, Adam Willow rolled his neck, charred armor creaking ominously. Smoke drifted around him in lazy tendrils, evidence of Lyra’s scorching thunderbolt. Yet even in his singed state, there was no trace of surrender—only excitement.
“Let me share something with you,” Willow said, voice alive with a perilous gleam. “My regalias, fused as they are, grant my spears certain special properties. I can form a spear out of anything, and once thrown, it’ll always hit its target, punching through any defense. So unless you can parry or conjure some special trick like Kenji has, you’re as good as dead.” A small smirk tugged at his burned lips. “Remember that. I’m done playing around.”
Before anyone could respond, Willow reached behind him, his gloved hand clasping around the writhing spine of Famine. The invisible specter let out a tortured scream that ricocheted through the clearing. A collective shudder rippled through the students’ ranks as Famine, now forced into view, was revealed to be a grotesque abomination of bone and rot, its greenish skin clinging to emaciated limbs. Drops of decaying liquid splashed across the grass, where they sizzled and withered any plant life unlucky enough to catch them.
Realizing its fate, Famine dropped its rotten apples, batting them away with frantic urgency to avoid injuring Willow. In agonized protest, it shrank and contorted, its body dissolving into a spear’s shape. A hissing swirl of greenish-mist coiled around the forming weapon, culminating in a gruesome length of bone, most likely a spine, tipped with a broken-jawed skull. The eye sockets glowed faintly, and a menacing spearhead jutted from the ruined cranium.
Professor Willow let out a soft chuckle as he hefted the macabre weapon, giving it a lazy twirl as though testing its balance. Each slow spin exuded a sickening miasma, leaving the students faintly dizzy.
“Time to see if that magnificent strike you did was your last hurrah,” Willow murmured, amusement dancing in his smoldering gaze. “Because I promise you—this next move won’t be so gentle.”
A raspy croak sounded from the transformed spear in Willow’s hands—a black apple, slick with foul-smelling residue, emerged from the gaping throat of the skull embedded in the spear’s tip. Willow pierced the apple with the spearhead, the crimson metal coating it in glistening, inky sludge. A malignant aura pulsed from the weapon, coiling through the forest air like a venomous serpent.
He sprang toward Mars with uncanny speed. Mars barely had time to raise his weapon before Willow’s spear cut a jagged line across his chest. A burst of foul poison seared into Mars’ veins, eliciting a raw scream of agony. Black markings spread like spiderweb cracks over his face, throbbing with each labored breath.
“June can cleanse my curses, Kenji can block my blows,” Willow muttered under his breath, taking measure of his opponents. “They both need to be removed first.”
“Mars!” June cried out. Without hesitation, she darted forward, wings aflutter with phoenix fire. Her wings glowed brightly as she channeled healing energy, ready to purge the festering curse.
Intent on preventing June’s success, Willow lunged once again—but Isaac cut him off, intercepting with a vicious slash that forced Willow to shift his stance. “Mid-class demon, Possessed Weapon!” Isaac roared. A large bident materialized from the swirling magic symbol, its wicked prongs glinting with unholy energy. With a deft command, Isaac hurled the bident at Willow, followed by a rapid volley of identical conjured weapons streaking through the air.
“Thank you,” June breathed, taking advantage of Isaac’s cover to focus on purifying the curse. Her phoenix flames washed over Mars, banishing the black markings little by little.
“N-no problem,” Isaac stammered, flustered yet resolute. “I have to keep our healer safe.”
Sensing an opportunity, Xander and Markus rushed in on Willow. In a blur of motion, Willow vaulted backward, hurling his spear upwards. Markus’ threads ripped into him, but Willow’s armor and deadly grace spared him any crippling blow. In a flash, Willow snatched Xander’s head in a crushing grip. He slammed Xander against a massive oak with such force that the trunk groaned and splintered on impact. Before the Berserker could even cry out, he vanished in a swirl of teleportation magic, instantly ejected from the exam. The tree collapsed in a storm of leaves and creaking wood, standing as a testament to Willow’s ruthless strength.
The spear Willow had hurled into the air spun like a hungry predator, its jagged skull-tip throbbing with malevolent energy as it locked onto Markus. At the last second, Markus invoked his Compass ability to redirect the spear’s deadly trajectory. Though he narrowly avoided being skewered, the blade still slashed his cheek, leaving him gritting his teeth in agony. Black markings crept across his skin as Famine’s curse dug its claws into him. From across the clearing, June, still tending to Mars, could only watch in dismay.
With his weapon recovered, Willow closed in on Markus, spear raised for a killing blow. But the professor had overlooked one crucial detail. Though descended from the Primordial Madness, Lovecraft, through his mother’s lineage, Markus’s father’s bloodline connected him to Randall Ashborn, the world’s Second Apocalypse—a legacy granting him near-immunity to curses and corruption after the initial shock. Now that his body had adjusted to the pain, he was free to fight.
“Hey, old man,” Markus called out, voice echoing with grim determination as he clutched the golden ring at his neck. “I summon you in body alone—grant me your power, but keep your knowledge. I want to fight as myself. Soul Release!”
The air instantly plummeted into biting cold, frost spiderwebbing across the ground. Trees cracked and splintered under the sudden chill, their branches glazed in shimmering ice. Markus’s tentacle-like hair turned snow-white, each strand moving with alien grace, and his sclera blackened to a terrifying pitch. A pair of black angelic wings burst from his back, feathers edged with lethal shards of ice. The ring fused into his skin in a flash of eerie light, and from the swirling gusts of frozen air, Markus summoned a massive sword of glacial ice. Ancient runes glowed across its surface, each pulse radiating raw, elemental power.
“This man can’t be caught off-guard,” Markus growled, hefting the sword, “and I can’t safely redirect his attacks. So I’ll act as a Berserker—no mercy!”
He lunged at Willow with a snarl, ice crystals trailing in his wake. But Willow’s attention had already shifted. In a blur of motion, he spat another black apple from the spear’s skull. It shot toward Markus, who twisted away to dodge. Willow used that momentary distraction to hurl his spear straight at Kenji with breathtaking speed.
Kenji raised his shield, newly enchanted by his own Enchantment ability, prepared to meet the attack. Yet Willow performed an unexpected twist of his regalia, warping Kenji’s shield into a spear. Turning an enemy’s shield into a potent weapon normally might prove disadvantageous to him—but for Kenji, who desperately needed its protection, this sabotage spelled doom. With no shield to block the spear’s lethal thrust, Kenji vanished in a burst of mana, back to the gymnasium—eliminated from the exam.
“Damn it,” Isaac hissed, biting hard on his fingernail as frustration gnawed at him. “I could stand losing Xander, but Kenji’s defense was crucial. We needed him.”
Willow’s grin gleamed across the frost-rimed clearing, his eyes glinting with dangerous glee. “That’s two down,” he said softly, letting his words hang in the frigid air. “Six to go.”
A tense silence stretched between them as the group realized their precarious situation. Frost crackled underfoot, and the malignant aura of Famine still lingered. Whether by cunning or brute force, Willow seemed unassailable—yet the fires of determination still burned in the hearts of those who remained.