ALL NOVEL Chapter 108: Go Reds!
[🎶 Blame It On Me – POST MALONE.]
"I choose the redhead," said Olivar, the [Red Belt] warlock novice. Rafel recognized the young man's hands as the kind that found itself every morning to the leather of a boxing pouch, or perhaps it'd be more accurate to say bricks of a stone wall. Olivar's fists were chaffed and the knuckles and he joined them together as he made a snarling face.
"—what's the matter, Red! You scared?"
His use of the mock name, Red implied to Rafel's [Phoenix Arc] and his slick ginger top. Rafel stepped forward, giving a short yawn like he was bored. Poor Olivar didn't know who he pointed as challenger: a Blood Prince of the Underworld. One with an [A Rank] infernal system and [Divine] blood line.
Rafel had been in knife fights from the time he was old enough to count his balls.
"So, this is about jealousy, is it?" Rafel made back at the Red Belter.
Olivar Dshenko's snarky grin froze on his face. The Griffin Golds stopped cheering, and Olivar shot a look at the single clapping, wiry boy in huge glasses—he instantly took the hint and squeezed his fingers to a stop. Olivar's face contorted. "This isn't about jealousy, you narcissistic freak. Not everything is about you. No, this.
. .this is about proving yourself in the Guild, and not just in the Manifest chair.
Like Coach Tanaka said, you're a runt until you're not, no matter what the fuck the Arc Crystal says.
Your magic, fire or shadow, Raven or Phoenix, is no good here. You might have fooled everyone into thinking you're hotshit back as the Assembly Hall. Well, time to earn the title, Bloodthirsty. . ."
Olivar snorted, and a couple of laughs erupted from his boys in the Griffin Gold lines.
"It's BlüdThïrste!" Rafel slithered until he was nose to nose with the white-haired boy. He topped Olivar in height, and more anger seemed to flow into the Red Belter's eyes at that glaring fact. Rafel eased back an inch, but didn't break eye contact. He finished, "and that's good, Olivar. Malice is a stupid cause to fight for."
Olivar scoffed in his face. "So you fight for honor? Please, spare me the big hero speech! Save that shit for the political groupies at Titans Landing."
"No," replied Rafel darkly, a darkness swamping out the amber in his eyes, "I fight for the fucking fun of it.
Last chance to back out, Olivar?"
"Fuck you!" The [Red Belter] spat.
Coach Tanaka Hanzo's strict voice cut into the boy's headbutting, instructing them to take their places. "Alright, runts! Cut the macho shit. Let your strikes do the talking. Bump fists and walk to your ends of the ninja circle. First one to tap out loses.
Show me whose the larger pussy. Now go!"
Olivar and Rafel still exchanged deathly glares and solar flares for gazes, but they lifted their right arms and fistbumped in respect for the fight. A sleepy Valerian white rug with the crow crest was their stage for the combat. Rafel walked to the left end. And Olivar took the right.
The other students settled into cross-legged sitting positions on the glean floors in samurai fashion; a circle of steady eyes leveled on the boys rearing up to pose.
Olivar kicked his feet. "Oh, I'm gonna love this. I'm gonna beat you into a specific fucking arc!"
Snickers erupted from the watching circle of First Years roundabout. Their martial art uniforms mixed splendidly as all Arc colors blended in, students seated out their lines—like a vase of rich, imported bouquet from Philistia.
This fight was a chance for the would-be winner to bring first honor to his Arc. This ceremony was not quite forgotten, as it was recorded in the hearts of all witnesses—and gossiped in the halls, even by Fourth Years. This one moment would be a valued memory at their graduation [Silver Gladorium].
Perhaps, someone with a mage wand might even take a still pic and store it up, four years down the road.
The samurai dong sounded out.
DOOONNG!!!
"FIGHT!" called Coach Tanaka, now refree too.
Olivar D'shenko spared not a second. He lurched out of his [Flame Tiger] Taekwondo pose, speeding with barely visible feet across the rug to his waiting challenger. Rafel didn't move. He watched Olivar's running feet tap the ground in slow motion. The boy was much slower than he though—or perhaps it was just his [Cyclops Demon Eye].
Even in his current state of stasis in the [Third Infernal Circle], Olivar stood no chance against him. Rafel had once fought in the arena an opponent with the [Blessed] heel of the god, Mercury.
Long story short, Olivar's quickness was a snail's trail compared to that warrior's flight.
SWOON!
Rafel dodged the roundkick Olivar shot up to his face. He moved swift as lightning, to the side at the last second. Olivar's solid foot met with air. The boy quickly caught himself from flailing face first into the rug. Sure, the carpet—which felt like stomping on a Maldivian cat—would catch him, but not his pride.
Olivar pulled an expert backflip and sent out his hand.
SWISH!
Rafel was gone again, in an instant. Discover worlds on m-v le-mpyr
By now, the circle of students were watching intently. Not even the hiss of a cobra could distract their attention. Coach Tanaka paced around the fighting boys, studying each one's moves like a librarian with a new tome.
Olivar kept striking out with his ham hands, making such beautiful practiced moves of martial art that it was quite literal, art. And Rafel kept easing right out of every single one of his blows. It felt humiliating. Olivar couldn't keep the shame from his face. All the while, Rafel's hands was behind his back. It didn't help the situation of Olivar's ego.
The rush of fury entered the boy's eyes and he roared;
"Dammit, fucker. Fight back!"
Rafel took a simple step forward, and calmly pulled his hands out his back.
"As you wish, D'shenko."
SROOO. . .
Olivar jumped forward, pumping a superman punch in the air. Rafel could see the force of wind coming with the shoot of his fist. The fucker aimed for his windpipe. Idiot! Rafel caught the blow, pushing it aside with a flick of the wrist. Olivar was wide open at the abdomen.
Rafel took the shot.
BOOM!
A flash to his chest. A hard connection. Some grim sound of cracking ribs and a sternum. The pupils going wide at the terrible moment of clarity.
Olivar's body slammed into the floor of the Guild so hard the find rug split in the middle. The tremor of his collision made the student jump in their seats. Olivar was down. And he wasn't moving. He didn't even get the chance to tap out; sprawled like a bitch harlot in heat. Staring at the supine form of the defending [Red Belter], Rafel felt something cut within him.
He remembered something he'd said at the beginning:
'You fight for honor?'
'No, for the fucking fun of it.'
He moved in for the kill. Just like that, his mind was back in full hell mode; when he didn't stop until his opponents would never rise again from the sands of the arena. Rafel bent over Olivar. The boy coughed up, thick blood leaking out the corner of his mouth. Rafel could tell many things inside were already broken. But he wasn't done.
"You dared challenge me," he growled for Olivar's ears alone. "You picked a fucking awful time to do that, bitch!"
And suddenly, Rafel wasn't seeing Olivar's face any more, but the face of his enemy—Mephistopheles.
POW! POW! BANG! POW! POW!
The blows were swift and crushing.
Rafel pounded Olivar's body to a wreck. Many students gasped roundabout. He beat the boy to shit. "He's gonna kill him," a girl in Griffin Gold sobbed.
"STOP IT, MASTER BLÜDTHÏRSTE. ENOUGH!"
It was Coach Tanaka, yelling on top of her lungs, but she stayed clear away of the rug. It seemed like poor Olivar was going to get no saviour, but then, a wonderful beauty in the blues of [Pegasus Arc] rose quietly from her sitting position and stepped up to the fight circle. She was alluring and curved like a siren emerged from the ocean onto a ship's deck.
Aya Naamah, enchanting and calm, held up her hands to Rafel, saying in a voice that could soothe the tempest of sea;
"My Lord, it's me. . .your [Bond], Naamah. You have to stop, or he's gonna die. I know you don't want that. So please, for me, stop."
Apparently, her voice could also soothe the rage of a Hell Lord—because Rafel stopped pounding.
The bloodthirst cleared from his eyes. He raised up his fists and stared at the red leaking down his knuckles. Olivar was a mess under him. The gold of his doh-gi contrasted with the crimson pallor oozing out his clothes. Rafel rose up to his feet in his red, of clothes and bloodstains.
He smelled a great deal of fear in the Guild.
Olivar D'shenko would need a whole lot of healers and the best clinic space in the institute.
Rafel could hear a trickling pulse. Olivar was not dead. Good.
"I-I need a minute," Rafel stared down at the dropping blood from his fingers.
"THAT'S DETENTION FOR YOU, YOUNG MAN!"
The stricken Coach, Tanaka Hanzo yelled to Rafel's retreating back as students gawped in shock. This would certainly be the most gossiped warlock initiation practice of all time. Among the First Years, the Griffins were staring at the Phoenixes, but in respect more than anything else. Israfel Blüdthïrste had certainly put his crimson Arc way up there on the magical leaderboards.
Aya was already at Olivar's side, blue spirit magic glowing in her fingertips, as she tried to manage the terror her Lord Master had wrought on the boy.
Rafel's name would be ringing in all halls of the Academy before dinnertime.