## CHAPTER 12: The Reaping of Shadows
The sword-craft elective took place in the Academy's Western Bastion, a cavernous hall lined with weapon racks and paved with heavy, mana-absorbent slate. Here, the air was cold and heavy, thick with the scent of pine oil and the rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* of wooden practice blades.
Among the crowd of noble scions stood three of the five "Ordinaries": **Caspia, Silas, and Zerav.**
They presented a strange triptych of personalities. Caspian paced the perimeter with a broad, eager smile, his eyes darting from face to face as he tried to socialize, his optimism seemingly bulletproof despite the cold glares he received. Silas, by contrast, was a shadow. He stood far from the rest, his hood pulled low to isolate himself, radiating a silent "stay away" energy that most were happy to obey.
Then there was **Zerav**.
He stood motionless, his arms crossed, watching the duels with a look of profound irritation. Every time a student lunged with a standard-issue wooden longsword, Zerav's lip curled. To him, the repetitive thrusts and parries were unimaginative, almost offensive in their lack of flair.
When the call for "Weapon Selection" echoed through the hall, Zerav turned away from the sparring and walked toward the massive rectangular crates where the practice armory was kept. He bent over, his hands tossing aside dozens of perfectly balanced wooden swords.
"Trash... boring... standard..." he muttered.
Finally, his fingers brushed against something buried at the very bottom. He hauled it out, causing several swords to clatter to the stone floor. It was a strange, archaic piece of equipment—a long, sturdy staff with a wicked, curved wooden blade lashed to the end with reinforced cord. It was thick, heavy, and bore the unmistakable, terrifying silhouette of a scythe.
"Next fight!"
The instructor, **Master Erwin**, a man whose face was a map of old scars and stern discipline, stepped to the center of the elevated, box-shaped dueling tile. He consulted his ledger.
"**Zerav Clinton.**"
The murmurs began the moment Zerav's boots hit the elevated platform. The nobles leaned forward, their hushed voices filling the hall like the buzzing of hornets.
"A scythe? Is he a farmer?"
"He looks ridiculous. You can't parry a sword with that oversized rake."
Master Erwin paused, his eyes narrowing as he took in Zerav's choice.
"In all my years of teaching, I've never seen a student select a scythe," he thought privately. *Swords are the foundation of nobility, but as warriors grow, they find weapons that speak to their souls. I wonder... is this a joke, or does he actually know how to wield such a weapon?*
Zerav's opponent stepped onto the ring. He was a boy with shocking grey hair and eyes as white as clouded marble—a trait of the Storm-Eye lineage. Unlike the previous bullies, this boy had a wide, genuine grin on his face, though it was fueled by the sheer absurdity of the matchup. He held a wooden longsword with practiced ease, knowing that in close-quarters combat, a sword's versatility far outweighed the cumbersome reach of a scythe.
The boy's gaze met Zerav's. The opponent looked excited, ready for a game; Zerav just looked bored.
"Ready..." Master Erwin yelled, his hand slicing through the air.
"**FIGHT!**"
The Storm-Eye boy didn't hesitate. He boosted forward, his boots glowing with a faint blue light as he sought to close the distance instantly. His strategy was sound: get inside the "dead zone" of the scythe, where the long handle would become a liability, and strike without mercy.
Zerav didn't panic. As the boy lunged, Zerav began to move backward in a slow, hypnotic circle. He spun the scythe with a casual flick of his wrists, the wooden blade humming as it cut through the air, creating a barrier of rotating wood.
The opponent was restless, pushing harder. He raised his sword and swung a heavy vertical strike. Zerav, moving with superhuman clarity, pivoted to his left. The sword whistled past his ear, missing by a fraction of an inch. The boy spun, using the momentum for a horizontal follow-up, but Zerav was already gone.
With a sudden burst of speed, Zerav spun the scythe to his right. The wooden shaft collided with the sword with a bone-jarring *crack*. They stayed locked in place, wood groaning against wood. The boy glared at Zerav with a terrifying, focused intensity, but Zerav simply stared back. His eyes were dull, vacant. There was no excitement in him.
Displaying his hidden, superhuman strength, Zerav didn't push with his arms. Instead, he snapped his leg forward in a lightning-fast kick. The blow caught his opponent squarely in the chest.
The boy flew backward, his feet leaving the tiles as he struck the ground and rolled across the slate. He struggled to his feet, gasping for air, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unbridled rage.
"How?" the boy hissed, the grin replaced by a snarl. "How could I be struggling against a nobody? A commoner with a farming tool?"
"Haaaaaaaa!"
In a fit of temper, the boy threw his wooden sword to the ground. He didn't need it anymore. He thrust his right hand forward, and a swirling blue sphere of concentrated mana appeared in his palm. It crackled with erratic electricity—a high-level
"Impact Shell."
He charged again, his hand held back like a pitcher preparing a throw. As he reached Zerav, he thrust the glowing sphere toward Zerav's chest.
Zerav acted with surgical precision. He didn't retreat. He reached out, his hand snapping shut around the boy's wrist like a steel trap. He hoisted the boy's arm high into the air, keeping the volatile energy sphere far above his head.
The boy let out a choked cry, his face turning red as he tried to pull his arm free from Zerav's crushing grip. He was trapped.
Zerav raised his wooden scythe, the curved blade glinting under the hall's magical lanterns, preparing to end the match with a single downward stroke. But the boy was desperate. He lunged forward, his free hand grabbing the shaft of the scythe, refusing to let go.
The two were locked in a deadly stalemate. The boy began to scream as he channeled every ounce of his mana into the sphere in his trapped hand. The blue ball grew larger, pulsing with a violent, unstable light that hissed and spat sparks. The pressure increased exponentially, the magical heat beginning to singe Zerav's sleeve.
Zerav stared at the growing ball of destruction, his eyes narrowed. He knew that if he let go, the blast would level the ring; if he held on, he'd have to find a way to neutralize the energy before it reached the breaking point.
The air between them began to hum with the weight of the coming explosion.