"Are all the students here?" I asked.
The Director looked amused. He leaned slightly forward, as if indulging a dying man.
"Is that your final wish?" he asked.
"Maybe," I said calmly. "I just want to see the foolish students who wanted to kill me because of your speeches."
A ripple of laughter spread through the arena.
"If that's all," the Director replied, spreading his arms, "then yes. All of them are here—to see you fulfill that wish of yours."
The signal sounded.
The fight began.
At first, it looked even.
Light clashed against black. His power was refined, controlled, precise. Mine was heavy, unstable, violent. Each strike sent shockwaves through the arena. The crowd leaned forward, watching two forces collide.
For a moment, it almost looked like I could win.
Then the difference became clear.
My attacks landed—but they didn't matter. His defenses adapted. His counters grew sharper. Each exchange pushed me back a step. My breath grew heavy. My movements slowed.
I understood it then.
This was it.
I wasn't meant to win.
As his blade cut past my guard and sent me crashing into the ground, I raised my hand slightly—just enough.
Kazim saw it.
That was the signal.
The ground beneath the stands shimmered.
Before anyone could react, countless portals opened beneath the students' feet—perfectly aligned, perfectly timed. There were screams, confusion, hands reaching for nothing—
And then the seats were empty.
In seconds, the arena was hollow.
The Director froze.
On another world, the students reappeared—dropping gently onto stone-and-wood seats shaped by the greens. They were unharmed, restrained only by invisible barriers locking them safely in place. No weapons. No guards.
Just them.
And a massive screen lighting up the sky.
Kazim's voice echoed—not angry, not triumphant. Calm.
Footage began to play.
CCTV recordings. Academy logs. Transaction records. Cells. Chains. Summoners breaking down. Smiths collapsing. Children dragged away. Names crossed out. Assets sold.
Scenes of me followed—but not as a monster.
Rescues.
Evacuations.
Portals opening under prisoners.
Bodies of soldiers left behind—but never civilians.
The truth.
On one side of the screen, the students watched, silent, faces drained of color.
On the other side of the arena—
I was on my knees.
Bleeding.
Barely standing.
The Director looked around wildly, realization turning into fury.
"You—" he snarled.
In a blur, he was on me.
His arm locked around my neck, dragging me upright, a blade pressed against my throat. Pain flared as he tightened his grip.
"Release them," he shouted to the empty arena, voice cracking. "Send them back—now—or I will torture him until he begs for death. I won't kill him quickly. I promise you that."
Blood ran down my armor.
I didn't resist.
On the screen, the students watched.
They now knew I was innocent.
And they were watching me die for it.
The Director laughed shakily, desperation bleeding through his rage.
"You wanted to save them?" he whispered near my ear. "Then scream for them."
I stayed silent.
Because the trap wasn't finished yet.