The Extra's Rise

It's always worth asking yourself: what decides a fight?

Mana? Talent? Technique? Or maybe sheer stubborn determination to not fall over before the other guy does?

Facing the third-year student across from me, it felt like a question that needed a deeper exploration. He had the calm confidence of someone who knew he had an unfair advantage and wasn't embarrassed about it. Integration-rankers had three times the mana quality and quantity compared to those of us still clawing at the barrier between White and Integration. It was as if we were all playing the same game, except his dice went up to twenty and mine only managed six—on a good day.

Not that I didn't have a few tricks tucked up my sleeve, mind you. Erebus, Lucent Harmony, my pair of ancient artifacts—these would comfortably have turned the tide of the battle. But unfortunately, Professor Lucas was very specific about the rules, and they didn't allow for me to use anything more exciting than my own two hands and pure mana under the aura method.

"Begin," Lucas said, his voice holding the neutrality of someone calling out a lottery number.

The third-year wasted no time. He moved forward sharply, his steps precise, his aura dense and controlled, coiled around his body like a glove. Each move he made was textbook-perfect. His attacks weren't especially flashy or inventive, but the gap in sheer mana alone gave his strikes the kind of heaviness usually reserved for blunt instruments swung by angry giants.

I dodged neatly to the left, feeling a thrill of exhilaration run down my spine. There was no denying it; this boy was skilled. His punches sliced the air, each movement carrying a finely honed efficiency that wasted no momentum. Every strike was deliberate, his body wrapped snugly in a cloak of enhanced aura. It wasn't flashy—flashy moves are for amateurs—but it was brutally effective.

I kept on my toes, staying calm, eyes narrow. I was a problem solver at heart, after all. Combat was no different. If my opponent wanted to overwhelm me with sheer mana volume, I'd just have to beat him with precision and timing. So I moved carefully, measured and conservative, letting him lead the dance, my own aura rippling quietly under my skin.

"Not bad," he murmured, his expression calm, no sweat on his brow. "But is this it? Is this really the number-one prodigy of Mythos Academy's strongest generation?"

I smiled at him, friendly-like. "Would you prefer if I made it look harder?"

His expression flickered, uncertainty breaking the surface briefly before disappearing again under the serene mask. Good. Let him doubt. Let him question. This was the part of fighting I liked most—the mental chess, the hidden layers beneath each exchange.

He lunged again, his fist wrapped in a tightly controlled aura that hummed like an angry hornet. I ducked beneath his strike, slipping sideways. A quick step, a subtle shift, and I landed a clean punch to his ribs. He gasped—slightly—as surprise flitted across his face. It hadn't hurt much; his enhanced aura was like hitting solid stone, but even rocks crack eventually if you hit them in the right spot enough times.

That's how it went on for several minutes—me dodging, him chasing, our auras clashing and weaving. Each exchange left him visibly more frustrated, less patient. His aura was dense and potent, yes, but predictable. Easy to read, easier to avoid. I was wearing him down, though not by strength, but by skill and cunning. Even Professor Lucas raised an eyebrow in quiet curiosity.

But there was the problem. A rather significant one, at that.

Enhanced aura was not a toy you could use indefinitely if you hadn't broken through the Integration wall. My mana reserves were limited, no matter how clever I was or how carefully I rationed my energy. The trouble with being a prodigy was that you kept hitting ceilings you couldn't surpass through sheer talent alone. Eventually, the mana tap ran dry.

I felt the strain begin to bite, the burning exhaustion spreading from my core to every limb. My aura faltered, flickered slightly, and the third-year didn't miss it. His eyes gleamed with triumph.

"Looks like you've reached your limit," he said, almost apologetically, before driving forward again.

His fist slammed into my side, and this time I was slower. Enhanced aura, still imperfectly mastered, was already slipping away from me, dissipating like steam from a kettle left off the boil. I blocked a few blows, dodged another, but each movement cost me more than the last. He came at me relentlessly, capitalizing on every momentary lapse, every hesitation.

My mind still raced, calculating openings, weaknesses, but my body betrayed me. I couldn't produce more enhanced aura than this—not yet, anyway. My vision blurred, edges going fuzzy. The third-year didn't let up, pressing the advantage until finally, a carefully placed strike hit me in the chest, shattering the fragile shell of aura I'd been maintaining.
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I hit the ground with the undignified thud of defeat, landing hard on my back, panting heavily as my breath returned in ragged gasps.

The room was silent for a heartbeat, before Professor Lucas nodded approvingly. "Not bad at all, Arthur. You lasted longer than most would have."

The third-year approached, offering me a hand, genuine respect etched in his features. "Good fight."

I took his hand and pulled myself up, feeling my muscles protest loudly. I met his eyes evenly, smiling again. "Likewise."

My gaze flickered toward Lucifer. He had been watching carefully, evaluating every second. I could see his expression clearly enough. A mixture of quiet surprise, slight curiosity, and something else—respect? Perhaps. Or a renewed sense of rivalry.

I exhaled slowly, regaining my bearings. No shame in losing. Not yet. Because soon enough, the tables would turn. Integration-rank wasn't too far away for me either, and when it came, I knew very well who would be chasing whom.

I dusted off my uniform, trying not to wince as the bruises decided now was a good time to make themselves known. My muscles weren't pleased with me, but then, muscles seldom are. They seem to prefer being left alone, and the moment you introduce them to strenuous exercise, they complain louder than a politician caught in a scandal.

I glanced sideways as Lucifer stepped forward. The third-year facing him had an easy confidence about him—someone who knew exactly how big a gap existed between him and his opponent and wasn't afraid to use it.

The spar began quietly, neither Lucifer nor the third-year making any reckless moves. I watched closely, studying Lucifer's form, his aura burning bright around him, more controlled than mine had been. His every motion was like poetry written by someone who was very, very angry. Direct, efficient, but elegantly furious.

For a moment, I felt a pang of envy. Lucifer's aura was practically flawless. Even with my extensive understanding and tactical prowess, my physical limits had betrayed me. But Lucifer moved as if he hadn't even heard of exhaustion.

His opponent stepped forward, aura denser, heavier, like trying to cut steel with a sharpened spoon. He had power—Integration-level power—and that wasn't something one could simply outsmart.

But Lucifer wasn't interested in outsmarting anyone. He stood his ground, pushing forward, the force of his enhanced aura rippling through the air like thunder trapped in glass.

It became clear to everyone watching—this wasn't just a test anymore. The third-year's expression shifted from calm confidence to careful caution. Their blows collided, aura flaring, illuminating the room in a cascade of energy.

Yet, slowly, inevitably, Lucifer began to falter.

I could see it clearly. Each exchange cost him more energy than his opponent, and despite his superior skill, sheer power had a language all its own.

But then Lucifer smiled.

Not the polite smile of a student greeting a professor or the sarcastic smirk he saved for rivals. It was the smile of someone who'd decided, against all reasonable logic, to set the whole board on fire just to see what might happen.

In a flash, he surged forward, the air around him vibrating as his aura intensified to a level I didn't think he could sustain yet. He abandoned caution entirely, exchanging precision for raw intensity, forcing his opponent to match him blow-for-blow. The older student's composed expression cracked, surprise turning to alarm, then outright astonishment.

The exchange became a blur, raw aura crackling and popping as it clashed. Both of them poured everything into a final, decisive strike, the sound like mountains politely disagreeing.

Dust settled, the tension in the air draining slowly away.

Lucifer and the third-year were both on their knees, breathing heavily, a look of mutual respect passing between them.

A draw.

Lucifer had forced an Integration-ranker into a draw without using the full power of his Gifts or his Grade 6 art.

Professor Lucas, watching silently, nodded in quiet approval. "Impressive, both of you," he said calmly, clearly intrigued by what he had seen. "Remember this feeling. Skill and strength must balance each other. Too much of one without the other is no better than none at all."

Lucifer rose, his breath still labored, sweat trickling down his brow. He met my gaze, a faint smirk returning to his lips, though his eyes were tired. It wasn't the victory he'd aimed for—but against an Integration-ranker, a draw was already impressive enough.

I shook my head slightly in amused admiration.

Professor Lucas turned to face us fully again, his voice calm but authoritative. "Now then, shall we move on to the next lesson?"