The arena was so silent I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. I lay in the sand, my body a constellation of agony, and stared at the impossibly blue sky. I was breathing. The sand beside my head was scorched and fused into glass. A few inches closer, and my head would not exist.
I turned my head, my neck screaming in protest. Leonidas was a statue, his chest heaving, his knuckles white on the hilt of the sword still buried in the ground. The red rage had vanished from his aura, leaving behind a cold, gray, smoking ruin. He was staring at the hole in the ground, at me, at his own hands, as if he didn't recognize them. He had crossed a line, and he knew it. The hero of the story had just tried to commit murder in front of thousands.
"Healers! To the stage, now!" Professor Valerius roared, his voice breaking the stunned silence.
Academy guards, their armor gleaming, were jogging onto the sand, their hands on their weapons. They were approaching Leonidas, forming a cautious circle.
Two men in the white-and-blue robes of the Tower of Healing rushed to my side, a floating stretcher hovering beside them.
"Don't move, son," one of them said, his voice a calm, professional balm. His hands glowed with a soft, green light as he scanned my body. "By the twin moons... his right arm is shattered. Multiple fractures. Severe burns along the left side. Probable concussion."
As they began the agonizing process of shifting me onto the stretcher, I had one last part to play. My mission was over, but the performance was not. I had to see the result.
As they lifted me, I let my head loll to the side. My gaze found the high balcony. Damien was not smiling. He was not clapping. He was simply watching me, his hands clasped, his expression one of absolute, cold, profound approval. It was the look of a master who had just watched his impossible plan unfold without a single flaw. He gave me a slow, almost imperceptible nod. A nod that said, Well done, my creation.
My eyes slid to the student section. Seraphina was standing, her face as pale as death. Her hands were covering her mouth, her eyes wide with a horrified, sickened understanding. She wasn't looking at Leonidas with hatred. She was looking at me. She was the only person in the entire arena who knew this wasn't a duel; it was a scripted execution. She was the only one who knew the man on the stretcher was not the victim, but the assassin.
The last thing I saw before they carried me into the dark tunnel was Professor Valerius approaching the broken hero. "Leonidas val Aris," he said, his voice grim. "Surrender your blade. You are under arrest by order of the Academy Council."
Leonidas didn't even seem to hear him. He just let go of his sword, his hands falling limply to his sides. He was a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The world dissolved into a blur of pain. The Tower of Healing was a cold, white, sterile place. I was laid on a cot, and the healers descended.
"We have to set the arm before the mending-draught," the lead healer said, his voice sounding distant. "This will be unpleasant."
It was not unpleasant. It was a universe of torment. They gripped my shoulder and my wrist, and with a sudden, brutal movement, pulled. I heard a wet, grinding pop as my dislocated shoulder was forced back into its socket. A scream tore from my throat, raw and animalistic, but it was drowned out as a different, sharp, agonizing knitting sensation began. They were pouring a potion onto the skin, and the fractured bones in my arm were being forced to fuse, a process that felt like a thousand burning needles were stitching me together from the inside.
In that moment of pure, blinding agony, my armor of resolve, the cold purpose of the "porcupine," shattered. The adrenaline vanished. The cold, detached pragmatist was gone.
I was just Aiden.
I was a terrified, seventeen-year-old kid from another world, lying in a hospital bed, my body broken, my soul stained. The full weight of what I had done—to Thomas, to Mara, and now, finally, to Leonidas—crashed down on me. I had just destroyed three lives to save my own.
Tears, hot and stinging, streamed from my eyes, cutting paths through the grime and sand on my face. I was weeping, not just from the pain, but from the horrifying, irreversible totality of my actions. I had won. And I had lost everything.
I awoke some unknown time later. The pain was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. My right arm was in a magically-supported sling, my chest and shoulder bandaged. The room was dark, the only light coming from the twin moons in the window. I was alone.
I was alive. The plan had worked.
The door to my private room hissed open.
Damien Vrael stepped inside, a shadow against the dim light of the hallway. He looked, as always, immaculate.
"You're awake," he said. It wasn't a question. He walked to the side of my bed, his presence filling the small room.
I just stared at him, my throat too dry to speak.
"A flawless performance, Lucian," he said, his voice a quiet murmur. "Truly flawless."
"He... he almost killed me," I rasped, the words raw and true.
"Yes," Damien agreed, a flicker of a smile on his lips. "Which is precisely why it was so perfect. Your... convincing display of agony, the sheer, uncontrolled brutality of his assault... it was more than I could have hoped for. The entire noble delegation was appalled. The Headmaster was forced to act."
He leaned in, his golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight, and he delivered the final, triumphant report.
"The Academy Council met not an hour ago," he whispered, as if sharing a wonderful secret. "Leonidas val Aris has been formally expelled. His magic has been bound, and he has been banished from the academy grounds, effective immediately. He is gone."
The news landed with a dull, heavy thud. Expelled. Bound. Gone. The hero of the story had been defeated, not by the Demon King, but by me.
"You have done the impossible, Lucian," Damien said, his voice filled with a new, strange note. It wasn't just approval. It was... respect. "You have removed the single greatest obstacle to my plans. You have proven yourself to be not just a tool, but an artisan. My most valuable, most trusted, and most brilliant asset."
He placed a hand on my good shoulder, his grip firm. "Rest. Heal. Your 'victory' today has earned you more than just my gratitude. It has earned you a permanent place at my side."
He turned and left, the door hissing shut, plunging the room back into near-darkness.
I was alone again, with nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the pale light of the two moons.
I had won. I had survived. I had destroyed my enemies and earned the trust of my captor.
I was his "most valuable asset." I had a "permanent place" at his side.
I turned my head to the window and stared at the moons. I had never felt more trapped in my entire life.
.
.
.
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