SUMMER, AUGUST 2019
In the tense and expansive White Room 24, Zavian’s body coiled with adrenaline as he engaged in an unrelenting battle against a formidable conjurer.
White Rooms, a recent addition to their training, featured white walls, ceilings, and floors designed for students to confront conjurers. It created an environment teeming with anticipation, uncertainty, and pressure.
Zavian, currently ranked third in his second year, was paired with Crossvan, a second-ranked third-year student wielding twin daggers, and Olesia, a first-ranked fourth-year student proficient with a spear. Zavian was determined to prove himself, especially after his previous year’s failure to defeat Brockley in the tournament.
Through their telepathic link—a pre-fight strategy they had devised—Crossvan conveyed his observations, “None of our tactics have made a dent so far. We’re struggling to inflict even the slightest damage!”
Before them stood Iron Jo, a notorious evil conjurer renowned for his strength and resilience despite his age. His muscular, iron-hardened body and blond hair accentuated his imposing presence. He donned the standard uniform for detained conjurers, a turquoise striped pajama set with their respective number on the left chest. He was the most formidable conjurer apprehended and detainee number twenty-four.
“We must formulate a new plan urgently,” Olesia stressed as she cautiously distanced herself from Iron Jo. Her spear had failed to breach his skin.
Maintaining a safe distance from their opponent, they rapidly strategized, seeking potential weaknesses to exploit. The situation was taking a toll on them mentally, physically, and emotionally as the relentless back-and-forth of attacks and evasions wore on.
“We must find a weakness, even if he appears invulnerable,” Zavian reflected, taking deep breaths to regain composure. Merely ten minutes into the fight, he grappled with exhaustion. They continued to move, executing attacks and evasive maneuvers, hoping their agility would provide an edge. Yet, the looming threat of a single misstep or momentary delay weighed heavily on their minds.
“Olesia, watch out! He’s closing in”! Crossvan warned.
Thinking on his feet, Zavian suggested, “Aim for the top of his head!”
It was a novel strategy, and he brimmed with anticipation, hopeful it would yield results. Olesia lunged at Iron Jo, her spear propelling her into a somersault aimed at his head. She intended to pierce his possible weakness, but his swift reflexes and formidable defense blocked her attempt.
She withdrew, maintaining distance for another calculated strike, while Crossvan seized the opportunity to confront Iron Jo.
“You were right, Zav. That’s his weakness!” Crossvan communicated.
Tension escalated as Zavian joined the offensive, continuously testing Iron Jo’s defenses and seeking an opening. Even sudden, explosive surprise attacks failed to rattle their opponent. Seizing this newfound vulnerability appeared to be their last chance, but Iron Jo’s resolve guarded the top of his head with an impenetrable hand.
Their desperation for victory grew, yet it remained frustratingly elusive. They battled on despite their physical fatigue, while their opponent, seemingly tireless, thwarted every move. The fight persisted.
“Your feeble attacks won’t work, kiddos,” Iron Jo taunted, his laughter bubbling up. “But I must commend your teamwork. Using telepathic communication, I guess? Truly clever. Your strategies might have succeeded against anyone else.” He shifted his focus to Olesia, advancing as she cautiously retreated. “You’re quite a fighter, young lady. You outshine these young men. Your style reminds me of someone I know. It’s a shame you’re not one of us.” He chuckled and turned to Crossvan. “You, on the other hand, are like me—a conjurer. You bear a striking resemblance to your great-grandfather, Vancross Wrigh.” He clicked his tongue and began to pace. “You show more promise than he ever did. Perhaps, because he was merely a fortune teller. He didn’t last when he faced my father. His end was . . . tragic.”
He let out an audible sigh of disbelief, followed by a laugh that abruptly ceased when he locked eyes with Zavian. He approached slowly, stopping a few feet away. “Hmm . . . have we met before?”
Zavian frowned and refrained from answering a nonsensical question. Iron Jo inched closer. “You look oddly familiar, yet different. Why is that?”
Zavian scowled, pondering if their attacks had finally taken a toll on him, causing him to lose touch with reality. Iron Jo shook his head, seemingly engaged in an internal struggle. Closing the remaining gap, he scrutinized his face. Sensing no immediate threat, Zavian dismissed the need to maintain distance.
“What are you doing? Get away from him, Zav!” Crossvan urgently relayed. Zavian looked past Iron Jo’s shoulder, where Crossvan, wide-eyed and shaking his head, silently implored him to save himself. However, he chose not to heed the warning. Somehow, he believed that listening to this conjurer before him was a risk worth taking.
“You resemble him, yet not entirely. He’s powerful, a skilled fighter, an exceptional conjurer . . . unlike you, a mere ordinary human. Your abilities can’t even compare to that young lady over there . . .” He scoffed. “. . . and yet, I sense a hint of monstrosity in you.”
“I have no idea who or what you’re talking about, and I don’t care.” Zavian sighed. “I’m not interested, and I’m definitely not a monster.”
Iron Jo burst into hysterical laughter. “You looked just like him when you glared just now. It’s uncanny.” He closed the gap between their faces, his expression hardening. “You’re infuriating me. I want to kill you!”
In an instant, his hand closed around Zavian’s neck. In response, Olesia lunged at him with her spear, but he caught the spearhead with his free hand, wrenching it from her grip. Then, he hurled her against the wall, sending the spear out of reach.
Struggling to speak, Zavian managed to choke out, “H-how dare you?”
Iron Jo hoisted him, strangling his breath. Gradually, his face and limbs tingled, growing numb.
Simultaneously, Crossvan maneuvered stealthily behind Iron Jo, one dagger sheathed on his belt and the other tightly gripped in his hand. With a leap, he mounted Iron Jo’s shoulders and thrust his dagger into his head. The victory wasn’t as swift as anticipated. “He’s tougher than I thought. My strike was too shallow!”
Iron Jo screamed as Crossvan withdrew the dagger, causing a small spurt of blood. The blade hadn’t penetrated deeply enough for a severe injury, but he was clearly in pain, gripping the top of his head. In his agony, he released Zavian, who coughed relentlessly, gasping for breath as he crawled toward Olesia. She lay motionless, likely unconscious from the impact. He was only three feet away from her when he heard a thud not far from his position. He turned back to see Crossvan, battered and bloodied, his temple bleeding, his face battered and swollen, and his daggers far out of reach.
Shit. Zavian cursed himself for the oversight. His preoccupation with Olesia had caused him to miss crucial developments. He crawled back urgently, rising unsteadily. Then, he rushed to Crossvan’s side, helping him to stand. Glaring at Iron Jo, he gritted his teeth. “We must end this now. We can’t defeat you. Not yet.” His gaze shifted to one of the surveillance cameras, wondering why they hadn’t intervened. Are they planning to let one of us die?
Iron Jo scoffed, pulling him from his thoughts. “Not my problem. You, Valoures, are the ones who put me in this fucking room! You wanted to fight me, and now you’re admitting defeat?” He shook his head, wiping the blood trickling to his temple and eyebrow. “I won’t accept it.”
“H-he’s right, Zav. W-we can still fight,” Crossvan insisted, pulling away from his support. “We can’t give up now.”
“Are you kidding me? Olesia is out cold, and you can barely stand! Do you expect me to protect you while fighting this freak?”
Iron Jo laughed. “If he wants to continue, I’ll oblige.” He seized Crossvan by the collar and unleashed a barrage of punches on his face. His blood splattered with each blow.
“Stop it,” Zavian muttered, his fists clenched, rage coursing through him. “I told you to stop!” Suddenly, blood sprayed across his face, its wet warmth mingling with his skin and clothes. The sight and scent of the blood overwhelmed him, an unsettling sensation of being coated in another person’s bodily fluids.
Then, Iron Jo’s deafening wails pierced the air. He collapsed to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. He glared at Zavian through tear-filled, bloodshot eyes. “You’re a fucking monster!”
What just happened? Zavian shifted his gaze towards Crossvan, who was now unconscious on the floor, drenched in blood that wasn’t his own. Beside him lay Iron Jo’s severed hand, gushing blood, and coating him in its crimson stream.