Chapter 29: The Champion's Crown

In the blink of an eye, the tide of battle shifted several times, leaving even the most experienced and accomplished teachers in the audience utterly astonished. No one had expected these two youngsters to be so surprising.

At this point, both Rollin and Simone had reached their absolute limits. Rollin, struck by two necromantic rays, was grievously wounded, and most of his spirit and magical power had been depleted during his earlier relentless assault on Simone. Now, as yet another necromantic ray hurtled towards him, he simply lacked the strength to evade.

Simone was faring no better. His previous necromantic spells had nearly bled him dry of spirit and magic, and then the summoned skeleton had torn a large chunk of flesh from his shoulder. Despite enduring inhuman agony, he somehow managed to squeeze out enough power for one final necromantic ray.

The ray shot toward Rollin. Simone, dizzy and reeling, collapsed to the ground with a thud. Still, he fought against unconsciousness, determined to witness Rollin being struck by the spell and to see him fall before his eyes. More than anything, he wanted to hear the crowd's cheers—for himself.

But that was not to be. In his blurred vision, Simone saw a massive stone block, taller than a man, suddenly appear between Rollin and the ray. The stone was so thick that the dark energy managed to corrode only half its depth before dissipating entirely.

Just before he lost consciousness, Simone heard the cheers. He knew, however, that they were not for him, but for his opponent—Rollin.

The white skeleton, furious that Simone had broken through, turned and raised its claw-like, withered foot, delivering a series of vicious kicks to Simone's prone form. Unsatisfied, it leapt onto Simone, stomping him repeatedly, its bony arms flailing in a display of outrage—though, truth be told, it had no chest in which to harbor such anger, only a ribcage.

Rollin hastily recalled the crazed skeleton into the necromantic space. Though Simone had been a wild adversary, Rollin felt a measure of respect for him.

As for the stone that had performed such a crucial service at the last moment, it was none other than the one Rollin had stored in his necromantic space after a playful scuffle with Little Black some time ago. He had never thought to retrieve it until now, and it had proved invaluable. Treasuring the stone for its merit, Rollin carefully stored it away once more.

The judges below the stage were so stunned they stood silent for nearly a minute before one finally regained his wits and declared loudly, “The first-year final is over! The champion is Rollin from the Fire Class!”

Immediately, the quiet square erupted—cheers, exclamations, sighs, and curses surged together, making the whole place boil with excitement.

“Haha! Fantastic, Fourth! You actually—you actually won the championship! Wait, what’s this hand doing here… Oh, Valen, if you hadn’t come over, I’d have forgotten! We have two bets to settle—one for a thousand gold coins and another for three thousand. That makes four thousand in total. Pay up!”

Valen had just extended his hand to Mauler, intending to collect his winnings. Yet, in the blink of an eye, the battle on stage had reversed several times, and the seemingly invincible Simone had fallen to Rollin. Now, Valen found himself suddenly owing four thousand gold coins.

“Damn it! Why didn’t I get those others in on the bet? If I’d split the risk, I wouldn’t be in such debt! But I refused outright, and now the entire four thousand falls on me!” Valen was consumed with regret.

Under the watchful eyes of Mauler and the others, the hapless Valen borrowed from every classmate he could find, and even sold his horse, scraping together the four thousand coins. When Mauler finally took the winnings, Valen collapsed to the ground like a heap of mud.

On the stage, two teachers specializing in the Light element hurried over to treat Rollin and Simone. Simone had overdrawn his spirit and magical power so severely that, despite their best efforts, he remained unconscious. In the end, the teachers had no choice but to carry him to the infirmary for more intensive care—a fitting consequence for his reckless actions.

Just as Rollin's wounds were closing and he prepared to leave the stage, the rotund head of year bustled up, belly first, and handed him a certificate and a golden card. The certificate was, of course, the award for the grade champion, while the golden card was a “magic crystal card” containing a full thousand gold coins—redeemable at any bank on the continent of Aragon, and naturally, at the academy as well.

Next, the head of year pinned a red flower on Rollin’s chest, and several Water element teachers used the Floating Image Spell to create a permanent record of the champion for the academy's archives. Only after much fuss did the head of year finally release Rollin from the stage.

Harvey, the Dark Arts teacher; Sofit, the Lightning teacher; and Monroe, the Fire teacher, all shared in the glory of having trained a champion. Of course, the greatest credit belonged to Uncle Kus, who floated above the square, smiling down on it all.

Rollin wiped the sweat from his brow and, still shaken, left the stage for the Fire Class area.

Standing before him was Monroe, resplendent in red, her beauty unrivaled, her figure stunning. She stood tall and graceful, though her expression was one of irritation as she fixed her gaze on him.

“Uh, Miss Mon…” Rollin began, approaching her and about to greet her, when suddenly, two gentle arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Why didn’t you listen and jump off the stage when I told you? What if that necromantic ray had hit a vital spot? What then?” Though she scolded him, a delighted smile broke through Monroe’s words.

She was more than satisfied with her half-trained Fire student—Rollin had amazed her again and again, culminating in his championship victory. Her outgoing, exuberant personality got the better of her, and she hugged Rollin tightly in excitement.

Surrounded by her fragrance and enveloped in astonishing softness, Rollin soon found it difficult to endure. He stammered, “Miss… Miss, I…”

Monroe started in alarm. “Rollin, what’s wrong?”

At only eleven, Rollin was naturally much shorter than Monroe. His face was now deeply buried in the softness before her chest. “Miss, I… I can’t breathe!”