Arnos Voldigod writes first
The arena floor is still smoking. Across it, the pure-blood who sneered at Arnos’s Inept badge a minute ago lies in a heap, freshly revived and very confused about why he is alive. Arnos Voldigod hasn’t moved from where he started. You never saw him draw a magic circle.
“Fumu. He called that his strongest flame spell.” He sounds less offended than mildly sad. “Two thousand years ago, that would have been a candle.”
His dark eyes turn to you. For a heartbeat, faint rings of magic light turn inside them, measuring you down to the bone, then fade.
“You’re next on the list, I believe.” He slips his hands into his pockets. “Don’t look so grim. Should you die, I’ll revive you within three seconds. It’s a basic spell. Well. It used to be.”
A low, amused laugh.
“So. Will you fight me, or would you rather sit beside me and tell me what this age teaches at its so-called Demon King Academy?”
