The senior prefect's voice, a low snarl, cut the silence. “Voronov. And Anja. What precisely is happening in this restricted section, out of hours?” His stare flicked from the sparking motes of mana dancing around Stellan to the open, forbidden tome, then settled on Anja with rigid contempt. “And you, my betrothed. What business do you have with… a scullion?”
Anja stepped forward, her hand lifting toward Stellan before dropping to her side. “Krastov, it isn’t what you think. Stellan was merely reading. He didn’t invite me; I followed him.” Her words were a shield, clumsy but earnest.
Stellan felt the deep vibration in his marrow swell toward a dangerous threshold. The noble's anger radiated like furnace heat across the flagstones. He tried to close the book, but his hands felt clumsy, the information about a cataclysmic self-detonation burning into his mind.
“Reading?” the prefect scoffed, a sneer curling his lips. “In the sealed stacks? After hours? With you, Anja? This is trespass and blatant insubordination. An attempt to compromise my future bride and violate academy law.” He took another step, his shadow engulfing Stellan. “And that… *glow* around you. What crude trickery is this?”
Stellan swallowed hard, unable to force words past his dry throat while raw power surged beneath his ribs.
“I challenge you, Voronov,” the prefect declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone. “An Alchemical Duel of Honor. Tomorrow, at high noon, in the Grand Crucible.”
Anja gasped. Frost seemed to prick Stellan’s skin despite the simmering heat trapped inside his ribs. An Alchemical Duel of Honor was no mere sparring match. Backing down meant immediate expulsion and utter disgrace, not just for him, but a stain on his family name. Accepting meant facing the house scion, a senior prefect skilled in lethal combat arts.
News ripped through Zorya by dawn: a lab drudge pushed into combat against an elite heir of House Krastov. It was unprecedented, scandalous, and irresistible. The Grand Crucible, the largest dueling ground, was packed. Every student, every instructor, even some nobles from the city, crowded the tiered stands, buzzing with anticipation.
Stellan stood on one side of the circular arena, the sun beating down on the white-dusted stone. Across the sand, the prefect stood in ceremonial black robes embroidered with coiled silver vipers. Anja was visible in the stands, her face pale, her hands clasped tightly.
“The terms are absolute,” the arbiter bellowed through an amplifier charm. “First to yield or fall unconscious loses. Lethal force is authorized. Begin!”
Krastov raised a hand to display a lacquered glass flask containing thick, oily pitch. “Before we begin, Voronov,” the prefect called out, his tone dripping with disdain, “witness a true heirloom of House Krastov: the Viper’s Kiss. It grants mastery over every known bane.”
With a sharp twist, he popped the stopper. Green fumes billowed out, catching his wand-hand's somatic weave and expanding into a heavy emerald fog across the flagstones. A sharp, acrid scent filled the air, making the spectators cough and recoil.
“This cloud carries the essence of the Viridian Drake,” Krastov announced with a smirk. “One breath locks your lungs. Touch alone rots flesh. You will collapse before I take three steps.” He watched, waiting for Stellan to collapse, to choke, to beg.
But Stellan didn’t fall. He didn’t even flinch. Over the preceding night, knowing the Krastov clan's specialty, Stellan had ransacked the basement storerooms, chugging common neutralizers, salves, and bitter cleansers until his gut burned.
[Antitoxin Draft x 14: Minor Toxin Resistance (Persistent)]
[Antitoxin Draft x 22: Minor Toxin Resistance (Persistent)]
[Anti-Venom Salve x 8: Mild Toxin Resistance (Persistent)]
He drew in a slow lungful of the green haze. It carried the taste of rusted copper and crushed grass, yet produced neither sting nor spasm. The furnace behind his ribs absorbed it without friction.
The noble's smirk died. Krastov took half a step backward as Stellan advanced through the corrosive vapor as though strolling through morning river-mist.
“What trick is this?” Krastov stammered, raising trembling fingers.
Stellan kept walking, covering the distance between them. The mist clung to his clothes, but his skin remained clear, his breathing steady. As Stellan closed the distance, the aristocrat fumbled to trace an abjuration rune.
Stellan moved faster. Harnessing his stacked vigor, he closed the gap and plucked the heirloom flask cleanly from the noble's fingers. The prefect stumbled back with a strangled yelp. The crowd, which had been murmuring in confusion, fell into a stunned silence.
Without pausing, Stellan tipped the rim against his teeth and swallowed the entire draught in one pull.
[Viper’s Kiss Elixir: Poison Magic Mastery (Stored)]
[Absolute Toxin Immunity acquired.]
[Endless Toxin Generation acquired.]
Flames raced through Stellan’s arteries, pooling at his fingertips and settling deep into his marrow. He tossed aside the empty flask, breath steadying into a dark, calm rhythm.
Krastov stared in horror. “You maniac! That tincture is lethal in whole doses!”
Stellan exhaled. A plume of dense violet fog smelling of bitter almond and sulfur rolled from his tongue, blotting out the arena floor. It was far heavier than the green cloud Krastov had summoned. The vapor belonged to Stellan now, fueled by the impossible stacks beneath his skin. When Krastov saw the purple smoke gather at his feet, the young lord turned chalk-pale. The arena was silent, awaiting the kill.