The hydraulic hiss of the iron doors signalled the end of the shift.

  I took a breath. The air smelled of ozone and antiseptic, which threw me for a loop. Why does a magical respawn room smell like a hospital ward? Do wizards have a specific spell for ‘clinical depression and bleach’?

  I checked the inventory. Ten fingers. No burns. My skin was unblemished, and my clothes were restored to their pre-battle state. Factory settings restored.

  It gave me a thought. If I stole an item inside and put it in my Inventory, would the system reclaim it? Or would the hard reset gloss over the missing asset? Definitely something to test later.

  I walked out. My legs felt heavy—the phantom weight of existing, then not existing, then existing again. It’s like severe jet lag, but for your soul.

  To my left, Jarek Stone-Hollow was making his own exit.

  He looked pristine. The chunk of flesh I’d blown out of his side was back. Physically, he was perfect. Emotionally, he looked like he wanted to murder a puppy.

  He stopped at the end of the tunnel, blocking the light. He turned. The cartoonish villainy was gone, replaced by the cold, flat look of a professional who just had a very bad day at the office.

  "You turned yourself into a bomb," Jarek said quietly. "That wasn't combat, Murphy. That was an IED."

  I stopped a few paces away, leaning against the damp wall. "It was a win condition, Jarek. Read the manual. Objective: Eliminate enemy. I ticked the box."

  "It’s a cheap trick," Jarek spat. "You emptied your entire mana reserve for one second of glory. In a Siege, that makes you a liability. You leave your squad a man down while you wait for the respawn timer."

  "I'll keep that in mind," I said, keeping my face neutral.

  Jarek stepped closer, lowering his voice.

  "You don't understand. This was the Prelims. The safety rails were up. In the main bracket, they turn the Pain Dampeners down to near-zero. Next time you decide to vaporise yourself? You’re going to feel every inch of your skin peeling off before the system reboots you."

  He let that hang in the air for a second.

  "Watch your back, Jester."

  He turned and stormed out into the sunlight.

  I followed him out. The noise hit me instantly—a chaotic, fractured roar. The rich kids in the front rows were murmuring, confused by the suicide tactic. But the upper tiers—the scholarship kids, the commoners, the people who actually work for a living—were stamping their feet.

  They loved seeing a tank get wrecked.

  I found my squad near the barrier. Grace was grinning, her goggles pushed up, smelling of grease and violence. She was stuffing twisted metal into her bag.

  "Did you hear the screams?" she asked, bouncing on her heels. "My traps worked perfectly. Mechanical spikes. Simple, brutal. The mage stepped right onto a pressure plate and—snap."

  "Remind me never to break into your room," I said.

  "We did it," Finn breathed, clutching the air where the flag used to be. "We’re in."

  "Look," Grace pointed up.

  The projection crystals were cycling highlights. It showed the duel at our base. Kael vs. Borg.

  It looked less like a duel and more like industrial demolition. Two giants trading blows that would shatter a normal person's spine. Borg swung a hammer; Kael caught it on his forearms.

  "Holy shit," Finn whispered. "You guys were really trying to kill each other."

  I watched the screen. I saw what Finn missed.

  Kael ducked a haymaker. He had the kill shot—a massive overhand right to an exposed chin. But he flinched. He pulled the punch, turning a fatality into a shove.

  The replay ended. I looked at Kael. He was staring at his hands, his knuckles raw.

  "You had him," I said quietly.

  Kael didn't answer. He closed his fists. He’d felt the Red Haze rising, the monster scratching at the door, and he’d backed off. He was more afraid of winning than losing.

  Heavy footsteps crunched behind us.

  It was Borg. He walked past, ignoring me and Finn. He looked straight at Kael.

  Borg grinned—a savage expression involving too many teeth—and gave a single, curt nod.

  Kael straightened up and returned it.

  Borg grunted, hitched up his trousers, and left.

  "What was that?" Finn asked.

  "Professional courtesy," I said.

  "Victory lap over," Grace said, pulling a greasy piece of parchment from her belt. "We have a logistics problem."

  "We usually do," I muttered. "Did the laundry burn down?"

  "Roster," Grace said. "Prelims are four-man. Dorm Wars are six-man. We need two more bodies by tomorrow, or we forfeit."

  "Six?" Finn squeaked. "Who else is crazy enough to join House Argent?"

  "We’re allowed two Free Agents," Grace explained. "I have a Healer. From Vermilion. She hates violence, refuses to spar, but she can knit bone in seconds."

  "A pacifist healer in a war tournament," I mused. "Does she scream when she sees blood?"

  "Only if it's a lot of blood," Grace admitted.

  "Perfect. Sign her up. We need a sixth."

  We reached the tunnel exit just in time to see a public meltdown.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Lysander Thorne was looming over Vespera Winter-Moon. He looked bored; she looked ready to commit arson.

  "You are being dramatic, Vespera," Lysander sighed, dusting his lapel. "Appearances are power. You will attend the Ball on my arm, or you won't be on the team. I won't have my squad scattered because you want to play 'independent'."

  Vespera trembled. Her face turned a shade of red usually reserved for warning signs.

  "You sacrificed Tolan," she hissed. "And now you want me to be your... ornament?"

  "I want unity," Lysander drawled.

  Vespera smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "I quit."

  She ripped the gold armband off her sleeve, threw it on the ground, and stormed off.

  Lysander shook his head, looking annoyed by the littering.

  I watched her go. A slow grin spread across my face.

  "Found our sixth," I said.

  "You're crazy," Finn whispered. "She’s a high noble. She won't join the Misfits."

  "Watch this."

  I jogged after her. "Hey! Winter-Moon!"

  Vespera spun around. Her eyes were cold enough to freeze nitrogen. "What do you want, Murphy? Here to gloat?"

  "I saw what happened," I said. "He's an idiot."

  She blinked, the anger faltering.

  I stepped closer, lowering my voice to my best 'shady business deal' tone.

  "Listen. Join me. Real challenge. No politics, no standing around looking pretty. Just dangerous, messy work. And think about it... it will make Lysander absolutely sick."

  Vespera froze. The anger vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense fluster. She looked at me, then at the gate, then back at me.

  She opened her mouth, but only a squeak came out.

  "I..." she stammered.

  She nodded furiously, like a bobblehead in a gale, and then speed-walked away before she could pass out.

  "Weird girl," I muttered, walking back to the squad.

  "Well?" Grace asked.

  "She squeaked and ran away," I said. "I think that's a yes."

  The walk back was quiet. My Core felt like a dried-out sponge.

  Grace fell into step beside me. She wasn't smiling. She was looking at me like I was a machine that was making a funny noise.

  "Murphy," she said, voice low. "The explosion. That wasn't a standard cast. You don't have the capacity for that thermal output."

  "I didn't cast it," I said. "I built it."

  "Built it?"

  "Broken Rune," I explained. "I used it as a capacitor. Overloaded it until it hit critical mass. I didn't cast the spell; I just held the grenade while the pin was pulled."

  Grace stopped walking. "Variable Overflow. Murphy... that is incredibly stupid. If that item disintegrated a second early, you would have melted your Core."

  "Calculated risk," I shrugged. "I’d be restored at the respawn."

  Grace shook her head, looking pale. "You don't know. Damage to mana channels isn't physical. It's linked to the soul. The Rift doesn't fix that. You would have woken up broken."

  My blood ran cold.

  ‘Okay, so you almost bricked us,’ Ronan noted. ‘Good job.’

  ‘Would have been nice to know earlier,’ I shot back.

  ‘I didn't know. We are learning the manual as we go.’

  "High risk, high reward," I said aloud, my voice a little thinner than before. "But... let’s find a different strategy next time."

  Back at House Argent, I decided we weren't resting. We were feasting.

  I spent the laundry profits on four crates of ale and enough red meat to give a dragon heart palpitations.

  I’d commissioned a steel grid for the fire pit in the courtyard.

  "What is this ritual?" Kael asked, holding a beer bottle like a teacup.

  "This," I said, poking the embers, "is a Braai."

  "A barbecue?" Finn asked.

  I slapped his hand with the tongs. Clack-clack.

  "Don't insult me. A barbecue is what Americans do with gas and sadness."

  "Americans?"

  "Street slang for Nobles," I lied. "People with soft hands."

  "And gas?"

  "Slang for magic. The easy way."

  Finn looked confused, but I gave him the thousand-yard stare—the one that says 'I have seen things in the gutter that would turn your hair white'—and he backed off.

  "Rule number one: Only the Braai Master touches the grid."

  I threw the T-bones on. The hiss was deafening. The smell of rendering fat filled the air, summoning students from their rooms like zombies.

  "Grab a beer," I ordered. "And someone watch the bread."

  "We're eating sandwiches?" Grace asked, holding a loaf of cheap white bread.

  "Braai Broodjies," I corrected. "Tomato, onion, cheese. Butter on the outside. Trust me."

  As I flipped the toasties, Ronan piped up.

  ‘You’re proficient at this. I don’t recall us cooking at the gas station.’

  ‘Pretoria. Mid-nineties. Short life. Maybe four years.’

  ‘You enjoyed it?’

  ‘The food? Yes. The weather? Lovely. The father? Not so much.’

  I flipped a steak.

  ‘Old man was a mean drunk. Brandy and Coke. If I burnt a broodjie, he’d break a finger.’

  ‘He beat you?’ Ronan asked, the indignation flaring.

  ‘Weekly. Rugby days mostly.’

  ‘I am sorry, Murphy.’

  ‘Don't be. I was technically eight, but mentally ancient. I’d been eaten by wolves and burned at the stake. A belt is nothing. Pain is just information.’

  I took a swig of ale.

  ‘I learned to act. I’d scream and cry so he’d feel big and stop sooner. Just another role. Just another masquerade.’

  ‘That is... bleak,’ Ronan said.

  ‘It was survival. But the food... the food was worth it.’

  "Meat's ready!" I shouted.

  The squad descended. Finn took a bite of a broodjie, cheese dripping down his chin. His eyes went wide.

  "Butter on the outside," he mumbled. "Genius."

  Ten minutes later, the gate creaked open.

  Jarek stood there. No armour, just robes, flanked by Borg and Valen.

  The chatter died. Finn froze.

  Jarek sniffed the air. "That smells significantly better than the sludge in the Mess Hall."

  "It's cow," I said. "Actual cow."

  I tossed him a beer. He caught it one-handed.

  "Truce?" I asked.

  Jarek cracked a smile. "Truce."

  They walked in. Within minutes, Borg and Kael were comparing bruises, and Valen was explaining thermal dynamics to Grace. Jarek leaned against the wall.

  "You're a maniac, Murphy," he said. "That explosion... I still feel it in my teeth. Effective, though."

  "We work with what we have."

  "You need six for the Wars tomorrow," Jarek noted. "If you're short, we're available. Better than forfeiting."

  "Appreciate it, but we're full. Picked up some strays."

  Jarek nodded, clinking his bottle against the grid. "Good. Don't make us look weak."

  Later that night, the dorm was quiet.

  I sat on my bed, staring at the moon. I’d been running logic with Ronan.

  ‘So, duplication glitch is a no-go,’ I thought. ‘The Rift is a recycler, not a creator. Equivalent Exchange.’

  ‘Correct,’ Ronan confirmed. ‘If you steal a sword, the system can't rebuild the original because the materials are missing. You’d wake up with stolen goods and a felony.’

  ‘But Cores...’ I mused. ‘Cores are fuel. If I stash a Blue Core instead of eating it, the system just marks it as "consumed energy".’

  ‘Exactly,’ Ronan agreed. ‘The Academy pumps enough mana into that arena to power a city. Stealing a few cores is like taking a cup of water from the ocean. They won't notice the drop in pressure.’

  ‘Infinite money glitch: denied. Mana farming: approved.’

  I stood up and pushed the desk against the wall.

  "Alright. Let's break the ceiling."

  ‘As you wish.’

  Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress started playing in my head. Swampy, rhythmic, driving.

  I cracked my neck.

  "Construct."

  The room became claustrophobic. Twelve Ronan-Clones squeezed in, sitting on the floor, the desk, against the door.

  "Begin."

  The Echo Engine roared.

  Usually, we filled the tank. Tonight, we were trying to burst it.

  The clones inhaled the ambient mana and slammed it into my Core.

  I gasped. It wasn't a stream; it was a firehose. My Core was already full. The extra energy churned like a storm, pressing against the walls of my spirit.

  Compress.

  The headache started immediately—a grinding pressure behind my eyes.

  Blue rank is water. Green rank is life; it’s solid. To get there, you have to crush the water until the structure collapses.

  "Push," Ronan ordered.

  I gritted my teeth. I visualised the sphere of dark blue light. I imagined iron walls closing in.

  Smaller. Denser. Harder.

  The room hummed. The window pane rattled. My skin felt like it was burning, but inside, it felt like someone had poured molten lead into my veins and was hitting it with a hammer.

  A sane person would stop. But I’m a callus shaped like a man.

  Nerve damage in sector four. Ignore.

  "More," I hissed.

  The clones doubled their effort.

  The Dark Blue sphere trembled. It fought me. It wanted to stay fluid.

  Break, I thought. Just... break.

  The pressure hit critical mass.

  CRACK.

  The sound wasn't in the room; it was in my soul. Like a glacier calving.

  The sphere fractured. And from the heart of the pressure, a single, blinding vein of light shot out.

  Emerald.

  The light flooded the room, vibrant and alive. The pain vanished, replaced by a surge of power that made my teeth ache.

  I opened my eyes. The clones faded.

  I looked down at my chest. The indigo was gone. A pale, flickering green flame burned steadily in the centre.

  "Light Green," I whispered.

  The song faded out.

  ‘Welcome to the next tier,’ Ronan said. ‘Now... we can really fight.’