The chaos behind the C Class food stall was an intense blur of focused activity. The four friends were working nonstop, their movements efficient and synchronized, not a single moment spared.
The fried chicken and corndogs were pulled from the sizzling oil one batch after another, barely having time to drain before they were snatched up.
The dumplings, hot and fragrant from the bamboo steamer, were selling faster than lightning.
Blaze and Grey manned the cooking stations, moving like veteran chefs despite their lack of practice, while Aeron raced between prepping new batter and shaping more dumplings.
Lenore stood at the front, managing the payments.
Her head was spinning from the constant stream of transactions, calculating change, and ensuring the smooth flow of the relentless queue.
Opposite them, Waylon was visibly fuming. His A Class stall was utterly deserted; there was not a single person in the vicinity. This time, Blaze—no longer apologetic—gave a triumphant, mocking smirk directly at Waylon, who was glaring at them furiously.
Finally, as the shadows lengthened and the first day of the festival was almost coming to an end, the massive crowd began to lessen.
With a triumphant sigh, they handed over the final corndog and dumpling. They had officially sold out.
Grey, Blaze, and Aeron immediately slumped down onto the ground, their bodies collapsing in relief.
They were covered in a fine sheen of grease and sweat, gasping for breath, having not taken a single second of rest during the period of selling.
But Lenore remained standing in front of the cash box. She was unnaturally still, her hands hovering near the coins, visibly trembling.
Her large eyes were wide open, fixed on the contents of the box.
"What’s the matter, Lenore? You saw a ghost or what?" Aeron asked her teasingly from the ground, still trying to catch his breath.
There was no response. After a few seconds, she slowly turned towards them, her movements mechanical, the shock still apparent on her face.
"W-We... we’ve collected almost five hundred gold coins," Lenore said, her voice barely a whisper, thick with disbelief. "And this is... this is just the first day."
The three men were instantly stumped. They had expected their income to be quite high, given the rush, but they had never envisioned anything close to that staggering amount. Five hundred gold coins was a small fortune.
Their exhaustion instantly evaporated, replaced by pure elation. Their lips lifted up automatically, their fatigue going up in smoke.
All three of them jumped up simultaneously, letting out whoops of excitement. They immediately engulfed Lenore in a tight, sweaty group hug and started jumping around their stall, shouting and celebrating their extraordinary success.
The moment of collective ecstasy was short-lived. Just as the four friends were jumping and shouting, their excitement was instantly replaced by curiosity.
A huge wave of people, a substantial chunk of the festival crowd, was suddenly rushing towards a certain direction on the academy grounds.
The energy of the crowd had shifted from playful chaos to focused anticipation.
Grey, Blaze, Lenore, and Aeron quickly composed themselves, stepping out from behind their stall, confused by the sudden, excited mass migration.
Just then, Aeron spotted a familiar student from their C Class rushing past and quickly caught him by the sleeve.
"Hey! What’s happening? Where are you all rushing in such haste?" Aeron asked, gripping the student’s arm.
"You don’t know?" the student asked, genuine surprise crossing his face. But seeing the four friends’ uncertain expressions, he realized they really were out of the loop.
"The genius from the Ashborn family, Levin from the S Class, is competing with our Zenon in a shooting competition!" the student exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.
"They are about to start! We can’t miss this, man!" He immediately wrenched his arm free and rushed forward without stopping for them.
The four of them were momentarily stunned. Zenon was supposed to be running his small, quiet shooting gallery game stall.
How was he now competing with someone from the powerful, elite S Class?
And hearing that the challenger, Levin, was from the esteemed Ashborn family, that is Zenon’s family itself, immediately raised red flags.
They could guess that something was not right; this was not a simple carnival game anymore.
"Aeron, look after the stall," Grey said, his focus immediately shifting into pre-combat mode. He didn’t spare a glance back, already rushing away.
"Thank you, Aeron!" Blaze added with a quick smile, equally focused. He didn’t wait for a reply, rushing ahead to follow Grey.
Lenore followed close behind Blaze without a word, her expression intense and concerned for Zenon.
"Oi! Oi! You fuckers!" Aeron screamed, his hands waving furiously in the air. "I want to see it too!" He kept shouting, but the three of them were already quite far ahead, their silhouettes quickly swallowed by the rushing crowd.
Aeron sighed, resigned to his duty, and turned back to guard the five hundred gold coins.
******
The throng of students finally converged upon a cleared space near the edge of the festival grounds.
The area had been hastily set up for Zenon’s stall, which had quickly escalated from a simple carnival game to a high-stakes arena of skill.
At the center stood two shooting lanes, defined by ropes.
At the far end of the lanes, targets were arranged in complex patterns: small, spinning obsidian discs, suspended silver rings, and even moving chime bells that flickered with a faint, low-grade defensive aura.
A tense silence had fallen over the large crowd as they waited.
Facing each other across the starting line were the two competitors:
Zenon stood absolutely still, his back straight against the wall of his makeshift stall.
He wore his usual dark, practical gear, and the pair of heavy, intricately carved handguns rested comfortably in holsters at his hips.
His face was a mask of cold, unreadable stoicism, yet his eyes, dark and focused, held a quiet intensity that belied his calm posture. He was the picture of unyielding discipline.
Opposite him was Levin, the challenger from S Class. Levin was impeccably dressed, his posture radiating a confident, almost arrogant ease.
He was tall, with sharp features and hair the color of pale moonlight—a distinct trait of the Ashborn family, famous for their natural affinity for wind aura and astonishing precision.
Levin didn’t use handguns; instead, he held a sleek, specialized aura rifle, its metal housing gleaming with sophisticated enchantment runes.
A sneer was plastered across his face as he looked down at Zenon.
A small, nervous professor stood between them, holding a starter flag.
"We have confirmed the rules," the professor announced, his voice thin under the pressure.
"Each competitor has one minute to destroy as many targets as possible. Targets hit by Zenon will be worth one point each. Targets hit by Levin, due to his slower rate of fire with the rifle, will be worth two points each. The total score will determine the winner."
Levin scoffed loudly. "Let’s see if your little stall owner can hit anything that isn’t made of cotton."
Zenon didn’t flinch. His only response was a subtle shift in his stance, channeling a thread of internal aura to stabilize his core.
"Isn’t that unfair? Why is he getting two points while Zenon only one?" One of the C class student in the crowd showed his dissatisfaction as he whispered to his friend beside.
"Didn’t you hear the professor? Rifles have slower fire rate, they can’t fore in quick succession, but one bullet a single time. That’s not unfair, rather it’s been done to make it fair." His friend explained.
Just as the professor lifted the flag, Grey, Blaze, and Lenore burst through the final layer of the crowd, stopping abruptly at the front row. They were breathing heavily, their eyes instantly locking onto Zenon.
"Zenon!" Blaze whispered urgently, but the tension was too thick for him to be heard.
The professor’s hand dropped.
"START!"
Levin moved first. He lifted his aura rifle, a complex series of low, whistling sounds accompanying the charging of his weapon.
He took deliberate aim and fired. The shot was a brilliant, focused beam of wind aura that struck a small, distant obsidian disc, obliterating it with surgical precision. One target. Two points.
But Zenon was a blur of controlled motion. Both handguns were drawn in a flicker, the movements practiced over years.
His aura wasn’t flashy; it was concentrated. Two shots exploded from his guns almost simultaneously, not as beams, but as dense, silver-laced projectiles. One hit a spinning ring; the other hit a moving bell.
Clang! Ding!
Zenon was already reloading, his fingers flying across the mechanisms before Levin could fire a second time.
Zenon didn’t aim with his eyes; he aimed with his entire being, using his senses to track the complex, chaotic movements of the targets.
Levin fired again, taking down two targets in quick succession with two perfectly spaced shots. Six points.
Zenon emptied his clips, a staccato of rapid fire that was almost overwhelming. Five shots, four hits. Six points.
The crowd gasped as the duel became a rapid-fire exchange of skill versus power, speed versus precision.