The Glitched Mage

By the seventh day, the forest was nearly dead.

Trees stood like charred husks. Mist crawled low across the blackened earth, clinging to the last pockets of shadow. There were no beasts now—no illusions of safety. Only silence, broken by footsteps, shallow breaths, and the low hum of mana drawn too many times.

Thirteen remained.

And they all knew, without a single word spoken, what had to happen next.

There would be no more mercy. No more hidden observers pulling them away at the last second. If they wanted to survive, they would have to fight. Until there was only one.

It began without ceremony.

Sera found a boy crouched in a thicket—his limbs trembling, eyes hollow. He saw her and reached for his blade, too slow. She didn't hesitate. A slash of steel, a jolt of pain, and he fell.

Twelve.

Elsewhere, Elion sat motionless within his warded circle, etched into the scorched forest floor with lines of precise, glowing runes. The light from the markings pulsed softly around him, forming a dome of quiet energy—neither aggressive nor inviting. He had not moved in hours, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees.

But he was far from unaware.

Two students crept through the mist beyond his perimeter, whispering beneath their breath. They thought they were quiet. They thought he couldn't sense them.

They were wrong.

The moment they crossed the outer boundary, the circle reacted. A low hum vibrated through the air. The runes ignited in sequence—brilliant gold flaring to white.

Neither student had time to scream.

A pulse of light surged outward in a perfect ring. Both were lifted from the ground and hurled backward, their bodies going limp before they hit the forest floor.

Ten.

Brann crashed through the remnants of a stone outpost, his breath loud, fire dancing across his arms. He didn't care who was left. He only wanted more. One girl tried to ambush him from above.

She never landed.

Nine.

The illusion had twisted into something primal. The survivors moved like animals now—hunched, tense, paranoid. Friendships had died days ago. There were no names anymore. Just threats. Targets. Obstacles.

One boy screamed in frustration as he cast spell after spell, missing wildly before someone struck him from behind. Eight.

Seven.

Six.

The forest was quiet again.

And in that stillness, Lysara emerged.

She hadn't fought yet. Not truly. She'd waited. Watched. Let the others break themselves into pieces. Her robes were still clean. Her eyes were calm.

And now, she moved.

She intercepted Sera near a broken ridge. The two stood in silence, weapons drawn, breaths even.

Sera struck first—fast, low, precise.

Lysara slipped past the blade and spun, her illusion blooming into three. The first one baited Sera's dodge. The second stepped into her guard. The third landed the blow.

Sera collapsed with a grunt, mana burned and body spent.

Five.

Elion stepped into the clearing just as Brann arrived, the mist parting between them like breath from a beast's mouth. The trees were twisted here, half-burned from past spells, their bark blackened and cracked. The air hung heavy, still vibrating with the mana of previous duels.

No words were exchanged.

Brann saw him and grinned, teeth bared, blood caked down one temple. His body was a map of burns and bruises, his clothes singed, but his fire—his rage—was undimmed. Flames curled around his fists like hungry serpents, the ground beneath him charring with every step.

Elion stood at the edge of the clearing, calm as stone.

He didn't raise a hand. Didn't ready a stance.

He simply watched.

Brann roared and lunged forward, fire trailing behind him in a blazing arc. The air shimmered with heat, the forest trembling under the weight of his mana. He came at Elion like a battering ram, all raw power and momentum.

Elion exhaled once.

And spoke a single word.

The light around him detonated.

Not in a beam, not in a blast—but in a silent, blinding eruption of radiance. The entire clearing was swallowed in white. Every illusion nearby flickered and collapsed—the trees momentarily turning translucent, the mist stripped away, the very ground beneath them rendered ghostlike.

Brann didn't even have time to register it.

The force struck him like a wall.

His body lifted off the ground, limbs convulsing mid-air before crashing back down in a heap of ash and steam. He groaned once—guttural, dazed—and then lay still, staring up at the canopy as if it might collapse on him next.

Elion didn't move.

He stepped forward once, calmly, the light still gently pulsing at his feet. He looked down at Brann, studied him, then turned away.

Four.

Then three.

Then two.

Lysara and Elion.

They stepped into the clearing like echoes of opposite forces—one wrapped in shadow, the other radiant with light. The illusionary grove was crumbling around them now, the canopy overhead fractured and dim, leaves long since turned to ash. The earth beneath their feet bore the scars of a hundred battles—charred roots, shallow craters, and runes burned into stone.

Fog clung low to the ground, unmoving. The very air felt taut, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

They didn't speak.

They simply moved.

Elion was first—his hands already sweeping through the air with slow, deliberate grace. Glowing runes spun into being at his fingertips, etched in gold and threaded with pure mana. They hovered for a breath—then ignited.

Lances of radiant energy exploded from his palms with concussive force, tearing through the mist in bursts of white-gold light. Each blast cracked the ground, shattered roots, and scorched the air where Lysara had stood a second before.

But she was gone before the first strike landed.

She moved like vapor—low and fluid, vanishing between pulses of flame and sound. Her cloak unfurled behind her like a trailing ribbon of shadow, her body cutting a narrow path through the chaos. She didn't clash with Elion's magic. She slipped through it, like water through fingers.

Another blast. Another beam. Elion pivoted, tracking her, weaving new spells with practiced speed—but Lysara was already behind him, an afterimage vanishing between flickers of light.

Then, her real form emerged from behind the veil.

No illusion. No misdirection. Just one clean, lethal movement.

She twisted low from the side, blade glinting with reflected light as it arced upward. It sliced across Elion's forearm with surgical precision, drawing a line of red across skin.

He hissed, recoiling—but didn't retreat.

Instead, light erupted from his chest in a sudden, raw surge. Not refined, not elegant—just desperate, burning power. A dome of force exploded outward in all directions, pure radiant mana rippling with heat.

It hit her like a battering ram.

Lysara was lifted off her feet, slammed backward into the ruined grove. Her body struck the ground hard and skidded through cracked stone and tangled roots. A dead branch snapped beneath her shoulder. Her vision blurred. Dust choked the air.

She rolled onto her side, coughing, blood on her tongue. Her ribs screamed. One arm curled instinctively around her middle as she forced herself to breathe through the pain.

Elion stood above her, panting, swaying. The flare of magic had cost him.

Sweat streamed down his temple, catching the golden glow still lingering across his skin. His limbs shook, mana drawn too far past safe limits. Still—he stepped forward, one foot after the other, slow and determined.

His hand began to rise.

A new rune formed.

But he hesitated.

His eyes met hers—bright, exhausted, steady. And in that split-second of doubt…

She moved.

Lysara exploded forward with a breathless cry, pain sharpening into clarity. She launched from a crouch, her foot kicking off the twisted remains of a root. Her body spun low beneath Elion's outstretched arm—before he could finish the rune, before he could think.

Her blade rose—not to kill, but to break.

It struck just behind his knee.

A crack sounded. Elion gasped and crumpled as his leg gave out beneath him. The spell unraveled in his hand, golden threads falling like ash around him. He dropped to one knee, breath ragged, hands trembling.

He looked up at her, blinking slowly—eyes wide not with fear, but understanding.

Lysara stood over him, covered in blood and dust, her blade hanging limp at her side. Her chest heaved with each breath. Her shadow spilled long behind her, the mist curling at her feet.

Elion's body shimmered. The glow began at his core, pulsing outward in concentric rings—until his form fractured into light and scattered like fireflies caught in a breeze.

Extracted.

Gone.

The grove fell silent.

And the forest exhaled.

The mist thickened for a moment—then receded, pulled back into the bones of the illusion. Trees collapsed into ash. Shadows thinned. The false sky, once locked in endless twilight, dimmed into deep black.

The illusion began to unravel.

Lysara stood at the center of it all, alone.

Blood stained her ribs. Her hand still gripped her blade, knuckles white, trembling.

Then—without a sound—a shimmer rippled through the air. Pressure built, not from heat or weight, but from magic folding in on itself.

Space warped.

And the world shifted.