Watching his face cycle through various stages of frustration was oddly satisfying. There was something deeply entertaining about seeing someone so composed lose their cool, especially when I held all the cards.
He was stronger than he looked—I could sense that much—but raw strength meant nothing when you were outclassed. His level 1 status wasn't fooling anyone, but it also meant I could toy with him without real consequences.
I'd been planning to grab a spear originally. That's what I'd trained with since childhood, what felt natural in my hands. But when I saw him leave the main floor with such obvious purpose, curiosity got the better of me. He moved like someone with inside information, bypassing everything others found interesting.
When he found what he was looking for, his micro-expressions gave him away completely. The slight widening of his eyes, the way his breathing changed—amateur tells, really. Whatever this weapon was, he wanted it badly.
Which made me want it more.
"All right," I said, holding the weapon just out of his reach. "Tell me why you want it, and I might consider letting you have it."
His jaw clenched. Beautiful.
"I picked it before you," he said through gritted teeth.
"Oh, did I miss that?" I tilted my head innocently. "Where's your proof?"
His face went through several interesting color changes. I was genuinely impressed by his self-control—most people would have snapped by now.
That's when things got interesting.
The air around him seemed to shift, and suddenly I was flying backward into a rack of daggers, wind rushing past my ears like a hurricane. Before I could process what happened, I found myself suspended in mid-air, wrapped in what felt like solid wind.
"So you have this level of wind affinity?" I asked, genuinely intrigued despite my predicament. "And this mastery? How is someone at level 1 overpowering me?"
He walked over calmly, plucked one of my daggers from its sheath, and pressed it to my throat. The cold steel kissed my skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
"If I ever catch you around me again," he said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet menace that made my heart beat faster, "I swear I'll kill you."
The intensity in his eyes, the absolute certainty in his voice, the way he held the blade with practiced ease—it sent an unexpected thrill through me. My cheeks warmed, and I found myself breathing harder.
This was... interesting.
"Just stay away from me, psycho," he muttered, returning the dagger to its sheath.
Then he punched me in the gut.
Hard.
The impact drove the air from my lungs, doubling me over as pain and something else entirely shot through my system. A soft moan escaped my lips before I could stop it.
He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Fair enough—my reaction probably wasn't what he expected.
"Something is seriously wrong with her," I heard him mutter to someone I couldn't see.
"She's a masochist," he concluded with the tone of someone diagnosing a particularly annoying disease.
Then he walked away with my weapon, leaving me suspended and oddly exhilarated.
Well. This semester just got a lot more interesting.