Academy's Pervert in the D Class-Chapter 43: End of Round 1

The Grand Arcane Arena exhaled, its final spell echoes fading into a charged hum of mana that prickled the skin.

High above, the enchanted scoreboards flared, their runic glyphs searing the Round 1 results into the minds of every onlooker:

Class A – Average: 9.8

Class B – Average: 8.4

Class C – Average: 6.9

Class D – Average: 3.2

Class D’s number was dismal, a mockery in the eyes of the academy’s elite.

But beneath that cold statistic, something glinted—a flicker of defiance that refused to be ignored.

Spectral ravens swooped from the arena’s command circle, their black feathers glinting as they carried parchment reports to the noble boxes.

One raven looped lazily above the field, its message ribbon trailing in the wind:

"Class D scores four hits above 5. Names: Eva, Olivia, Nellie, Viora, Myra."

The vendor rows erupted in a low buzz.

"Hey!" a gruff voice barked from beneath the stands, mana-glazed candies spilling from his tray. "Class D’s got life!"

"No way!" a student gasped, craning to see the scoreboard.

"Look at it!" another shouted, pointing as the glyphs pulsed.

Crowds that had jeered Class D’s every move now froze, their sparking candies forgotten, enchanted pendants dimming in their slack hands.

Whispers spread like wildfire, eyes darting to the rickety corner where Class D sat, their splintered benches creaking under the weight of newfound attention.

In Class D’s shadowed section, Eva pulled her dark blue hair from her sweat-slick neck, pink streaks gleaming under the arena’s light.

Her tight knit top clung to her full chest, damp and wrinkled from effort, her skirt hugging her strong thighs.

She was breathing hard, not from exhaustion but from something fiercer—pride, raw and unyielding.

Her green eyes blazed as she scanned her inner circle. "We did it," she muttered, voice low but thrumming with triumph.

"Didn’t just survive," Olivia added, pushing a damp strand of her wavy bob behind her ear.

Her charcoal-gray pants clung to her hips, outlining every curve as she stood, her hazel eyes sharp with calculation. "We made them notice."

Nellie, cheeks flushed, shifted on the splintered bench, her big ass straining her skirt, a hint of white lace peeking as she moved.

Her gray eyes sparkled, and she let out a breathless giggle, almost disbelieving. "I... I hit mine. I really did..."

"You smacked it," Viora grinned, her green ponytail sticking to her neck, red lace panties flashing as her skirt rode up.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "And I saw Lila twitch. Worth every second."

Myra stretched languidly, her shirt clinging to her breasts, thighs glistening with sweat.

Her brunette curls bounced as she smirked, brown eyes glinting with mischief. "Not half bad for a buncha rejects, huh?"

Their laughter was soft, cautious, but real—a spark kindling into flame.

They exchanged glances, a silent pact forged in the heat of the arena.

For once, Class D’s corner wasn’t just a place of shame. It was a battlefield, and they’d drawn first blood.

Myra’s smirk turned playful as she tossed a chalk bead at Lor, who lounged against a broken bench, his black hair falling over his half-lidded hazel eyes.

"Nice fizzle, Lor," she teased, winking. "Bet you’re jealous of our glory."

Lor caught the bead with a lazy flick, his fingers moving with a grace that belied his slouched posture.

He just shrugged, tossing the bead into the dirt, his grin unshaken.

A few rows down, the pigtail blonde and the redhead sulked, their skirts dusty, faces sour as the crowd’s chatter shifted away from them.

The blonde’s pigtails bounced as she huffed, her 0 score a brand of shame.

The redhead’s curls framed a scowl, her freckled cheeks burning as she muttered something venomous under her breath.

They’d laughed at Lor’s failure, but now the arena’s eyes were on Eva’s circle, not them.

Class C’s jeers had quieted, not out of respect but confusion.

Class D’s "losers" had outperformed their "averages," and that stung worse than any taunt.

Even within Class D, lines were being drawn—those who fought, and those who faltered.\

As the students settled back into the stands, the mana vines curling around the arena’s walls pulsed with a slow, golden light, like a heartbeat.

The enchanted winds shifted, carrying whispers from the crowd to every corner of the coliseum.

"A spark," a vendor murmured, clutching his tray of dimming pendants.

"A fluke," a Class B student scoffed, but his eyes lingered on Class D’s corner.

The atmosphere had shifted.

____________

The Arena pulsed with raw, electric anticipation, its ancient stones vibrating under the weight of magic and expectation.

Fifty meters out, crystal discs spun wildly, caught in enchanted gusts that howled like restless spirits. frёeweɓηovel_coɱ

Massive mana vines coiled over the tiered stone seats, their golden pulses a heartbeat that thrummed through the coliseum.

Spectral ravens darted overhead, their claws clutching betting slips as they squawked, weaving through the air with frenetic energy.

Vendors roared from their stalls, hawking glowing pendants that pulsed blue, mana-charged candies that crackled on the tongue, and enchanted ribbons that snapped and danced in the wind.

The air tasted of ozone, sharp and alive, and every glance in the arena—noble or common—dripped with tension.

The announcer’s voice boomed, amplified by the arena’s enchanted winds:

"Round Two—Fifty-Meter Precision!"

A hush fell, heavy as a storm cloud.

All eyes turned to the field as Seraphina Astren glided forward, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight, her gold-trimmed uniform clinging to her frame like a second skin.

She was statuesque, untouchable, every step a proclamation of dominance.

The crowd held its breath as she raised a mana bead between pale, elegant fingers, her violet eyes locking onto the distant, spinning disc.

She exhaled once, a haunting breath that seemed to still the wind itself.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

The beads streaked through the air, slicing the gusts with lethal precision.

Bullseye. Bullseye.

The third shot grazed the center by a fraction, a whisper from perfection.

The scoreboard flared: 10, 10, 9.

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