Academy's Pervert in the D Class-Chapter 47: Next

Lor sauntered to the casting line, every strand of his black hair slapping against the raw tension in the air.

Distraction gnawed at him—not from the pressure of the arena, but from a single-minded annoyance at Mistress Veyne, Class B’s statuesque instructor.

Her emerald skirt, sculpted to her curves, had defied his playful breeze magic, remaining stubbornly motionless despite his subtle attempts to tease its hem.

The challenge ate at him, a private game he wasn’t ready to abandon.

Joren and Lila leaned forward from Class C’s crowded platform, their eyes glinting with predatory glee.

"Bet you can’t even hit the disc!" Joren jeered, his slicked-back hair whipping in the wind, his voice carried by the enchanted gusts.

Lila’s sharp laugh followed, her ponytail snapping as she raised an eyebrow. "Hit at least a five, and I’ll—" She paused, savoring the taunt, her lips curling into a wicked smirk. "I’ll flash my boobs."

Lor’s eyes widened.

Her challenge crackled like lightning, bold and provocative.

The arena erupted in laughter, students hooting and whistling.

He inhaled, his hazel eyes narrowing as he raised his first bead.

The wind howled, yanking the shot off course the moment it left his fingers.

It veered pathetically, missing the disc entirely.

The scoreboard flashed: 0. Class C erupted, Joren doubling over, Lila’s laughter ringing like a bell.

His second shot was barely better, wobbling through the gusts to clip the outermost ring with a faint ping. 1.

The laughter grew louder, Class C’s platform a riot of jeers.

Lila cheered, twirling her ponytail mockingly.

"That’s it, loser? Keep trying! One is the most you can get by luck"

Lor rolled his eyes, his lips quirking.

Glad you’re enjoying yourself, he thought, casually tossing his hair back and giving Lila a lazy wave.

The gesture drew another peal of laughter from her, her taunt echoing. "Come on, loser—prove it!"

Lor lifted his third bead, his movements sharp on purpose, his hazel eyes locking onto the target with a precision.

He didn’t need perfection—not yet.

Just enough to shake them.

His fingers flicked, the bead slicing through the wind with a sharp snap, piercing the third ring clean.

The scoreboard flared: 8.

A hush swept the arena, the wind itself seeming to pause.

Class C’s jeers died in their throats, Joren’s smirk faltering, Lila freezing mid-laugh, her expression flickering between shock and disbelief.

The crowd stirred, whispers rippling like wildfire.

Lor played it perfectly.

He threw his hands up in mock surprise, stumbling back a step as if stunned by his own shot.

"Wow, must’ve been a fluke," he muttered, his voice casual, dripping with false humility.

He slouched back to his bench, his black hair falling over his eyes to hide the glint of satisfaction.

Lila’s grin vanished, her sharp eyes narrowing as she turned and melted back into Class C’s shocked crowd, her bravado snuffed out like a candle in the storm.

Spectral ravens took flight, their scrolls fluttering: "Class D scores eight! Loser?" Vendors paused mid-sale, their glowing pendants dimming in their hands.

"Did that boy just—?" one gasped. "Yep," another whispered, eyes wide. "He’s not terrible."

In Class D’s rickety corner, the inner circle erupted in quiet celebration.

Eva nudged Lor, her green eyes bright, her dark blue hair clinging to her sweat-slick cheeks.

"Nice shot, fluke or not," she teased, her blue lace peeking as she leaned closer, her voice warm with pride.

Olivia tossed a chalk bead at him, her wavy bob swaying, hazel eyes glinting. "Don’t let this get to your head, loser," she said, but her smirk betrayed her approval.

Viora and Myra piled on, their skirts clinging to their thighs, red and black lace flashing as they leaned in.

"Eight from Mr. Loser? Impressive," Viora drawled, her green ponytail bouncing.

Myra’s grin was playful but sharp. "Keep that up, and we might not call you useless," she added, winking.

Nellie, her cheeks flushed, her thick thighs shifting under her skirt, caught Lor’s gaze.

Her gray eyes shone, and murmured, "That was amazing Lor." and smiled.

Lor just shrugged, his cool grin hiding a rare warmth and walked back to his secluded place hoping to catch a sight of Lila.

_____________

The Grand Arcane Arena thrummed with a restless pulse, the storm’s howl softening but the tension thickening like mana-charged fog.

The runic scoreboard blazed to life, its glowing glyphs searing the Round 2 results into the coliseum’s ancient stones:

Class A – 9.6

Class B – 7.9

Class C – 4.0

Class D – 2.5

Gasps rippled through the crowd, a wave of shock and intrigue.

Vendors froze mid-pitch, their mana fizzers crackling in their trays, forgotten.

Spectral ravens shot skyward, score slips clutched in their talons, bound for the noble towers where gilded onlookers leaned forward.

The arena’s heartbeat—pulsing through the golden mana vines—quickened, syncing with the crowd’s rising anticipation.

Class A’s Seraphina stood unmoved, her silver hair cascading like polished frost, her gold-trimmed uniform catching the light like a crown.

Her 9s and 10s were untouchable, her violet eyes a blade that needed no words. She didn’t react to the scores—she didn’t have to.

Her dominance was a law of nature.

Kael from Class B smirked, clapping a smug hand on his bench as his squad rallied behind him.

His 8s and 7s anchored their second place, solid but not enough to challenge the silver-haired goddess above.

A flicker of frustration crossed his broad shoulders, but his grin held, masking the crack in Class B’s confidence.

Class C’s platform stiffened, Joren’s slicked-back hair still damp from the storm, Lila’s ponytail taut as her clenched jaw.

Their mid-range scores barely held their place, and whispers of Class D’s upstarts slithered through the arena, gnawing at their pride like a slow poison.

And in Class D’s rickety corner, a 2.5 glared from the scoreboard—a number that should’ve been laughable, a drag on the entire bracket.

To most, it was proof of their failure.

But beneath that cold statistic, a spark burned, fierce and unyielding.

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