Hate Me, Miss Witch!

With orders from the Ashen Patriarch—his superior—the arsonist leader wasted no more time.

"I accept your terms," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. "But—" His gaze shifted to the girl standing beside Xaya, Aurora. "She must not interfere with the ritual."

From the very beginning, this golden-haired girl had been a source of immense pressure. Even with dozens of followers aiding him, he couldn't guarantee the success of the ritual if she remained.

"Deal," Xaya replied, turning to Aurora. "Aurora, you'll leave with Dyris and the others."

Aurora glanced at him but said nothing. She nodded silently and stepped back into the crowd.

"Alright, let's get on with it." Xaya's gaze locked on the arsonist leader, his tone impatient as if heading toward the altar was nothing more than a mundane errand. "Hurry up. I'm getting bored."

What transpired seemed more like a skirmish than a negotiation, all resolved in minutes.

One by one, the students—filthy and battered—had their bindings untied. They stood shakily, avoiding eye contact with their captors.

When a disorderly line had finally formed, the arsonist leader lifted his scythe. With a wave, a crack opened in the blazing wall of fire.

"Consider yourselves lucky." His rasping voice was like a snake hissing through a desolate desert. "It's not every day you find someone foolish enough to sacrifice themselves for others."

There was a strange mix of disdain and admiration in his tone. Despite their adversarial relationship, Xaya's pure and radiant soul struck a chord, leaving even the arsonist leader momentarily awed.

Too bad, he thought. This radiance would soon become fuel for his god.

"Now get lost," he barked, waving dismissively at the freed students.

The students wasted no time, scrambling through the opening. As they passed Xaya, many lowered their heads, avoiding his gaze.

Xaya had saved them—this was undeniable. Yet they couldn't help but feel ashamed. Most of them had never even heard his name before today. If the situation were reversed, they knew they wouldn't have had the courage to make the same sacrifice.

Among them, Dyris lingered, her delicate face flushed red from the heat, though her worry for Xaya eclipsed all discomfort.

"What are you doing?" she pleaded, turning to Aurora. "Why aren't you stopping this?"

"I know Xaya is strong," she continued, her voice desperate. "Stronger than his Academy records suggest. He might even be stronger than you—or some of the professors! But the thing inside that altar… It's not something anyone can face."

Her words faltered as she recalled the black flames burning within the altar. She had seen it up close during an earlier failed assault. That infernal energy—brimming with malice—was an existence beyond comprehension. Even master-class tamers would falter before its destructive power.

But Aurora remained unmoved. Standing tall with her golden hair fluttering in the heat, her icy voice cut through Dyris pleas. "This is his decision."

It was Xaya's choice. Aurora had no intention of questioning it—or probing into his reasoning. Her role was simple: to follow his plan at the right moment and execute her part.

As Dyris tried to understand Aurora's unyielding resolve, she felt herself sinking into an invisible pressure. For the first time, she realized how little she understood either Xaya or Aurora—the Academy's enigmatic top student.

Dyris opened her mouth to say something, but no words came. Before she could recover, the fire wall closed behind her, cutting off her last chance to intervene.

The remaining students, led by instructors and military reinforcements, retreated to a safer zone. A scout's Eye Demon beast projected an image of the battlefield onto a magical screen, drawing every eye.

The projection showed a lone figure—Xaya—standing amidst the blazing ruins, surrounded by the Ashen cultists. His steady steps carried him toward the black altar.

"He's walking into certain death," someone whispered, the words heavy with despair.

Dyris's heart clenched as she watched his retreating figure—a silhouette framed against an ocean of fire. The boy she hardly knew had risked everything to save them all.

And now, that slender back, shrouded in flames, seemed impossibly tall.

It was as if they were witnessing a hero taking his first step onto a path of no return.