I am Just an Average Tamer

Up in the stands, murmurs began to rise in the crowd.

"Did you see that?! She just swept him like it was nothing!"

"Wasn't that guy from the Rosenthal faction?" another asked.

"I thought he was untouchable. Who is she?"

"Hmm... I think she's courting death."

"Whatever, you know, I think I'm in love."

"What, seriously?"

"..."

"..."

The crowd murmured again, excitement buzzing.

******

The serpent coiled and lashed, flames erupting in its wake, forcing the girl to vault into a roll, landing beside a half-burnt tree.

One dagger flew—

Clink!

Struck a rock where his shoulder had been moments before.

"Close," he called mockingly, "but not close enough."

Suddenly, the girl dropped low—and from the ground erupted a flurry of sharp vines.

She had activated a natural trap using a pressure plate with her foot during her slide.

The vines shot straight for the Flame Serpent's underbelly.

HISSSSK!

Nivex recoiled, flames sputtering from its maw in shock.

She used the opening.

In one smooth motion, she launched herself up, daggers whirling as she closed the distance between her and the summoner.

The boy's grin vanished.

Their blades met.

His was a conjured short blade, burning hot like flames.

Hers were mundane, but her technique was sharper.

Clang! Clang!

Shhhkk!

They exchanged three, four rapid strikes—each blow calculated.

The boy was good, but she was quicker.

She ducked beneath a wide swing, using the moment to land a knee into his gut.

THUMP!

He staggered back, winded.

"You little—"

She pressed in. He countered with a fiery slash, singing her shoulder, but she didn't falter. She spun, hooked her heel behind his, and swept him off his feet.

He hit the ground hard, coughing, just as one of her blades pressed against his throat.

His eyes widened, ocean-blue fury meeting unflinching silver.

She didn't smile. "Fight's over."

The girl stepped away, letting the boy scramble up, panting and red-faced.

He looked at her with disbelief, his pride wounded far more than his body.

She didn't mock him.

She just turned and disappeared into the trees.

The blonde boy clenched his fists, jaw tight—but didn't follow.

He stood up, groaning.

"Fucking bitch."

Then glanced around and saw no sign of the weak little poor boy who was scrambling in front of him before that silver eyed girl smacked him.

"Tch."

He clicked his tongue and moved away.

******

"Hmm," muttered Professor Idrin, a gaunt man with crow-black robes and a silver monocle, eyes narrowing at the girl.

"She disabled a flame serpent user… and manipulated the terrain mid-fight. That was precise."

A younger professor nearby, a woman with sky-blue robes and swirling tattoos glowing faintly on her arms, leaned forward.

"That girl… Serena Whitheart. Impressive. She used the environment to pressure the beast and the summoner. Not just skill, but high situational awareness."

A noblewoman, dressed in silver silks, raised her brow. "And that blonde boy… Tristan Rosenthal, wasn't he ranked high in the first two trials?"

Another nodded. "He was. Top ten in both written and tactical phases. Yet she handled him efficiently. And didn't even use any flashy magic."

"She's using pure movement and instinct," Professor Idrin said.

"Finally, Whithearts' produced someone expectational," someone murmured.

They all nodded in unison

------

Something shimmered in the sky.

Not a soft glint or a passing gleam—no, this was brilliant, like a sliver of dawn tearing through the canopy above. The branches overhead rustled unnaturally as a focused beam of white-blue light spiraled downward, pure and humming with layered magic.

The green-haired girl froze.

Her breath caught as the radiant column flared brighter.

Reflexes sharpened, she stepped back quickly, boots crunching against moss and brittle twigs. Her hands moved with practiced fluidity, bringing her staff to bear in front of her—angled defensively.

The staff she wielded was unlike most—twisted emerald wood, etched with silver runes that glowed faintly like veins of moonlight.

The head was forked, split like a branching tree with a crystalized bud of white blossom hovering between the tips, suspended in a flickering aura. The air around it pulsed softly with natural magic, like it was alive—breathing.

Her lips parted to whisper a warding spell, but before she could utter a syllable—

The light cracked.

Like glass shattering in slow motion, the luminous column fractured into glowing shards—and from within it, a figure descended.

He landed softly, as though gravity itself dared not burden him.

A boy—no, a young elf, unmistakably so. His presence was magnetic.

He stood tall and composed, his posture effortless yet noble.

Silvery-white hair cascaded to his shoulders in delicate waves, and not a strand seemed out of place. His eyes—sharp and violet, with slit-pupil irises like an ancient predator—glowed faintly, betraying the raw magical power behind them.

His skin was smooth, almost luminescent, kissed by the moon and sculpted like living marble. High cheekbones, an elegant jawline, pointed ears adorned with rune-engraved cuffs—every detail about him screamed refined, untouchable grace.

He wore an outfit of layered mage robes, woven from midnight-blue silk with starlight threads glinting as he moved. A long cloak flowed from his shoulders, clasped by a sigil shaped like an open eye.

The air around him had grown still.

Even the birds had gone quiet.

The green-haired girl swallowed. Her staff's glow dimmed slightly, responding to her hesitation.

The boy's gaze flicked to her, calm but assessing. Then, in a voice like still water laced with frost, he spoke.

As Sevyr took a few more steps past her, his cloak fluttering like liquid shadow, he paused—then turned halfway, his silver hair catching a shard of sunlight that pierced through the trees.

He bowed slightly, one hand pressed to his chest, the other loosely behind his back.

Then, in a voice dipped in mockery and just enough charm to make it dangerous, he said—

"It's been a while, Princess Rashira."

Rashira blinked, her brows knitting in confusion. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

"What are you talking about?" she said, deadpan. "We just met before the trials."

Sevyr straightened, a sly smirk curling across his lips. He casually adjusted the collar of his dark robe, the starlit threads shimmering faintly under his fingers.

"Ah, the start," he mused, voice light, but carrying. "It's felt longer somehow. Must be because I've been missing you since then…" He gave a dramatic sigh, then rested a hand over his heart. "This poor soul has been aching ever since."

Rashira's glare was immediate—but betrayed by the telltale warmth rising to her cheeks. A faint blush painted her fair skin, blooming along the curve of her ears and the tip of her nose.

"Hmph!" She crossed her arms, staff now resting against her shoulder. "Trying to win me over by buttering me up, huh?"

Then her lips curled into a smirk of her own, more daring this time.

"Save your sweet talk for after the trial, idiot. If you want to impress me—" she leaned forward slightly, eyes sparking, "—prove you're worth it."

Sevyr's violet gaze didn't waver. If anything, it gleamed brighter at the challenge.

Rashira stepped forward, her boots squelching slightly against the damp earth.

Her fingers tightened around the shaft of her intricately carved magic staff.

"So, the princess is ready to dance," Sevyr teased, rolling his shoulder.

Rashira didn't answer.

Instead, her foot slid back, her body lowered into a balanced stance, and her staff glowed bright blue.

Bwooooom!

The signal flare boomed from above.

The duel had begun.

Sevyr flicked his fingers, conjuring a barrage of glimmering sigils that swirled in the air and launched forward like magic bullets.

Rashira spun her staff in an arc, a ripple of water surging from the crystal and forming a curved barrier that absorbed the impact with a hiss.

A stream of steam rose where fire met water.

But Rashira didn't stop there. Her eyes glinted with focus.

"Come, Kival."

From her shadow surged a beast with sleek, obsidian scales and emerald eyes.

A Midnight Frondwolf—a stealth and speed specialist. Its figure blurred even as it moved, a ghost in motion.

Sevyr's smirk never faltered. "Two can play that game."

With a casual gesture, he raised both palms, summoning a spiraling glyph that twisted mid-air—then burst open in a cascade of heat and pressure.

A lance of flame shot out.

Rashira ducked—barely.

The edge of her sleeve caught fire, but she smothered it with a quick wind rune.

Kival darted ahead, zig-zagging, claws glowing with rune-enhanced sharpness.

Sevyr didn't flinch as the beast closed in.

His right hand clenched—earth surged, pillars erupting from the ground and boxing in Kival, who leapt between them. It swiped, grazing Sevyr's thigh, and vanished into the trees again.

"You'll need more than tricks to best me," Sevyr said.

"I've fought war mages in tournaments before."

"And I've survived ancient ruins that swallowed entire parties," Rashira said quietly.

"You're not special."

Her staff slammed into the earth.

The ground trembled. Water burst up like geysers around her—muddied and glowing faintly.

"Come, Vaendra."

The clearing dimmed momentarily.

From behind her, slithering through the pools of summoned water, emerged a Riverwake Serpent—glassy-scaled and long as a wagon, its whiskered snout gleaming with faint, magical frost.

Sevyr took a visible breath. "Okay, I admit—that's impressive."

Rashira didn't answer.

She let her serpent curl around her, its body coiling defensively as the crystal on her staff began to glow with deep aquamarine light.

"Vaendra. Mist surge."