The Decision

The realization shatters something inside Luthor. A lifetime of disappointment finally boils over.

He turns toward the tree with the hidden camera. His fist trembles—not from fear, but from rage so fierce it borders on hysteria.

Luthor: “Filming it… enjoying it… all of you…”

He slams his fist into the trunk.

CRACK—THUNDER—SPLINTER.

The entire tree explodes backward like it was struck by lightning, collapsing with a deafening crash. The camera tumbles to the dirt, lens cracked, still recording—now pointed directly at him. Ash swirls around his boots. His chest heaves.

Magna freezes, one hand clutching Dina’s arm. Her eyes widen in shock—recognition flickering.

Magna: “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Dina: “Y-you! You’re the guy from earlier!”

Luthor’s voice trembles as tears streak down his ash-covered face.

Luthor: “You… all of you… Standing here… watching… recording… letting this happen," …His voice deepens, grief **** him.

Luthor: “Even she’s watching… ”

He clenches his jaw.

Luthor: “I’ll make every single one of you pay.”

Magna scoffs, molten cracks glowing across his skin.

Magna: “Pay? For what? I asked you twice—who the hell ARE you?”

The fire around them intensifies as if bowing to Magna’s fury.

Luthor’s answer comes soft.

Small.

Broken.

Luthor: “I’m nobody.”

Magna forcefully shoves Dina aside and steps forward, molten fists dripping lava that hisses as it hits the forest floor.

Magna: “Then you’re nobody with a **** wish.”

He lunges.

A molten fist toward Luthor’s skull.

Luthor barely moves—just tilts his head.

The punch shreds the air beside him, incinerating a tree behind him entirely.

Luthor’s breathing grows uneven. Not from the heat— but from the weight crushing his chest.

Luthor (internal): “I don’t want this… but I can’t… I can’t let this continue…”

Magna swings again, faster, both fists blazing. Luthor steps back, heat bending around him like wind around a mountain.

Magna: “STOP DODGING AND FIGHT!”

Magna stomps the ground— a wave of magma erupts beneath Luthor’s feet, the earth splitting open.

Luthor swiftly floats within the air. A single effortless leap sends him soaring over the blast, landing silently behind Magna.

Magna spins, startled. Fear flickers for the first time.

Magna: “What… what are you…?”

Luthor says nothing. Only clenches his fists.

Magna hurls a molten spear. Luthor catches it midair— the superheated rock melting between his fingers.

He crushes it into dust.

Magna’s eyes widen.

He retreats instinctively—but Luthor is suddenly in front of him.

Luthor: “Stop hurting people…”

His voice cracks mid-sentence.

Magna: “STAY BACK!”

Magna unleashes everything— a torrent of lava and flame erupting like a volcanic storm.

The blast swallows Luthor whole.

Dina shields behind the trees, screaming, using the bubble ball to further shield herself.

When the flames fade…

Luthor is still standing.

Clothes burned.

Skin unmarked.

Eyes hollow.

Magna stumbles backward, horrified.

Magna: “No… no—no one’s that strong—”

Luthor moves.

A single step. A blur.

He grabs Magna by the chest, lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

Luthor (voice shaking): “I said… stop.”

Magna screams, lava bursting from his body in panic. The molten heat envelops Luthor’s arm—but Luthor doesn’t let go.

Magna: “PUT ME DOWN! LET ME—”

Magna panics—Heat surges through his skin— His body starts glowing dangerously bright.

Magna: “LET GO! GET AWAY FROM ME!”

He erupts.

A volcanic blast from inside his own body— a ****, terrified detonation— ire ripping out of him in all directions.

The forest ignites instantly, flames racing up the trees.

Luthor is thrown back but unharmed. Magna collapses, half-charred, barely breathing, molten cracks running across his body.

He caused his own destruction out of pure fear.

Armine: “Magnificent. Just magnificent. First day of these combat trainings and we’ve already torched a student. Magna is dead—smoked like a cheap barbecue—and Augustus, that sentient seal plushie, was in charge. Brilliant.”

Evelyn didn’t even raise her head.

Evelyn: “Lower your voice. I’m not emotionally invested enough to endure your theatrics. And Augustus was your hire, not mine.”

Armine: “You should’ve been there to compensate. He can’t supervise a puddle without drowning in it.”

Mirela: “Aww, Gus-Gus did his best, okay? It’s hard to keep order when your hands are basically soggy mittens. Poor flippy boy could barely hold a whistle.”

Evelyn’s eye twitched—not in grief, but irritation.

Evelyn: “Mirela, please. Before I mistake you for a spill and mop you up. I was late because you swapped my files.”

Mirela: “Oopsie~ Everything looks the same when you skim the labels like— (she makes vague wiggly motions) —this. I’m a visual learner! Mostly colors. And sparkles.”

She smiled as if sparkles explained everything.

Armine: “Enough. A student’s dead, the culprit’s gone, and the press is already sniffing around.”

Evelyn: “Magnificent. Day one and I’m dealing with paperwork and cremated teenagers.”

Armine: “You do not care at all, do you?”

Evelyn: “No. I care that it happened on my first day. That’s it.”

Mirela gasped so dramatically she splattered slime across her own shoulders.

Mirela: “Cold, elegant, and absolutely heartless—Evelyn, please tutor me.”

Evelyn: “No. And stop dripping on yourself.”

Armine leaned back, claws clicking on the desk like a sinister metronome.

Armine: “We have two options: bury this… or sell it.”

Evelyn: “You mean lie.”

Armine: “No. I mean storytell. The Marquis’s League infiltrates the training. Magna erupts. Chaos, tragedy, public sympathy, money, control. It’s beautiful.”

Mirela: “So dramatic! Kind of like that time we sold ‘Bus Crash Remembrance Lunchboxes.’ My idea, by the way. They came with stickers.”

Evelyn exhaled sharply, aristocratic and exhausted.

Evelyn: “Fine. Spin your narrative. Just don’t drag me to a podium. I don’t perform mourning.”

Armine: “You won’t need to. You’re rich. You look expensive when you frown—it reads as gravitas.”

Evelyn glanced up, expression ice-smooth.

Evelyn: “I don’t need your coins, Armine. I have more wealth than this entire institution. I work here because I have my reasons. None of them include listening to you breathe.”

Mirela whispered loudly:

Mirela: “OoOoOh mysterious hero backstory~ I bet it’s tragic. Or spicy. Or both.”

Evelyn ignored her.

Armine clasped his hands.

Armine: “Now. Phase two. Noah.”

Evelyn finally looked interested—not emotionally, just mildly inconvenienced.

Evelyn: “What about him?”

Armine: “He’s our centerpiece. Our rising star. The public likes him. The students fear him. If we craft the right narrative, this tragedy becomes his launching platform.”

Mirela: “Ooooh, like a catapult but for reputations!”

Armine: “Exactly. We engineer a villain—subtle enough to fool the faculty, dangerous enough to frighten the press. Noah confronts them. Defeats them. Avanges his dead friend. Saves the day.”

He smiled slowly.

Armine: “Overnight, he becomes the Academy’s number one student. The unbeatable prodigy.”

Evelyn: “You want to stage a fight?”

Armine: “We stage a story. And Noah becomes the living headline.”

Mirela: “Imagine the merch! ‘Heroic Noah Action Figure — pull the string and he sighs in existential dread for his dead friend!"

She giggled like a child dropping glitter off a balcony.

Evelyn: “What if he doesn't cooperate?”

Armine: “He won’t need to. He’ll be **** into position by circumstance… and by you.”

Evelyn stared at him.

Evelyn: “I’m babysitting the boy.”

Armine: “You’re sculpting him. You’re disciplined, neutral, terrifyingly strong—he’ll listen. If I know anything about that boy is that he respects power.”

Mirela: “You two will be like the grim mentorship duo of my dreams! GladEve and Noah the **** Poster Boy!”

Evelyn sighed deeply, the sigh of a woman reconsidering her life choices.

Evelyn: “Fine. I’ll monitor him. Train him. Nudge him toward your orchestrated heroics.”

Armine: “Perfect. Now—interrogate all fifty participants. One by one. Build tension. Sift for leads. And if we don’t find a villain…”

Evelyn finished the sentence quietly.

Evelyn: “You’ll manufacture one.”

Armine: “Precisely.”

Mirela clapped her hands.

Mirela: “Ooh! Ooh! Can we make the villain super dramatic? Cape? Monologue? Glitter bombs?”

Evelyn: “No glitter.”

Mirela pouted.

Then perked.

Mirela: “Fine. But I’m pitching this joke in the press release—ready?”

Mirela: “Magna didn’t survive the training… but hey, at least he passed with flying embers.”

She burst out laughing, wiping tears of slime.

Even Armine choked on a laugh he tried to hide.

Evelyn stared at her, deadpan:

Armine rose, satisfied.

Armine: “Perfect. Then let’s begin. A dead student, a villain, a rising hero… and the entire world watching in magnificent 4K with sad piano music.”

His voice lowered into a satisfied purr.