School, or Prison? Two different words, almost the same meaning. His intense focus broke and the medieval replica coin came back to his hand. He flipped it again, and as it reached its peak a hand snatched it quickly.
“Steal it, it isn’t worth anything.” His friend quickly pocketed the item smiling widely. The bell rang. As the two boys walked along, it seemed that the bell took longer than the usual eight seconds that seemed just a tad excessive. One shifted out the door to look over the balcony. Some children screamed fire drill as a joke, others looked up and down in search of a teacher to confirm what was happening. When a meteor of shadowy gas hit the ground, an adrenal surge took over the onlooking youth and he vaulted over the railing, when he hit the floor and rolled he wasn’t even entirely sure if he landed properly. Any pain he felt was minimal, as he powered each footstep into the floor towards the dissipating shadows.
Through the light rays filtering through the particles of smoky vapor he made out a target, span leapt and kicked to its face. He looked kept his eyes on his target and was sure he saw his leg snap when it collided with the pole of a walking cane one of the figures had pulled up. As he collided with the ground, his suspicion was confirmed. The amount of pain coming from his leg said that he’d done it some serious wrong.
“It was a good choice coming for this realm, the locals just volunteer themselves.” The voice was high pitched and sounded a bit pained. Then he felt the blunt end of the cane smash against his face.
The boy soon awoke, in the stone tiled courtyard of what he still recognized to be his school. Grass still grey between the tiles, there were two storeys of yellow painted classrooms with white framed glass windows. Even down the worn red railings with chipping paint and signs of rust. Nothing had changed, except his hands were the color of ebony.
Had he not been so young we would have probably instantly went into cardiac arrest, and despite his youth he still felt like he was going to. His sleeves were adorned with well-fitting jet armor, it was thin and light, only adding to the tension he felt. At his side he could feel two curved swords, as he examined one they were evidently scimitars. He felt a dagger at the heel of his right foot.
Across from him another rose slowly. His eccentric armor made him a spectacle to behold, but a spectacle often was a stern warning. The robe bottom was red with white cracks running through it and the side decorated with a pink and white armor, the torso and arms followed a similar pattern except its cracks were orange and the armor more prominent to defend vital organs and on his head, a helmet with a hood over it partially hiding his face if you looked at it from a distance. He wielded a golden staff with a chipped blade on top and in his left a rapier made of some bluish metal that didn’t even exist on earth.
“A battlemage.” The mage then looked to the warrior who knelt nearby. The dagger flipped out of the casing at his foot and moved parallel to the mage’s head. Almost reflexively put the staff forward and cast some spell. The dagger’s surface became covered in ice and its path changed, falling to the floor harmlessly.
Enraged the ebony skinned boy drew both weapon and moved with a litheness he could hardly control. His balance was compromised by the first step, unused to this new body, but he kept moving till he reached the battlemage. He slashed both weapons outwards forcing apart the staff and rapier and brought his foot straight up, almost kicking the mage in his face.
The mage’s hand conjured a fireball, he aimed to command it his black-skinned opponent. The fire refused and detonated, separating them through the explosive force created. The dark-skinned warrior could see through the dark created by the smoke, and he could tell his opponent could not. He charged again, blocking the blind rapier thrust that was aimed at footsteps with his left hand scimitar held in a reverse grind. The free scimitar came across and sliced the metal of them helmet and slightly cut the hood.
Casting another spell he debilitated his enemy, the boy’s blood began to boil. Pain was intense throughout his body and as a knee-jerk reaction he brought across the scimitar held in reverse grip cutting the mage’s face just below his eye, the mage teleported vanishing in blue and purple light to appear a few feet away from the warrior.
Particles of blood filled the air and the battlemage’s bleeding face repaired itself. The warrior shot him a look of disgust.
“That is quite enough, no need for you to be killing each other before the first round begins.” That voice was the last thing they heard before something snatched the light from the world around them, and they fell into a low kneel in the hall of their school.
