I descended into the tunnel running beneath the stands, the passage that led directly to the arena, as we prepared to begin the fight.

  However, we had to wait another quarter of an hour, since the herald had just announced the opening of the betting house for the final match.

  A short man, yet dressed in an imposing toga, stepped onto the tribune and spoke in a solemn voice:

  “My name is Lepidus, and I represent Fortuna Betting House, the only legal and authorized establishment operating within the Academy grounds. We are pleased to announce that betting for the magical dueling tournament is now open. There are five counters available for placing your wagers.”

  A brief pause followed, during which Lepidus quickly read a parchment handed to him by one of his assistants. It was clear he had just received the first odds estimates for each team.

  Delighted that they would finally witness at least one real fight that day, the students rushed toward the betting counters. I watched as each wager was carefully recorded on a scroll of parchment. After signing, the scroll was sealed with red wax as proof that the bet had been placed.

  As for us—the ones about to step into the arena—we were forbidden to place bets, of course. That would have been considered a conflict of interest.

  On a massive board, the betting odds for each team began to appear, while Lepidus’s voice rang out again across the tribunes:

  “The initial odds are now available. According to our analysts, Thanida’s team is the clear favorite, with odds of 1.18. Meanwhile, Sam’s team, considered the underdog, holds a generous 4.75. Please note that Thanida has a distinct advantage in experience, with three victories in magical duels organized by the Royal Academy of Atrolos, whereas Sam’s team has never participated in any magical combat so far. So, let yourselves be carried away by the magic of betting—but remember, play responsibly!”

  I shuddered when I heard Thanida’s odds. The number 1.18 meant the bettors believed she had roughly an eighty-percent chance of victory. In truth, that was a realistic assessment. No sane person would risk money on a nobody like me, with zero experience in magical duels. Yes, I knew I had an evil reputation, but it could easily shatter at my first serious trial in the arena.

  Paradoxically, though they regarded me as a dangerous and powerful mage, most students still wagered on Thanida’s victory. They were probably praying she was strong enough to defeat “the mad mage” who haunted the Academy halls. That would be me, of course.

  Thanida and her teammate, Garibele, entered the arena first, greeted by a storm of cheers from the stands. According to unwritten tradition, before every duel each team had to perform a brief display of magic to impress the audience. The more skill they showed, the more likely they were to attract sponsors.

  A heavy silence fell over the arena. All eyes were on Thanida now, waiting for her to begin her demonstration.

  She raised her gaze, and thin filaments of flame began to rise from her hands, twisting through the air. A few meters above her, the fiery strands began to take shape—first vague silhouettes, then more defined forms. The filaments swayed, wove together, and finally coalesced into human-like figures. Entire ranks of fire-people now marched in disciplined formation above the arena.

  The students in the stands broke into loud applause, impressed by Thanida’s mastery. Without question, she was highly skilled—she not only knew how to conjure fire, but also how to shape it. Yet her magical prowess left me cold; beyond the spectacle, I saw little practical use in it.

  Bored by such a waste of talent, I glanced down at my boots. They were of good quality and had cost me a small fortune, even on discount. Still, after a year of constant use, the leather had begun to crack and peel. I feared that soon they would split open, and I would end up not only a ragged non-mage but a barefoot one as well.

  I wondered to myself if Thanida knew a spell to restore worn-out footwear—and burst out laughing at the thought of her reaction if I dared to ask. She would probably suffer a stroke or kill me on the spot out of sheer rage.

  There was, of course, the unpleasant alternative of buying new shoes from their so-called magical world—but that was a terrible deal. Those enchanted shoes were expensive—several dozen sesterces a pair—and wore out within months, beyond repair. Practically, every student was forced to buy at least three or four pairs each year, though the manufacturers didn’t seem to mind.

  A sudden cry of amazement from Elesya snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up to see what new wonder Thanida had conjured with her fiery puppets—and froze in disbelief.

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  A full-scale battlefield had formed above the arena. Thanida had arranged her fire-people into two opposing armies—the gods against the monsters. The entire scene had become something like a blazing hologram, a true three-dimensional spectacle of flame.

  But the most astonishing detail of all—I was standing at the head of one of the armies!

  Thanida had portrayed me in her fire scene—but in a way that barely resembled reality.

  Though I was still dressed in rags, she had added a great hump to my back, and my body was riddled with hideous deformities, including one leg shorter than the other. My face was covered with enormous boils, and my hair was tangled and full of snakes. My mouth was twisted into a cynical grin, showing several missing teeth. In short, I looked worse than the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.

  Fortunately, she had left my boots intact—at least for that detail I had to be grateful to Thanida. Had she shown me barefoot, I might actually have been offended.

  As expected, my army was composed of hydras, cyclopes, hecatoncheires, gorgons, harpies, and other mythological monsters, including Typhon himself. Everything was depicted with lifelike precision, on a monumental scale, not a single detail omitted.

  Elesya appeared behind me, but she looked frail and thin, like a twelve-year-old child. She was well-dressed, yet fragile and powerless.

  Fully aware now of the part I was meant to play in Thanida’s fire film, I turned my eyes to the opposite side of the battlefield. And, of course, my expectations were not disappointed.

  At the head of her army, Thanida had painted herself as a goddess. She wore a shining helmet and light armor that showed off the strength of her arms. She bore a shield, a sword, and a lance. Naturally, a warrior as grand as her could not possibly fight on foot like common mortals. Thus, she rode into battle on a chariot drawn by six radiant and incredibly swift stallions.

  The clash between the two fiery armies began. Thanida was so skilled that her film even had sound—and a soundtrack, no less. One could hear the dreadful blows, the screams, and the clash of weapons as the forces of good and evil met in the air.

  Thanida guided her war chariot masterfully through the fray, showing not the slightest trace of fear before the thousands of monsters sent against her. With every thrust of her lance she destroyed at least a dozen great cyclopes, and dozens of smaller beasts besides, as a bonus.

  By her side fought the gods themselves, shooting flaming arrows at the host of monsters under my command.

  Behind Thanida stood Zeus himself, while Athena and Artemis flanked her on either side. The wings were led by Hermes and Ares, while behind them came dozens of lesser deities. Practically the entire Greek pantheon had been crowded behind Thanida.

  In stark contrast to her heroism, I was shown using the basest tricks: hiding my troops in smoke, raising walls of darkness, summoning poisonous vapors, and sending winged harpies to snatch heroes by deceit. Several times I tried to envelop her army in illusions and traps, but they shattered the instant her fiery lance pierced my spells.

  Under the spectators’ delighted eyes, Thanida was forging her own legend.

  In the midst of the battle, she seemed torn from an epic. She advanced fearlessly, every gesture followed by a shower of sparks, a roar of weapons, and a devastating strike. Her face glowed in the flames like that of a warrior goddess leading her host to victory.

  Had Tolkien witnessed the battle scenes Thanida conjured, he would have fainted from envy and never written another line—or perhaps composed a tale where Thanida embodied all the heroic roles in one person who did everything.

  In the end, after exhausting every possible trick, I was defeated, my army of monsters annihilated. Fallen to the ground, I begged the victorious goddess to spare my life. But Thanida, merciless, refused to let a servant of evil live. Instead, she delivered the fatal blow, disintegrating me with a well-aimed fire spell, while mighty Zeus struck me simultaneously with lightning. Elesya was captured alive.

  I sighed with relief, thinking Thanida’s film had finally ended—but I was terribly mistaken. The fire images kept rolling. Now they showed the god Hades himself, arriving in a flaming chariot to seize my accursed soul. Evidently, the task was so important that no lesser god could be entrusted with it.

  Once in the underworld, I was judged by the gods for my wicked deeds on earth. After long deliberation, they condemned me to a combined punishment equal to the torments of Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion together. My soul was to push a boulder uphill while chained to a wheel of fire. Each time I reached the summit, the boulder rolled back down, and I had to begin anew. And to make matters worse, I was tormented by hunger and thirst while surrounded by fruit-laden trees and abundant waters that receded whenever I reached for them. Of course, I endured all this while spinning endlessly with my flaming wheel.

  The most outrageous part was that I had lost my boots. Though we had watched Thanida’s film attentively, it remained unclear how that had happened. Perhaps she had taken them as spoils of war.

  Elesya, too, was not spared. Though still alive, she was sold as a slave in the great market of Atrolos. The fire scenes showed her being led there in tears, sold for a pitiful sum—but no one wanted to buy her. People remembered she had once collaborated with the most sinister man in the universe.

  Eventually, she was purchased for a single sestertius by a hideous old man. The film ended with Thanida, triumphant, ascending Olympus alongside the other gods.

  Elesya rolled her eyes, trying not to lose her temper. The way I had been portrayed was utterly insulting. As for me, I was almost certain Thanida suffered from a terminal form of vanity.

  Meanwhile, the students in the stands cheered and showered her with rose petals. She had given them such a fine spectacle with her fire film that they felt she had fully earned the price of admission.

  Technically speaking, Thanida’s film was just a short, yet I had to admit—it deserved the Academy Award for directing, screenplay, visual effects, and sound. With her feverish imagination, Thanida had achieved in fifteen minutes what Hollywood directors could not accomplish in an entire year.