Chapter 120: 120: The Academy Test XXX
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John did not smile. He wanted to. He wanted very much to laugh like Fizz was laughing, but the eighth bell was still tolling. He could hear the clockwork in the tower winding toward the ninth. If he failed to check in, all of this — all the planning, all the revenge stuff, the vengeance, His future Harem. Fizz’s future planning — would be wasted.
Brann’s hand flicked again. Air lines lashed toward John, slicing for his chest. John didn’t counter this time. He let the void inside him swell, pulling the force away, bending it, sucking it into his black hole palm. The air itself screamed as it vanished into the small black sphere. The stone at John’s feet cracked like dry bread under a knife.
The three kidnappers froze.
Edda staggered, the wind ripped out of her control. Brann’s clean geometry shredded into nothing, his fingers twitching in empty air. Rusk finally yanked his trousers up to his waist again, only to yelp when the black hole ball tugged them clean off once more. This time they didn’t just slide down. They whipped away, sucked into the void with such eagerness that even Rusk’s undergarments went with them.
Rusk screamed. Few onlookers screamed. Not from fear —well, partly from fear of seeing ugly and small dong dong— but mostly from laughter. A cluster of apprentices clutched their books to their chests and cackled openly. A fruit vendor dropped an entire basket of apples, which bounced across the cobbles like applause.
"John!" Fizz crowed, whirling in delight. "You undressed him with your doom ball. You are a tailor now. A tailor of humiliation."
John grunted, hauling himself forward through the press of bodies. His hair, hacked unevenly by Edda’s blade, flopped into his eyes. He shoved it aside with a jerk of his head, only for another tuft to fall across his forehead like a dead rat.
The eighth bell boomed again, the second strike rolling like a drumbeat.
The kidnappers realized the tide of bodies wasn’t going to thin. Brann’s eyes measured angles, exits, probabilities. Edda’s teeth ground. Rusk tried to cover himself with his ruined tunic, but it hung too short, revealing knees that had not seen daylight in years. Many eyes were looking at them now.
Brann’s jaw moved once. "Retreat."
Edda hissed. "We can take him."
"We cannot fail the job," Brann snapped, the first crack in his calm voice. "There are many people watching. We can’t capture him now. We wait. After exams... Then we strike."
They vanished into the flow of the street, leaving only the smell of burnt cloth and crushed cabbage.
Fizz hovered over John’s shoulder, still fizzing with righteous fury. "They flee. Like rats. Like chickens without feathers. Like... like your hair, master."
John did not answer. His field pulled him forward, each step two.
Fizz drifted lower, peering at his face. His eyes went wide, then wider. "Oh. Oh no. Your hair. Master, you look like a broom had a child with a goat and you lost custody."
John glanced at him. "Not the time. Stop making jokes."
"Always the time," Fizz said. "Your fringe is shorter on one side. It waves like a sad flag. If you walk into the academy like that, they will fail you before you touch a quill."
"Then I will pass with numbers," John said.
"Numbers cannot fix that hair," Fizz said gravely. "That is beyond mathematics. I will give you a haircut after the exam."
The bell rolled, sharp and high, slicing the air into neat pieces. The city’s crowd moved faster. Students in gray jostled. Merchants shouted over one another. Somewhere a dog barked at nothing and was answered by another dog that had even less reason to bark.
The academy wall rose ahead—the calm big animal Fizz liked. The side path to the south yard gate showed itself where the mortar was lighter. People were already lined there, slower than John needed them to be.
"Make a hole!" Fizz sang, bright and bossy. "Emergency! Emergency! A boy with bad hair coming through!"
Half a dozen heads turned. Three people stepped aside just because the voice was so sure. Two moved just to avoid being trampled by John’s long strides. One stubborn man did not. John bent his field, pulling space itself like fabric, and slipped through a gap that had not really been there until he believed it was.
Ahead, at the rope, the south yard gate stood open, but the guard already had one hand on it, ready to draw it shut with the precise punctuality of men who enjoyed ruining mornings.
"Token," the guard called.
John did not slow. He flung the bronze piece forward. The guard’s hand snapped up, caught it cleanly, checked the mark with one professional glance, and flicked the rope just high enough for John to duck under.
"Go," the guard said, not smiling.
John darted through, shoulders brushing the posts. The eighth bell rang behind him, heavy and deliberate, shaking the air like a drumbeat from the bones of the city. One more bell, and the gate would close for good.
Fizz zipped after him, sparks trailing. "You see. I was right. Everyone moved because of my voice. The power of authority. I should run this city. First decree—banish all bad haircuts."
"You are one to talk," John said between breaths. "You look like a singed dandelion."
Fizz gasped so sharply he almost inhaled himself. "How dare you insult my glory. This fluff is intentional. It is my battle mane. The maidens adore it. Well—maybe not maidens. Maybe goats. But still."
John’s mouth twitched, just a hint of a smile, though sweat was already pouring down his face.
Meanwhile, in the alley they had left behind, Brann, Edda, and Rusk crouched in the gloom.
Edda’s braid still smoked faintly as she paced. "We cannot show empty hands. The patron will cut more than our pay."
Rusk was bent over, still yanking at his treacherous trousers, which sagged in defeat around his hips. "I am not chasing him through that many people again. I will not. My dignity is already in the gutter with the cabbages."
Brann leaned against the wall, neat even in frustration. His voice was low, almost calm. "We wait. He must come out. He has to leave the academy sooner or later. The road is narrow. There we strike. Quiet. Swift. Precise."
Edda’s grin returned, knife-bright. "Good. Let him think he is safe. Let him think he is clever. By the ninth bell, he will walk straight into our teeth."
Rusk finally managed to hitch his waistband back up, though it listed dangerously. "And when he does, I will tear that stupid haircut off his head."
They melted into the crowd, three shadows stitched into the city’s seams.
Back at the gate, the ninth bell began to toll. The sound rolled across the yard like a boulder tumbling down stairs. Apprentices flinched and hurried forward.
Fizz landed on John’s shoulder, vibrating with leftover anger. "Ninth bell, master. The last lap. The gods have given us nine tries and eight of them are gone. This is cruel math."
"Then keep quiet and hold on," John said.
"I am not quiet," Fizz replied, puffing out his tiny chest. "But I am aerodynamic. Which is better." He wrapped his glowing paws around the straps of the bag and announced in a booming falsetto, "Make room. Royal baggage coming through. His Majesty’s haircut demands safe passage."
Several students laughed. One girl covered her mouth. Another boy squinted and whispered, "Did he fight a barber and lose."
John’s ears heated, but he kept moving. He crossed the rope into the yard as the ninth bell faded, its last hum trembling in his chest like a reminder of how little time was left.
The clerk at the desk adjusted her inkstone, unimpressed. John slid to a stop, handed over the token, and stood very straight as she compared his face to the mark. She stamped his slate with the tiniest flick of her wrist.
"Made it," she said. "Room Four. Written test. Hurry."
John nodded once. "Thank you."
Fizz hopped out of the bag and perched on the cart, trying to look imposing despite his roundness. His fur still sparked faintly, like a storm refusing to leave. He looked at John with wide eyes. "Do well. Write straight. No wobbly letters. If you fail, I will... compose a tragic ballad. Everyone will weep. Especially me."
John touched his tiny shoulder. "Guard the bag. No pranks."
Fizz sniffed. "I am the picture of maturity. I will only roast them with words."
The tenth bell began to roll, the last warning before the doors closed.
John walked into the hall.
Behind him, at the rope, Brann and Edda had arrived, their faces stiff with thwarted fury. The guards shifted just enough to block them. Rusk stumbled up late, clutching his half-fallen trousers, muttering curses about gravity and chairs.
Brann raised two fingers to his brow, the gesture not respect but a quiet promise.
Edda’s lips shaped words without sound. This is not over.
Fizz leaned forward on the cart, his small voice low and savage. "Plot harder, failures. The next time we meet, I will personally cook your eyebrows evenly." He paused. "Especially yours, Rusk. I will make them symmetrical. Out of spite."
The crowd trickled inside. The gate rope dropped. The yard fell still.
Inside, Room Four opened its quiet mouth to one more boy with a crooked fringe, a steady breath, and a token clenched in his hand.