Then came the thunder.
Kiara strode to the line, her dark bangs framing eyes that burned like slits of obsidian.
Her tight uniform hugged her lithe frame, and as she raised her arm with dramatic flair.
She smirked, unbothered, and gripped her bead.
The air around her crackled, mana coiling like a storm.
And then, she fired.
Her bead didn't just hit—it scorched.
It struck the center with a fiery crackle—sparks erupting in a blinding burst, more spectacle than precision, as if she aimed to showcase raw power over control.
The disc pulsed orange, edges smoldering from the hit.
A hush fell. The crowd waited—was it a score or a disqualification?
Then the scoreboard blinked to life: 9.
From the sidelines, Miss Silvia exhaled sharply.
"Pheww... Close call," she muttered, her glasses catching the light as she scribbled a quick note.
The seams of her white jacket pulled taut across her chest.
Kiara spun on her heel, her smirk sharp enough to cut.
