Chapter 5: Poetry, Power, and a Spark of Hope

The last to represent our academy was third senior brother. His opponent: Derek Mason of Valley Forge Institute.

Derek’s reputation preceded him—rumor had it he’d once hacked the school WiFi just to change his grades. He had a glint in his eye that spelled trouble.

Derek had a sinister look, nodding with a cold smile:

He lounged in a black hoodie, thumbs hooked in his pockets, smirking like the villain in every teen movie.

“Senior Marcus, long time no see.”

His words dripped with sarcasm, like old rivals meeting in a high school parking lot after dark.

Third senior brother just nodded solemnly.

His gaze didn’t waver; he stood like a rock—quiet, determined.

“Marcus, last year you took my magical herb without reason. I must settle this debt today.”

You could hear the grudge in Derek’s voice, the kind that simmers through locker rooms and late-night text threads.

Third senior brother replied calmly:

“Derek, to take that herb, you were willing to destroy an entire town. I couldn’t stand by. I hope you understand.”

He said it without apology, as if defending the greater good was just another day’s work.

Derek’s face darkened, sneering:

He rolled his eyes, cracking his knuckles in anticipation.

“If I recall, your Maple Heights Academy hasn’t won a single match in five National Magic Selections. According to the rules, if you lose again this time, you’ll be expelled from the National Academy Alliance.”

The words hit like a slap—the threat of exile was real. Losing meant our school would become even more invisible than before.

Third senior brother’s face grew grim. Even Headmaster sighed, looking worried.

Headmaster pinched the bridge of his nose, the weight of responsibility etched deep in his furrowed brow.

“Whose woods these are I think I know—his house is in the village though,” Derek recited, sweeping his sleeves and sending two gusts of magical wind.

The words floated out, as crisp as autumn air, and the magical wind twisted with poetic force—classic Robert Frost with a magical upgrade.

Third senior brother replied calmly:

“He will not see me stopping here, to watch his woods fill up with snow.”

He met the attack with a quiet strength, quoting back with the steady confidence of someone who’s spent long nights memorizing lines by lamplight.

Derek attacked again: “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul.”

A sudden gust of wind filled with invisible feathers rushed the stage, making my skin tingle.

Third senior brother parried: “And sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.”

He countered smoothly, Emily Dickinson’s words weaving through the air, diffusing the attack like a well-placed block in basketball.

...

The two exchanged blows, battling through five or six poems, still unable to determine a winner.

By now, the audience was spellbound—some even mouthing along with the verses. Who knew poetry could be a contact sport?

Derek glared at third senior brother, took a deep breath, swept his sleeve, and shouted:

“When the golden leaves fall, the blue jay cries, and the river ice finally breaks.”

The words rang out, old and weighty—like the American South in autumn, heavy with hidden meanings and chilly winds.

For some reason, this strike was far more powerful.

It hit with the force of a blizzard, the air crackling as if winter itself had joined the fight.

Third senior brother’s pupils shrank—he hadn’t expected Derek to be this strong. He couldn’t dodge in time and took the hit head-on.

I saw the moment fear flashed across his face—brief, but real.

“Ugh.”

Third senior brother spat out a mouthful of blood, crashed to the ground, and passed out.

The thud echoed in the silent gym. My stomach clenched, dread spreading like spilled ink.

But Derek wasn’t done. He swept his sleeve again, sending another deadly punch:

“Several robins fight for warm branches, whose young sparrow pecks at spring grass.”

His fist glowed with energy, ready to deliver a finishing blow—cold, ruthless, final.

The punch was fierce—clearly a killing blow.

The kind of move that leaves no room for mercy, even in a world built on rules and ritual.

I’d always been closest to third senior brother. In a panic, I leapt onto the stage, blocking in front of him.

My sneakers squeaked against the gym floor. My mouth was dry, but I forced my chin up, heart rattling in my chest.

That overwhelming magical wind was already upon me.

My hair whipped around my face, the force so strong I could barely stand.

I raised my finger, faced the oncoming force, and shouted:

“When the golden leaves fall, the blue jay cries, and the river ice finally breaks!”

I didn’t know where the words came from—maybe from every road trip, every sunset, every half-remembered song from the radio. But they felt right.

In Derek’s utterly shocked gaze, the magical wind dissolved instantly, merely fluttering the edge of my jacket.

The spell faded like a gentle breeze, leaving me standing, hair mussed but unharmed. My heart hammered, disbelief and adrenaline mixing in my veins.