Hunter's Rise
Copyright© 2025 by Mezu
Pupil 43: Back to School! Part 3
Fantasy Sex Story: Pupil 43: Back to School! Part 3 - The story takes place in a world relatively similar to the real-life but with monsters. The main character is a monster hunter called Zara Cromwell. She and other monster hunters gain superpowers through experiments to be able to fight stronger monsters in the future. Warning: the series showcases various kinks and fetishes.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Hermaphrodite Futanari Paranormal Furry Magic Vampires Were animal Zombies Incest Mother Son FemaleDom Rough Sadistic Gang Bang Group Sex Orgy Black Female White Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism First Facial Fisting Lactation Oral Sex Sex Toys Tit-Fucking Amputee Big Breasts Body Modification Hairy Public Sex Size ENF
“We don’t want any trouble,” Akemi said, raising both hands.
“You’re Ari’s pupils,” said the pink-eyed woman with a smirk. “You should be ready for trouble all the time.”
She reached toward her mouth and began pulling something out.
At first, it looked like she was yanking out her own tongue ... but then more tongues followed. Dozens of them. Writhing, squirming, glistening.
Finally, she produced it—a sword made of flesh. The long, flexible blade was a massive tongue. The handle squirmed to life, coiling around her wrist for grip. The crossguard was a fleshy bloom of smaller tongues, twitching like the petals of a perverse flower.
“Whoa,” Akemi gasped, half in awe, half in disgust. “A Tongue Titan augmentation...”
“Ahh, you must be the smart one,” the woman purred. She looked like a wilder version of Aritimi—same deep brown skin, but her long braids alternated between jet-black and neon pink. Her outfit consisted of a tiny black tank top that did a terrible job at containing her overflowing chest, and skintight biker pants that left little to the imagination. Like her sisters, she was barefoot.
“Nope, that’s her,” Pixie said, pointing to Minerva.
“Hey, I don’t care whose sister you are,” Zara growled, stepping forward. “Mind your damn business.”
“You better listen to her, Artixene,” Aritimi snapped, still restrained. “My pupils are stronger than you think.”
“Let’s see about that,” Artixene grinned. She cracked the fleshy whip-sword in the air. “Tongue Toledo!”
The tongue-blade shot forward like a serpent, aiming straight for Zara’s face.
Zara’s instincts took over. Her left arm transformed in an instant—a snarling wolf head erupted from her skin, and its powerful jaws snapped down on the blade.
Hristina, wide-eyed but reactive, stepped in. She grabbed the glistening sword with both hands. “Господи,” she muttered under her breath in Russian. “Так скользко...”
It was wet. Very wet. Perfect.
She channeled her freezing power into it, mist rising as frost rapidly spread across the meaty surface. Within seconds, the squirming tongue-blade stiffened into ice.
Artixene tried to yank it back, only for it to snap in half. The severed stump writhed like a decapitated eel in her grip.
“You little bitches!” Artixene howled, glaring at Zara, Hristina, and the others.
“Maybe we should tie them up next to Ari,” one of the sisters suggested, licking her lips. “Punish them together.”
“Good idea,” Artume said coolly. “But leave my granddaughter out of it.” She pointed to Curtis.
“Nope,” Artixene smirked. “And shut your mouth, Artume, before you join them too.”
Several of the sisters stepped forward, aligning behind Artixene, clearly ready to fight. Only two hung back—Artume, and the one controlling the massive tentacle wrapped around Aritimi.
“Max! Get the camera ready!” Rita barked, scrambling to find the best angle. “We’re definitely putting this on the front page!”
Then...
“What the hell is going on here?”
The room fell quiet at the sound of the voice.
Venus had entered from the kitchen, holding the crust of a pizza slice in one hand and wiping her mouth with the other. She looked ... relaxed. But her eyes burned with authority.
Artixene turned, eyeing her up and down.
“Wow,” she said with a sneer. “A landwhale.”
Venus popped the last bite of crust into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Then she wiped her hands on her coat.
“You’re gonna want to let Timi and her students go,” she said flatly. Her tone wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t angry.
It was just ... a fact.
“Ooooh, the lard golem is threatening me,” Artixene mocked, hand on her hip. “What if I don’t obey? You gonna sit on me, Miss Piggy?”
“Girl, I deal with a clone of Donald Trump every day. You’re gonna need sharper material if you want to hurt my feelings with a fat joke,” Venus replied, taking a slow step forward.
Artixene scowled, shoved the broken tongue sword back into her mouth, and pulled it out again, fully restored and dripping with fresh slime.
She whipped the blade around in a circle, sending it spiraling toward Venus like a fleshy whip. But instead of striking her, the sword suddenly stalled, caught in orbit, endlessly spinning around her massive body.
“Hey, what the hell?” Artixene tugged on the hilt, confused.
Zara already knew. Venus’ Orbit Orangutan power had activated. The blade was now a satellite, trapped in gravitational pull.
“Try again, sweetheart,” Venus muttered, unimpressed.
Snarling, Artixene ripped the weapon free and charged, blade raised high, leaping directly at Venus. But right before impact, she froze midair, suspended in place like someone hit pause on a violent anime frame. Her entire body hovered there, sword and all.
“You’ll need a little more force if you want to break my gravitational barrier,” Venus said, casually opening a packet of M&M’s and tipping a few into her mouth.
“Hee hee hee! She’s a walking black hole,” another sister giggled, stepping forward. Her blue yoga pants clung like a second skin, matched by a cropped top. Her hair was tied in a ponytail with electric-blue tips that matched her glossy lipstick.
Her body suddenly began to flicker, like a video game glitch. Then she exploded into a cascade of glowing blue pixels and reassembled midair next to Artixene.
“Maybe try a different angle next time,” the blue-haired woman suggested. She touched Artixene, and both of them glowed for a moment, clearly triggering some kind of power. But nothing changed. They were still stuck.
“What the hell? Why are we still floating, Artemina?” Artixene barked.
“I don’t know! We’re not supposed to be here anymore!” the sister, Artemina, complained, trying again—and failing.
“Like I said,” Venus sighed, munching on another candy, “you’re in my gravity now. You can pixelate, teleport, liquefy, or explode into stardust—nothing escapes unless I say so. Not even your subatomic particles.”
“That’s enough, girls.”
The voice came from the back, where another sister leaned casually against the wall, puffing on a sleek, blood-red cigar.
“Oh look, now the book club’s here,” Artixene sneered. “You wanna help us beat this Dire Hippo, Artamas?”
Artamas, clearly the eldest, had shoulder-length dark hair streaked with natural silver. Her outfit looked like a sexy librarian costume in mourning—tight pencil skirt, high-collared blouse, glasses perched perfectly. But it was obvious from her mild discomfort that she, too, hated wearing clothes. Zara suspected most of the family did, just like Aritimi and Artume.
“Sorry about my sisters,” Artamas exhaled a puff of crimson smoke. “They’re just ... excited to be here.”
Venus gave a slow blink. “I’m about ten seconds from crushing them with my gravity.”
With a thud, the orbiting sisters suddenly crashed to the ground.
“Thanks,” Artamas nodded, strolling forward, cigar still in hand.
She approached the one who had Aritimi bound in tentacles, who was still holding her sister suspended midair like a struggling fish in a net.
“Let her go before security shows up and this turns into a bloodbath.”
“Fine.” The sister slowly unwound the tentacle from Aritimi. “Would’ve been a shame to wipe out the entire school’s security over a little family drama.”
“Don’t get cocky, Artemelle,” Artamas warned, flicking ash.
“I think you ladies should head out now,” Venus said, cracking open a Coke like this was just her lunch break.
“Right, right. I heard the Dragonriders from Europe just landed,” Artamas replied. “I want to pet the dragons ... and some of the riders.”
With that, she turned on her heel and her sisters followed behind her, stomping out of the cafeteria like a pack of mischievous supermodels on their way to wreak havoc somewhere else. The crowd parted without a word, as if Moses had just parted the sea for a gang of orcish runway queens.
Part 19
Now that the Argento sisters had left the canteen, everyone could come in. The girls could finally enjoy their lunch break.
“Why didn’t you just use your portal powers to escape that tentacle?” Zara asked Aritimi as they sat down. Venus was still there, snacking like nothing had happened.
“Artemelle’s tentacle came from a Phasing Squid,” Aritimi explained. “That species is the natural predator of Riftwalkers — the same type my portal powers come from. To put it simply: she neutralized me. Probably got that power just for this occasion.”
Zara raised an eyebrow. “Yikes. Petty runs deep in your family, huh?”
Soon, Aritimi and Venus left together, and Zara finished her meal. The others were still busy eating or chatting — even Skeletina was in conversation with Fred.
Bored and fidgeting, Zara’s eyes landed on Bram. He was still handing out flyers, occasionally getting whistles and catcalls thanks to his goth femboy look and translucent fishnet dress.
“Finally, some rest,” he sighed, slipping into the seat beside Zara. “Hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to sit next to a total stranger — not in this outfit. Kinda awkward, y’know?”
“No problem,” Zara shrugged. “You’re safe here.”
Bram began eating, and for a moment, the two just sat in a companionable silence.
“Hey, Bram,” Zara leaned in slightly, “what’s it like having your whole family in this business? None of my close relatives are in the HSA.”
He paused mid-bite. “Strange, to be honest. It doesn’t feel like a job. It’s our ... life. There was never any other path for me.”
“So, you didn’t really choose this yourself?”
He scratched the back of his head. “That’s complicated. Mom and Grandma raised me and my sister with this in mind. We never fought it. Maybe they would’ve let us choose something else, but we never really asked. We like working with them. And I wouldn’t know what to do otherwise, anyway.”
“I used to work as a bartender,” Zara said. “At a bar where young hunters hang out.”
“Interesting career choice,” Bram said between bites.
“Not really a dream job. I just needed the money. I wasn’t augmented at the time, and the surge of augmented hunters nearly killed my career. I was about to walk away from this life for good ... but then they called me in for a special augmentation. Turned out to be a Flesh Fiend.”
“Whoa. So now your job’s safe?”
Zara shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been in this mentorship course with Aritimi for months. I want to be the best one day, but the more I see, the harder that looks. This whole business is way more complicated than I thought. But enough about me—what about you? What was your biggest catch?”
“In a team? Helped take down a Thunder Terror once.”
“Nice,” Zara whistled, impressed.
“Solo though ... just an Iceling. Nothing groundbreaking. Pretty sure even an amateur could handle one of those alone.”
“Still better than nothing,” Zara said, casually placing a hand on Bram’s pale thigh.
That’s when she noticed the bulge under the dress. Hard not to — the sheer fabric left little to the imagination, and he clearly wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She could see everything.
Her hand shot back like she’d touched a live wire. “Oh! Sorry.”
Bram blushed, turning his head away slightly. “No problem...”
Zara snorted, covering her mouth. “Not gonna lie — I was about to ask which team you’re playing for. Guess I got my answer.”
“Yeah,” Bram chuckled, cheeks still burning. “Most people think femboy equals gay, but I’m actually into girls. This is just ... my style, I guess. I like girls so much I want to see one when I look in the mirror.”
Zara blinked, then grinned. “Honestly? That’s kinda sweet in a weird way.”
“Oh, and I don’t care much about pronouns, by the way. He/him is fine. She/her’s fine too. Go with whatever feels natural.”
“Good to know,” she said, nodding.
There was a pause.
“By the way ... are you free tomorrow?” he asked, still a bit flushed. “Just to hang out or something. No pressure. I just figured I might not get another chance to ask.”
Zara blinked again. “Um ... maybe. Depends. Aritimi usually schedules training the day after a course like this. But I’ll check with her.” She pulled out her phone and quickly sent him a friend request. “I’ll let you know.”
“Hey, Zara! You ready?” Akemi called from across the table. Everyone else was packed up and ready to head out.
“Yeah!” she called back. She turned to Bram with a smirk. “See ya later,” she said with a wink.
As she walked off, she heard someone snicker behind her.
“Careful, Zara. You keep flirting with goth boys in fishnets, and we’re gonna start calling you Web-Wench,” Dayanara teased.
Zara groaned, waving a hand behind her. “You’re all just jealous ‘cause my femboy’s hotter than yours.”
Part 20
“Where are we going?” Zara asked as they headed down the stairs. They were in the familiar direction of Professor Delmar’s room, but this time passed it completely.
“No spoilers,” Lexi smirked.
“But why are we even coming back here? Why not earlier?”
“They were too busy,” Lexi said with a shrug. “Plus, we had to ditch Rita first.”
“Speaking of which,” Zara looked around, “Where is she?”
“I saw her sneaking out after the Argento sisters while Max sat down to eat,” Akemi replied. “Not expecting that to be the last we see of her, though. Unlike Aritimi, we can’t portal away.”
Finally, they reached a new door.
“Oh, I know this place,” Gaylor said, adjusting her glasses. “That’s the Agriculture Protection class. I don’t attend, but Mark does. Says it’s wild.”
“Hester’s unit,” Zara nodded. “So is she the teacher?”
“Nope,” Lexi answered. “But her family helps out with demos if they’re free.”
They stepped inside.
The room resembled the emo trio’s simulation space, but here the setting was a vibrant patchwork of crops, vegetables, and orchard trees. A soft breeze drifted through illusionary skylights.
“So ... this is another monster simulation setup?” Zara asked.
“Probably,” Gaylor replied. “Mark said they do competitions where students have to defend crops or livestock from simulated pests. Winner gets stuff like grade boosts or even exam exemptions.”
“Okay, but ... who’s the teacher?” Irish asked.
The answer revealed itself when they spotted a small crowd gathered near a giant wooden cross at the edge of the “field.” On it slumped a scarecrow.
Or, rather ... a woman-shaped scarecrow, a naked one.
Then the scarecrow turned its head.
“Hi, guys!” she chirped with a bright, airy voice. A few students startled.
“I’m Ruthelle Hart, and this is my class,” she said cheerfully, leaping down from the cross. Her large, stitched breasts bounced from the landing. “Nice to see so many new faces.”
“E ... excuse me,” one of the students raised a hand nervously. “You said Hart? As in the hybrid sisters who teach some of the other classes?”
“Yep, that’s us,” Ruthelle said, smiling. “Some of us are on staff, others help with shows or guest lectures.”
“Oh ... so you’re a hybrid too?”
“That’s right,” she nodded proudly. “I’m a scarecrow-human hybrid.”
Ruthelle’s appearance was unsettlingly beautiful, in a haunted doll kind of way. Her skin was pale burlap in tone and texture, but with soft, supple patches like smoothed leather. Thick black stitches traced along her arms, collarbones, and jaw, like a tailor’s idea of anatomy.
Her eyes were large and glossy, almost porcelain, and framed by heavy lashes. Her straw-colored hair was a mess of dried frizz, tucked under a lopsided hat woven from what looked like actual hay. It was the only article of clothing she was wearing.
Despite her scarecrow makeup, her body was stunning—curved and symmetrical, like she’d been designed for both protection and temptation. Her nipples were unnaturally perfect, pink against her faux-flesh skin, and her sex was surprisingly natural-looking—neatly groomed with a straw-blonde strip and soft, very human folds.
“I know, I know, I look like someone sewed me together in a backwoods barn,” Ruthelle said, spinning slowly to show off both sides of her stitched body. “But I’m very much flesh and blood. Just ... built different.”
Her ass was round and flawless, smooth like a mannequin’s, with just enough jiggle to betray her living nature. A few of the boys whistled.
“Thank you, boys,” she grinned, winking. “But now, eyes up front, hands to yourselves. Time for class.”
In the next few minutes, Ruthelle gave a passionate, if occasionally chaotic, lecture about the importance of agriculture protection and the kinds of monsters that typically threatened crops and livestock.
“We’ll have some special guests soon,” she announced, clapping her stitched hands together. “So for now, feel free to take a little break!”
As the crowd scattered, Zara stepped up to her.
“Um ... hey, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“I wanted to ask about you and your sisters,” Zara began. “Like ... what’s the deal? Were you all adopted by the same family or something?”
Ruthelle shook her head, her frizzy straw-blonde hair rustling. “Oh no, we’re all related by blood. Same human mother.”
“Seriously? I’ve seen like ... a dozen of you.”
Ruthelle chuckled. “If only it were just a dozen.”
“How’s that even possible?”
“Well, monster pregnancies—even hybrid ones—are fast. We develop quickly. The age gap between our eldest and youngest is only five years.”
“That’s wild,” Zara said. “But what really puzzles me is how you all turned out hybrid. Usually, when a human has a monster baby, it’s a pure monster. Hybrids are rare, and having so many from one mother? That’s unheard of.”
“Ah, that’s because our mom has very dominant genes,” Ruthelle said proudly. “We got lucky.”
Zara opened her mouth to ask more, but then her eyes were drawn to the classroom door, where three very different figures had just entered.
Two were young women, dressed like they’d walked straight out of a historical drama: long dresses, neat braids, soft bonnets. One was a redhead, the other blonde. Definitely Amish.
But the third?
The third was impossible to miss.
Zara instantly recognized her from the canteen; a woman with a fit, athletic build and breasts so large they could’ve had their own postal code. She wasn’t technically naked, but her micro bikini barely met the legal definition of clothing. The tiny triangles over her nipples failed to conceal her wide, slightly aging areolae. Below, a shaved crescent moon of slightly greying dark pubic hair peeked over an equally minimal bottom piece.
Her skin looked rough and calloused along her chest and thighs, like she’d just sprinted through a sandstorm. And her long, dark hair fell in a straight sheet past her waist, swishing behind her like a silk whip.
All eyes were immediately glued to her, and she knew it.
“Hello,” the woman said as she approached Ruthelle and Zara. Her voice was smooth, with a slight accent. “Ah, a human-scarecrow hybrid. Must’ve been a wild party. And you...” Her gaze shifted to Zara. “One of Ari’s pupils, right?”
“Yeah. What do you want?” Zara asked cautiously. “Just because the principal’s not around doesn’t mean you can mess with us.”
“Oh no, no trouble,” the woman said with a smile, raising her hands. “Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Artemora. Not as famous as some of my sisters yet, but I’m getting known: Europe, Africa, a few naughty magazines.”
She extended a hand. Zara shook it.
“Zara Cromwell. So why are you here?”
“Just a friendly competition,” Artemora chuckled. “I often work with agriculture defense units, so I’m not out of place here. Plus, I heard one of Ari’s girls has powers similar to mine. Thought I’d drop by for a little test.”
“Ah,” Zara turned, “Irish, she’s here for you.”
“What?” Irish zoomed over, eyes wide.
“Yes, she’s the one,” Artemora nodded. “How’d you know I was a speedster?”
“Well,” Zara said, “You’re barely dressed. Speedsters tend to burn through normal clothes at high velocity. And your skin—especially your chest—has signs of friction burn. People call it speed-skin.”
Artemora grinned. “Smart girl.”
“I try,” Zara replied. “So ... you’re here for a race?”
“Just a quick one. See if I’ve still got it.”
“Hah! I’ll take that challenge gladly,” Irish said.
“Good.” Artemora stretched with exaggerated flair, then strutted to a corner of the room, making sure every step jiggled. The string bikini was completely swallowed by her buttcheeks—and most of the boys didn’t even try.
“Thanks for bringing her, girls,” Ruthelle said, turning to the two bonnet-wearing young women.
“We’ve got time,” said the blonde one. “We can stay and help, if needed.”
“No need,” Ruthelle waved her off. “Go prepare for the fight class. So bad I can’t see you girls in action, but I have a job to do here as well.”
They were about to turn when the redhead spotted Irish.
“Look, Mary, it’s the dwarf who saved Mother and Grandmother!”
“Oh!” Irish lit up. “You must be Hester’s granddaughters! Irish O’Neill,” she introduced herself, offering a hand.
“Mary Schwartz,” the blonde replied.
“Mary Schwartz,” echoed the redhead.
Irish blinked. “Oh ... I heard that Mary is a popular name among the Amish community. I guess both your mothers must like it. Hm, you must be Anna’s daughter, you technically look like a blonde version of her. And you ... Maybe Judith’s daughter?”
“Close enough,” the redhead Mary nodded, “but we are both Anna’s daughters.”
“What?”
“She liked that name, and our father couldn’t stop her,” the blonde Mary said.
Irish gave them a weird look. “So ... you’re both Anna’s kids?”
“Yup,” nodded red-haired Mary. “She’s very persuasive.”
Irish turned to Zara with a deadpan expression. “I’m going to outrun this old hag just to get my brain to stop processing all of this.”
“We believe in you,” blonde Mary said.
“We have to prep for another show, but we’ll stay for a few minutes,” red-haired Mary added. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
As Irish stretched out, Artemora decided to give the crowd a little pre-race show.
Ruthelle released a small flock of two-headed ravens into the field—part training exercise, part chaos test—but Artemora shot into action before the first one could flap twice. In a blur of movement, she zipped around, grabbing each bird mid-air and returning them gently to their cage without a single feather harmed or a single leaf trampled.
“Whoa, she’s fast,” Zara said, watching Artemora move like a living thunderbolt. Her long, straight hair snapped behind her like a giant black serpent with every turn.
“She should cut it,” Irish muttered, eyeing the cascade of hair. “Long hair at high speed? That’s an accident waiting to happen.” She ran a hand over her own red bob, neat and practical.
“Okay, girls, time for that little race!” Ruthelle called out, pointing at the field’s perimeter. “This path circles the whole garden. Not quite regulation, but it’ll do the trick.”
“I’ve run on worse surfaces in Africa,” Artemora said with a shrug. “This’ll feel like clouds.”
Zara, standing nearby, caught a glimpse of Artemora’s bare feet while she stretched. The soles were hardened, covered in calluses and old scars—clear signs she’d raced across harsh terrain.
“To make it fair, I’ll run barefoot too,” Irish said, peeling off her socks and sneakers.
Everyone stepped back from the track, keeping a safe distance from what was about to become a storm.
Irish and Artemora stepped up to the starting line.
They looked ... ridiculous together.
Artemora, a tall, athletic black woman, practically naked except for a few stringy scraps of fabric, her hair trailing like a flag. And beside her—Irish: 112 centimeters of freckled fury, pale as milk, dressed in jean shorts and a faded My Little Pony t-shirt. Not because she was a fan. It was just one of the few shirts that came in her size.
“How many laps do you want?” Irish asked. “A hundred?”
“A hundred? The audience would barely see anything.” Artemora grinned. “Below three hundred, it’ll just look like a blur.”
“Alright then. How about a thousand?”
“Now you’re talking,” Artemora said with a gleam in her eye.
“Hey, Ruthelle!” Irish called over her shoulder. “Give us a countdown.”
“You got it,” Ruthelle nodded, lifting a hand. Her stitched-together fingers curled slowly into a fist.
“Three!”
“Two!”
“One! Go!”
The instant Ruthelle said “go,” both speedsters were already halfway across the field.
To the crowd, it was impossible to track who was ahead. At first, Artemora had the lead, but soon Irish pulled ahead, only for Artemora to overtake her again. Then Irish. Then Artemora. Their positions switched at least twice per second.
To the naked eye, they were just two blurs circling the track like comets chasing each other.
Everything was fine ... until Irish started to feel it. Heat.
She was going too fast, too long.
She had two options: stop (absolutely not), or ditch her clothes before they ignited. Option two it was.
Shirt and bra were easy; she slipped out of them mid-stride. Her shorts and underwear were trickier, but between two bounding steps, she managed to kick them off.
The crowd couldn’t see her clearly—only the smear of a red-and-white blur—but they knew. Her clothes were gone.
Despite her small size, Irish had a surprisingly curvy figure. Her breasts were like ripe apples, small and perky, with pink nipples that pointed straight ahead like tiny rubber arrows. Her hips were wide, thighs and calves muscular like a pro sprinter’s. Her pubis hair was shaved into a shamrock, and above her butt, a tramp stamp of a four-leaf clover shimmered with sweat.
Artemora had gained ground again, but Irish was closing in fast.
As Irish caught up, she glanced sideways. Artemora flashed her a sign in rapid-speed sign language: “Nice tits.”
Irish smirked and signed back: “Yours are great too.”
Using sign language is common among speedsters since it’s hard to hear each other’s voices with the wind whistling in their ears. Also, sometimes they are faster than sound.
Adrenaline surged through them both. Their speed increased. Faster. Then faster still. The track was practically catching fire.
They ran so fast, they lost count of the laps.
Then suddenly...
“Oh shit!” Artemora signed.
Everything went white.
Irish blacked out for a second. When her senses returned, she was standing still.
The room was dark.
But not empty.
Artemora stood nearby, her long hair sticking to her back, panting slightly. As Irish’s eyes adjusted, she realized they were still on the field—but something was different.
“What ... happened?” Irish asked, rubbing her forehead. “Did we...?”
“Yes,” Artemora nodded. “We flash-forwarded. That’s what people call it.”
Irish’s eyes lit up. “No way! My first time doing a time jump! That’s so cool!”
“Do you remember much of the run?”
“Barely,” Irish said. “Just ... light, and wind, and ... blur.”
“Same,” Artemora replied. “We must’ve hit runner’s trance and lost control. When multiple speedsters push past their limits together, sometimes it triggers a temporal drift.”
“So ... we’re in the future?”
Artemora sniffed the air. “Smells like it. Same day, probably. Just ... a few hours ahead.”
Irish looked around. “So what now?”
“Nothing,” Artemora said calmly. “We’ll get sucked back into the correct time soon. The universe doesn’t like loose ends.”
Just then, they heard it.
A low, echoing howl from outside.
Deep. Guttural. Monstrous.
Both speedsters turned toward the sound.
“Should we go check it out?” Irish asked.
“Yeah, why not?” Artemora replied. “We got a rare peek into the future—it’d be a shame to waste it.”
They walked to the door, but Artemora suddenly paused.
“Wait,” she said. “Okay, we can go now.”
Irish blinked. “What was that?”
“I just made a mental note to remind the scarecrow girl not to lock the door once class ends,” Artemora explained.
She opened the door. “Yes! She listened!” she grinned, and they stepped out.
Outside the building, they found total chaos.
Some people were riding dragons, clashing in the air against flying women. A towering abomination, composed of human bodies, was brawling with a giant man who looked weirdly familiar.
The fighting stretched across the campus, but oddly, there was no blood. Everyone seemed determined to win, but not to kill.
“What the fuck is going on?” Irish muttered.
“I don’t know,” Artemora said, eyes wide. “But it looks fun.”