Had another random thought pop into my head today.
Lilia - the fae of chaos, teleportation and enjoys scaring people for fun.
Chen’ya - the beastman of chaos, fun and using his UM to do so.
Can you imagine the chaos they would cause together? Especially at the Spelldrive comp 😂
Instant besties.
Did You Really Expect US To Stick To Your Beloved Twst Canon ?🦇 😸💜
When Chaos Meets Chaos: The Spelldrive Catastrophe
Chapter 1: A Fateful Encounter in the Cafeteria
It was a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon at Night Raven College. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and somewhere in the distance, Ace Trappola was probably causing some minor disaster that would eventually require Riddle Rosehearts to collar him. All was right with the world.
Then Lilia Vanrouge decided he was bored.
The ancient fae, who looked for all the world like a delicate teenager with an affinity for gothic fashion, floated into the cafeteria with the specific intention of finding entertainment. Malleus had been busy with student council duties, Silver had fallen asleep standing up in the hallway again, and Sebek was being Sebek. Loud. Aggressive. Completely incapable of understanding the concept of "indoor voice."
Lilia needed something new. Something fresh. Something that wouldn't involve the same old dynamics he'd been navigating for centuries.
He collected his lunch—a suspiciously pink smoothie that made several first-years question their life choices—and surveyed the room. There. A face he didn't recognize. Sitting alone at a table, ears twitching with mischief, tail swishing in a pattern that suggested either extreme boredom or the planning of something nefarious.
The beastman had wild purple hair that seemed to defy gravity in ways that would make a physicist weep, and eyes that sparkled with the particular gleam of someone who found joy in the absurd. He was currently making his mashed potatoes form increasingly obscene shapes, much to the horror of the Ignihyde student sitting across from him.
Lilia was instantly intrigued.
With a flutter of his dramatic cape, he teleported directly into the seat across from the stranger, causing the mashed potato sculpture to collapse in surprise.
"Interesting technique," Lilia observed, gesturing to the potato ruins. "I've never seen someone attempt to recreate the Monstro Lounge's architecture in side dishes before."
The beastman's ears perked up, and his tail stopped its erratic swishing. For a moment, there was silence. Then a grin spread across his face—wide, lopsided, and utterly without shame.
"Chen'ya," the beastman introduced himself, extending a hand that had suspicious traces of glitter on it. "And that wasn't the Monstro Lounge. That was a scaled-down replica of the Headmage's office. Complete with tiny potato Crowley sitting at a tiny potato desk, ignoring tiny potato student complaints."
Lilia's eyes lit up. "You have a gift."
"I have many gifts. The ability to make authority figures uncomfortable with starch-based art is but one of them."
"Lilia Vanrouge," the fae introduced himself with a bow that was simultaneously elegant and mocking. "Diasomnia dormitory. Ancient fae of considerable power and minimal fucks to give."
Chen'ya's tail began swishing again, this time in a rhythm that suggested excitement. "Wait. You're the Lilia? The one who supposedly once convinced an entire kingdom that the moon had been stolen?"
"That was a misunderstanding. The moon was only temporarily relocated. And they noticed in three days. I expected better from them, honestly."
"I heard you also taught a generation of warriors a dance routine that was actually a complex battle formation, and they didn't realize until they waltzed through enemy lines."
Lilia smiled proudly. "The look on the enemy general's face when my soldiers began doing the cha-cha through his defenses was priceless. I have it painted in my personal gallery."
Chen'ya leaned forward. "I once convinced my entire dormitory that the showers were haunted by the ghost of a student who failed alchemy. For three months, people only showered in pairs and left offerings of shampoo to appease the spirits."
"What did you do with the shampoo offerings?"
"Sold them back to the school store at a profit."
Lilia clutched his chest as if struck by Cupid's arrow. "Where have you been all my immortal life?"
"Avoiding ancient fae who teleport into people's personal space without warning." But his grin suggested he didn't mind in the slightest.
It was at this precise moment that a first-year from Savanaclaw, who had been eavesdropping with growing horror, made the mistake of dropping his tray. The clatter caused both Lilia and Chen'ya to turn and look at him with matching expressions of predatory interest.
"New friend?" Chen'ya asked.
"Potential project," Lilia corrected.
The first-year bolted.
As they watched him flee, Chen'ya mused, "You know what this school is missing?"
"Proper respect for its elders?"
"Okay, yes, but also: a truly spectacular prank at the Spelldrive competition."
Lilia's entire demeanor shifted. His playful expression became something more focused, more dangerous. The kind of face that had launched a thousand legends of fae mischief. "Go on."
Chen'ya leaned in conspiratorially. "Hear me out. The Opening Ceremony. All those pristine uniforms. All those serious faces. All that dignity—"
"Overrated."
"Deeply. What if, during the most important magical sports event of the year, something happened that was so completely absurd that people would talk about it for generations?"
Lilia's eyes gleamed. "I'm listening."
"My Unique Magic," Chen'ya said, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, "is called Lost in the Mist. The short version? I can make things unable to reach their destination. People, objects, doesn't matter. They get lost. Can't find their way."
"Useful."
"The fun part is what happens when something can't get where it's going. It has to end up somewhere else. And that somewhere else?" Chen'ya shrugged, ears wiggling. "Nobody knows. Not even me. That's the whole point. A sound that can't reach its target might come out as something else entirely. A disc that can't reach the goal might go literally anywhere. The more someone tries to force a path, the more my mist scrambles it."
Lilia set down his smoothie. "So you don't create chaos directly. You create lostness, and chaos is just what fills the gap."
Chen'ya pointed at him. "Yes. Exactly that. Most people hear the name and think 'oh, how spooky, a mist that makes you lost,' and they imagine fog and confusion. Which, fair, it does that too. But the real power is in the unraveling. You take something that's supposed to go from point A to point B, and you just… remove point B from the equation. The universe has to figure out what to do with all that momentum, and it gets creative."
"And I can teleport anything anywhere at any time," Lilia finished, understanding blooming across his face. "Your magic removes the destination. My magic provides a new one. Together—"
"Together we don't just disrupt things. We redesign them in real time."
They stared at each other for a long moment. Around them, the cafeteria continued its normal operations, completely unaware that a legendary partnership had just been formed.
"To partnership?" Lilia offered, raising his pink smoothie.
"To chaos," Chen'ya countered, clinking his own suspiciously green drink against it.
They drank. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed ominously. Crowley, who happened to be passing by, sneezed violently and felt an inexplicable sense of dread.
He chose to ignore it.
This would prove to be a mistake.
Chapter 2: The Planning Phase
The abandoned classroom on the third floor of Night Raven College had seen many things in its time. Illicit magic experiments. Secret meetings. That one time Leona had tried to nap there and ended up trapped when the door handle fell off.
But it had never seen anything quite like the planning session currently unfolding within its walls.
Chen'ya had claimed a desk and was using it as a throne, legs crossed, tail draped over the armrest like a particularly fluffy accessory. Lilia had produced a whiteboard from somewhere—possibly from another dimension, given that the school didn't actually own one—and was drawing increasingly complicated diagrams with a marker that smelled suspiciously like it had been enchanted to never run out of ink.
"Phase One," Lilia announced, drawing a large circle on the board. "We establish our base of operations."
"The supply closet near the Spelldrive field. I've already scouted it. Enough room for two people, emergency snacks, and a small dimensional rift if necessary."
Lilia paused his drawing. "Do you often plan for dimensional rifts in your supply closet operations?"
"One can never be too prepared."
"Phase Two: reconnaissance." Lilia drew several smaller circles connected to the main one. "We need the schedule, the participants, the security arrangements—"
"I have all that." Chen'ya produced a scroll from seemingly nowhere. "I may have accidentally walked through the organizing committee's meeting last week while invisible."
"Accidentally."
"I was practicing my stealth techniques and happened to end up under their table. The detailed notes were a bonus of good observational skills."
Lilia examined the scroll with growing appreciation. "You've noted the refreshment schedule, the bathroom break patterns of the refereeing staff, and…" He squinted. "Is this the Headmage's speech for the opening ceremony?"
"Highlighted the key dramatic pauses and everything."
Lilia pinned the scroll to the whiteboard with a dagger he also produced from nowhere. "Phase Three: scope. How far are we going?"
Chen'ya considered this seriously. Not the flippant, rapid-fire consideration of someone joking around, but the careful calculation of someone who understood that chaos without boundaries was just destruction. "I've been thinking about that," he said, and his voice shifted—still playful, but with an edge of something more considered underneath. "There's a difference between chaos that makes people laugh and chaos that makes people afraid. I'm not interested in the second kind."
Lilia studied him. "Why not?"
Chen'ya's tail slowed its swishing. "Because I've been on the wrong end of it. When you're a beastman who doesn't fit neatly into any one category—who doesn't belong to a clear group, a clear dormitory, a clear anything—people's uncertainty about you can curdle into something ugly pretty fast. I've had people 'lose' me before. Not with magic. Just with paperwork, with scheduling, with 'oh, we forgot you were on that list.' Being lost isn't fun when you didn't choose it."
The room was quiet for a moment. Lilia set down the marker.
"So you took the thing that hurt you," Lilia said slowly, "and made it yours."
Chen'ya's grin returned, but it was different now—sharper, more intentional. "I took the thing that hurt me, and I made it fun. There's a difference between being lost because no one cares where you are, and being lost because you chose to throw away the map. My magic does the second one. It says: you don't need a destination to have a good time."
Lilia nodded, something warm settling behind his eyes. "Then we aim for joy. Not fear. Not harm. Just… joyful confusion."
"Joyful confusion. I like that." Chen'ya bounced to his feet and grabbed the marker from Lilia's hand. "Okay. Phase Four: specific objectives. Opening Ceremony. Crowley gives his big speech, very dramatic, very self-important. What if, at key moments, his microphone emitted sounds that were not his voice?"
"Animal noises?"
"I was thinking more like dramatic opera vocals. But animal noises could work. Maybe a combination. Opera-singing goats?"
Lilia nodded. "I can teleport small objects into the microphone mechanism to create the effect. But we'd need to time it perfectly."
"That's where Lost in the Mist comes in." Chen'ya began sketching on the whiteboard—what appeared to be a very enthusiastic goat wearing a Viking helmet. "I can lay a mist over the sound equipment. Not enough to be visible, just enough that the electrical signals can't quite find their proper destination. The sound goes in, but it gets lost on the way out, and whatever comes out the other side is… whatever the universe decides. They'll think it's a technical glitch."
"Brilliant. What else?"
"During the actual games, the spelldrive discs." Chen'ya drew what looked like a Spelldrive field but with far more explosions than regulations typically allowed. "What if they couldn't reach their targets? Not enough to actually affect the outcome, but enough to make everyone question their sanity?"
"You want to use your mist on the discs."
"Just a thin layer. The thrower aims for point B, but the disc gets lost somewhere between A and B and ends up at point… Q? The momentum has to go somewhere, and the somewhere is never where anyone expects."
"I can teleport in replacement discs at key moments. discs that look identical but behave differently."
"There was this spell I learned in the nineteenth century," Lilia said, "that makes objects temporarily develop sentience and strong opinions about where they want to go."
Chen'ya's ears went vertical. "Sentient sports equipment?"
"Sentient sports equipment with attitude."
"Oh, this is going to be beautiful."
They spent the next two hours fleshing out increasingly elaborate plans. The halftime show would feature unexpected choreography. The refreshment stand would serve items that had been mysteriously swapped with identical-looking but differently-flavored alternatives. The referee's whistle would occasionally play show tunes.
"We should establish boundaries," Lilia said eventually, voice hoarse from excited planning. "We don't want to actually hurt anyone or ruin the competition entirely."
"Obviously. The point is to enhance the experience, not destroy it."
"Though destroying it would be easier."
"Much easier. But where's the artistry in that?"
Lilia drew a final circle on the now-crowded whiteboard. "We need an escape plan."
"From what?"
"The inevitable aftermath when someone tries to figure out what happened."
Chen'ya considered this. "I have a contingency."
"Which is?"
His grin turned mysterious. "Let's just say that I've made friends with the school's plumbing system, and leave it at that."
Lilia stared at him for a long moment. "You've made friends with the plumbing."
"It's a long story involving a clogged drain, a rainy Tuesday, and my ability to make water go places it shouldn't."
"You know what? I don't need to know. I trust you."
They shook on it. The whiteboard looked like the planning diagram of a supervillain who had given up on world domination in favor of pure absurdity.
It was perfect.
Chapter 3: The Pre-Game Jitters
The night before the Spelldrive competition, most students were experiencing one of two states: nervous excitement or nervous terror. Athletes visualized their plays. Strategists reviewed notes. Fans painted their faces in dormitory colors and practiced their cheers.
Lilia Vanrouge was doing none of these things.
Instead, he was floating upside down in the Diasomnia common room, juggling seven small objects that appeared to be different types of fruit, while having a conversation with a very stressed-looking Silver.
"Father, I'm concerned about you," Silver said, his usual drowsy demeanor replaced with something approaching alertness. "You've been humming for the past three hours. Not a normal song—it sounds like a chaotic medley of every national anthem from every kingdom, played simultaneously but slightly out of sync."
"Is that what it sounds like? I was trying to practice for tomorrow."
"Practice what?"
"Chaos, Silver. Pure, beautiful chaos."
Silver sighed—a sound that carried the weight of centuries of dealing with his father's eccentricities. "Is this about that beastman you met in the cafeteria? Chen'ya?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Sebek saw you two planning something in an abandoned classroom. He was going to report it to Malleus, but I convinced him that perhaps you were just expressing yourself creatively."
"Tell Sebek I appreciate his restraint."
"Father, please tell me you're not going to do anything that will embarrass Malleus during the competition."
Lilia stopped juggling, catching all eight fruits in a sudden cascade that defied physics. He righted himself and looked at Silver with pure innocence.
"Silver, my dear boy, would I ever do anything to embarrass our young master?"
"Yes."
"Would I do it intentionally?"
"Also yes."
"Would I do it in a way that he couldn't appreciate once the initial shock wore off?"
"…probably."
"That's good enough for me." Lilia patted Silver on the head and vanished, leaving behind only a faint smell of strawberries and the lingering sense of impending doom.
Silver sat down heavily. "I need more sleep," he muttered. "Much, much more sleep."
Meanwhile, in a different part of campus, Chen'ya was having a different kind of pre-game ritual.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of his room—a small space in one of the less-monitored corners of campus, the kind of room that existed in a bureaucratic gray area where no one had bothered to assign it or unassign it. Chen'ya had been living in it for months, and so far no one had questioned his presence. This was, in his experience, how most of his life worked: he simply arrived places, and the universe failed to notice he wasn't supposed to be there.
His enrollment at Night Raven College was, to put it charitably, a matter of interpretation. He had applied to a different school entirely. His application had gotten lost in transit—whether through mundane postal errors or through the unconscious influence of his own magic, he had never been entirely sure. It had ended up on Crowley's desk. Crowley, being Crowley, had approved it without reading it carefully, assuming it was a transfer student's paperwork. By the time anyone noticed the discrepancy, Chen'ya had already been attending classes for two weeks, and the sheer bureaucratic effort required to un-enroll him was more than anyone at the school was willing to expend.
So he stayed. He had no official dormitory assignment, no student ID number that matched any database, and no record of ever having been accepted. He also had perfect attendance, passing grades, and a talent for being exactly where he needed to be while remaining invisible to anyone who might ask uncomfortable questions.
It was, he reflected, a very Lost in the Mist way to exist.
He turned his attention to the small device in his hands—a modified version of something he'd built for a different prank, now repurposed for the Spelldrive catastrophe. It was a remote control with far too many buttons and a small antenna made of a bent spoon.
One press of the primary button, and the mist would settle over the target area. Sounds, objects, magical signals—they'd all get lost on their way to their destinations and emerge as something else entirely.
He set the device down and picked up a handkerchief instead, absently folding it into an origami crane as he thought.
He liked Lilia. That was the surprising thing. Chen'ya liked very few people. Not out of malice, but out of a kind of protective laziness—getting attached to people meant caring about where they were going, and caring about destinations felt like a betrayal of his entire philosophy.
But Lilia was different. Lilia didn't just embrace chaos; he understood it on a level that Chen'ya had never encountered in another person. For Chen'ya, chaos was a survival mechanism, a way of turning being lost into a choice. For Lilia, chaos was an art form, honed over centuries of existence. They approached the same concept from completely different angles and arrived at the same destination.
Which was, ironically, a destination, and Chen'ya chose not to think too hard about that.
He finished the origami crane and enchanted it to fly in slow circles around his room. Then he lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow was going to be the most fun he'd had since he'd accidentally enrolled at this school.
He couldn't wait.
Chapter 4: The Opening Ceremony
The Spelldrive stadium was packed.
Every student from Night Raven College had turned out for the opening ceremony, along with various dignitaries, alumni, and curious onlookers from the surrounding town. The stands were a sea of different dormitory colors. Banners waved, noisemakers noised, and the general atmosphere was one of excited anticipation.
In the supply closet that served as their base of operations, Lilia and Chen'ya were experiencing a different kind of excitement.
"He's taking forever," Chen'ya complained, peering through a crack in the door. Headmage Crowley was on stage, preparing to give his opening remarks. "How many throat-clearing noises does one bird-man need?"
"It's called building suspense."
"Crowley wouldn't know suspense if it bit him on his feathered—"
"Shh. He's starting."
Crowley approached the microphone, his dramatic cape billowing in a breeze that was definitely being generated by a small fan placed offstage. He cleared his throat one final time, adjusted his mask, and began.
"Students, faculty, distinguished guests, and those of you who are only here for the free refreshments—welcome to the Annual Night Raven College Spelldrive Competition! A tradition stretching back centuries, this event represents the very best of what our institution stands for: magical excellence, sportsmanship, and the occasional dramatic injury that we all pretend wasn't that serious!"
Polite laughter rippled through the crowd. Crowley preened.
"Tonight, we gather not as rivals, but as—"
Chen'ya pressed the button.
What came out of the microphone was not Crowley's voice. It was, unmistakably, the sound of an opera singer hitting a high C with the kind of passion usually reserved for tragic love scenes.
Crowley stopped. The sound cut off after three seconds.
Silence.
He opened his beak to speak again. The microphone emitted a goat attempting to yodel. An operatic goat. A goat that had trained at a prestigious music academy and had strong feelings about modern vocal performance.
In the supply closet, Chen'ya pressed his hand over his own mouth to muffle his laughter. Lilia had gone very still, his shoulders shaking silently.
On stage, Crowley examined the microphone with the intensity of a crime scene investigator. He tapped it. Shook it. Held it at arm's length and stared at it.
"Ahem. Technical difficulties, I assure you. Nothing to be concerned about—"
The microphone began playing a slow jazz saxophone solo.
Crowley slowly set it down and took a step back.
In the crowd, reactions varied. First-years looked confused. Second-years looked suspicious. Third-years were trying very hard not to laugh, because they recognized the signs of chaos and knew that acknowledging it would only make it worse.
Riddle Rosehearts had gone very still, eyes darting around for the source. Leona Kingscholar was openly grinning. Azul Ashengrotto was taking notes. Kalim Al-Asim was laughing delightedly while Jamil Viper calculated how to prevent whatever was happening from affecting Scarabia. Vil Schoenheit had his phone out, recording. Idia Shroud was live-streaming with running commentary. Malleus Draconia watched with mild amusement, because very little fazed a dragon fae who had seen centuries of human oddity.
A technician rushed forward to replace the microphone. Crowley approached the new one with the caution of someone handling a live explosive.
"AS I WAS SAYING," Crowley began, speaking much louder than necessary, "this competition represents—"
The new microphone produced the sound of a very proper voice saying, "Pardon me, but I believe you're mistaken," before cutting to silence.
Crowley's eye twitched.
"IS EVERYONE HAVING FUN TONIGHT?" he shouted, abandoning the microphone entirely.
The crowd roared. A flustered Crowley was always entertaining.
Back in the supply closet, Chen'ya was already preparing the next move. "The refreshment stand," he whispered. "It's time."
While Chen'ya kept watch, Lilia teleported small objects into the refreshment area. The lemonade would temporarily turn anyone who drank it light blue. The sandwiches had been enchanted to squeak when bitten into. The cookies would, when broken open, reveal small messages in edible ink: "Have you considered chaos today?" and "The end is near (but not really)."
Within twenty minutes, the refreshment stand had claimed its first victims.
A Heartslabyul student who had drunk the blue lemonade was being examined by his classmates.
"Do I look okay?" he asked, voice tinged with panic.
"You look… refreshed?"
"I look like a smurf!"
"What's a smurf?"
"I don't know! But I feel like one!"
Across the stadium, a Savanaclaw student bit into his sandwich and it let out a loud squeak. He stared at it.
"Did my sandwich just squeak at me?"
"You're imagining things, bro. Eat it before it gets cold."
"It's a cold sandwich."
"Then eat it before it gets colder."
He took another bite. Another squeak, higher-pitched, almost questioning.
"I'm going to pretend this is normal," he announced.
Lilia and Chen'ya shared a look of satisfaction in their supply closet.
"This is just the beginning," Chen'ya said, his tail curling with anticipation. "Wait until the actual games start."
"I can hardly wait."
Chapter 5: The Games Begin
The first match was Heartslabyul versus Savanaclaw. Riddle had his team lined up with military precision, each player in their assigned position with exactly three inches between them. Leona had his team in what appeared to be a chaotic mess but was actually a carefully calculated formation.
Professor Trein, who had drawn the short straw, approached the center of the field with the official spelldrive disc.
"Teams ready?"
"Ready!" both captains responded.
"Play fair, play hard, play—"
Lilia made his move. With a subtle gesture and a whispered incantation, the official disc in Trein's hand was replaced with an identical-looking one, specially enchanted. The disc would behave normally for the most part, but occasionally it would develop temporary sentience and express opinions about how it was being treated.
"—disc?" Trein finished, frowning as if he'd lost his train of thought. He tossed the disc into the air.
For the first few minutes, everything proceeded normally. Heartslabyul and Savanaclaw players soared through the air on their brooms, passing and intercepting with practiced skill.
Then, during a high-speed maneuver, the disc first showed its nature.
Leona had caught it and was preparing to throw when the disc, nestled in his hands, emitted a weary sigh.
Leona froze. "Did that disc just sigh?"
"Keep playing!" Trein called.
Shaking it off, Leona threw to a teammate. The pass was successful. But Chen'ya had laid a thin mist over the field—invisible, undetectable, just enough to make the disc's trajectory uncertain. A Heartslabyul student reached for what should have been an easy catch and missed. The disc curved slightly, as if it had decided to take a different path.
"My bad!" the student called, assuming he'd miscalculated.
But it happened again. To different players on both teams. Catches that should have been simple suddenly weren't.
The crowd began to notice.
"Are they playing badly on purpose?" a first-year asked.
"No, look—that throw was perfect until the last second," a second-year observed. "Something's weird."
On the field, Riddle was getting frustrated. "Focus! Your fundamentals are lacking!"
"We are focused!" Ace called back, having just missed an easy interception. "The disc's just being weird!"
"A disc cannot be 'weird.' A disc is an inanimate object that follows physical laws."
As if to contradict this, the disc—currently in a Savanaclaw player's possession—let out a thoughtful "hmm."
The player dropped it. It bounced twice and then, with determination that should not have been possible for a sports implement, rolled directly to Riddle.
Everyone stared.
Riddle stared down at it.
"That just—"
"Keep playing!" Trein called, deciding that acknowledging it would only make things worse.
The game resumed, but players now handled the disc with extreme caution. Ten minutes later, with the score tied, a Savanaclaw player made a powerful throw toward the goal. The disc soared in a perfect arc.
Instead, it stopped. Mid-air. Completely defying gravity and momentum.
It hovered, as if considering its options, and then a voice—small, slightly squeaky, and inexplicably British—emanated from it.
"I say, this is rather undignified, isn't it? Being thrown about like a common object. I have feelings, you know. Dreams. Aspirations."
Silence fell over the entire stadium.
"I wanted to be a star. Literally. I had dreams of hanging in the night sky, beautiful and untouchable. But here I am, being batted about by teenagers with sticks. It's rather demoralizing."
On the sidelines, Crowley had gone pale behind his mask. Professor Trein was examining the disc with academic intensity. Riddle looked like he was having an aneurysm. Leona looked like he was trying to decide if this was the best or worst thing that had ever happened to him.
The disc noticed its audience. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I holding things up? Do carry on. I'll just be a disc, I suppose. It's not like I have any other options."
It dropped to the ground and resumed normal behavior.
The silence lasted three seconds before the stadium erupted. Some people laughed. Some screamed. Some cried. In the stands, a group of first-years had formed a prayer circle around a very confused upperclassman.
In the supply closet, Lilia and Chen'ya were on the floor, tears streaming, laughter shaking their bodies.
"It talked," Chen'ya wheezed. "And it was British."
"I may have slightly over-enchanted it. The sentience was supposed to be non-verbal."
"You made a disc have an existential crisis about its life choices. In the middle of a competitive sporting event."
"Art is never perfect on the first try."
Eventually, order was restored. The disc was replaced with a normal one, though several players treated it with suspicion for the remainder of the game. The match concluded with a narrow Savanaclaw victory, though no one really remembered the score.
As the teams left the field, Lilia and Chen'ya prepared for their next act.
"Halftime show?" Chen'ya suggested.
Lilia's grin could have lit up the stadium. "Halftime show."
Chapter 6: The Halftime Show
The halftime show was supposed to be a dignified display of magical prowess and synchronized performance by representatives from each dormitory. It had been rehearsed for weeks. Everything was planned down to the smallest detail.
Which made it the perfect target.
"My Lost in the Mist is ideal for this," Chen'ya explained, fine-tuning a small device that looked like a cross between a compass and a kaleidoscope. "I lay the mist over the performers' formation. Not visible, not tangible—just enough that their intended positions become unreachable. They aim for point A, but point A is lost in the mist, so they end up at point somewhere-else-entirely. All that rehearsed choreography falls apart, and they have to improvise."
"You're not just disrupting them. You're unmooring them."
"Exactly. And unmoored people either panic or create. I'm betting on create."
The performers took their positions in a complex geometric pattern. The music started—something classical and dramatic—and they began.
For thirty seconds, everything went according to plan. Then Chen'ya activated his device.
The student at the northernmost point found himself drifting left instead of forward. He corrected, overcorrected, and collided gently with the student next to him.
The ripple effect was immediate. The formation wobbled. Students who had been moving in perfect synchronization were suddenly out of step.
A Heartslabyul performer, pushed off course, ended up in front of a Savanaclaw performer instead of beside him. Without missing a beat, he executed an elaborate bow that was definitely not part of the choreography. The Savanaclaw student responded with an equally elaborate curtsey.
The music continued, but the rehearsed choreography was dead. In its place, something new was emerging—part improvised dance, part magical accident, part sheer determination.
An Octavinelle student, finding himself in an unexpected position, began aquatic interpretive dance, his movements flowing and wave-like. A Scarabia student nearby added spins that created a small whirlwind of sand. A Pomefiore student turned what should have been a simple turn into a full theatrical pose that would have made Vil proud.
Then Chen'ya made a subtle adjustment, and the magical effects started triggering at random. A student who was supposed to create fire got a shower of flower petals. Another who was supposed to summon water got a small flock of butterflies.
The crowd's murmurs turned to gasps, then to cheers. Whatever was happening, it was clearly not planned, but it was captivating.
In the stands, Vil Schoenheit leaned forward, his critical eye taking in every unplanned movement. To everyone's surprise, he nodded approvingly.
"Raw. Unpolished. But there's something here. Something genuine."
Riddle had gone from annoyed to confused to something approaching wonder. His carefully ordered world was being disrupted, and yet it was working. Chaos was supposed to lead to disaster, not to this.
Leona was laughing openly. Kalim was clapping along. Jamil was massaging his temples.
Malleus watched with genuine delight. "How wonderful. They've discovered the joy of spontaneity."
On the field, the performance reached a crescendo of beautiful chaos. Students who had never practiced together moved as if some collective unconscious had taken over. Then, as if the universe decided to contribute, it started to rain—not a downpour, just a gentle drizzle that shouldn't have been possible given the clear sky. The magical effects interacting with the rain created a rainbow of colors across the field.
In the supply closet, Chen'ya lowered his device, looking slightly surprised. "I didn't do that."
"Neither did I."
They looked at each other. Chen'ya shrugged. "Magic is weird."
"Magic is definitely weird."
The performers incorporated the rain into their routine, and the whole thing became something otherworldly. As the music reached its conclusion, they came together in a formation that was nothing like what had been rehearsed but felt somehow right.
Silence.
Then the loudest cheers of the day.
Lilia and Chen'ya exchanged a look that went beyond their usual mischief-making satisfaction. They had intended to create chaos. Instead, they had accidentally created something beautiful.
"Well," Lilia said, "that wasn't quite what I expected."
"Same. But I'm not complaining."
They allowed themselves a moment of genuine pride before Chen'ya's nature reasserted itself. "So, for the second half, I was thinking—"
"Oh, we're not done yet."
Chapter 7: The Second Half
The second half began with wary anticipation. The disc's existential crisis had become the talk of the stadium. The halftime show's beautiful chaos was still being dissected. Everyone knew something else was coming.
Lilia produced a small box from his pocket. Inside were what appeared to be ordinary pebbles, except they glowed with a faint shimmer.
"Enchanted stones. When activated, they create small, localized reality distortions. A person walking through might find their left foot suddenly wants to go right. They might reach for something and find it's two inches to the left of where it appears to be."
"And where do you plan to place these?"
"Around the field, at strategic points. To the players, it will feel like sudden uncoordination. To everyone watching, it will look like bizarre athletic incompetence."
"Beautiful."
While the crowd discussed the halftime show, Lilia teleported the stones into position. Chen'ya used his mist to create an interference pattern that would prevent anyone from detecting the stones' magical signatures.
The second match—Octavinelle versus Scarabia—began. The referee tossed a new disc, thoroughly inspected and declared "definitely not sentient" by three professors.
The first player to hit a distortion field was an Octavinelle student moving confidently toward the goal. Mid-stride, he stumbled for no apparent reason.
"Clumsy!" a Scarabia player called, seizing the opportunity.
"Am not! The ground just moved."
"Ground doesn't move, bro."
"It did this time!"
As the game continued, more players experienced strange effects. A Scarabia student reached for a pass and found the disc wasn't where it appeared to be. An Octavinelle player tried to change direction and went in a completely different one.
The crowd noticed.
"Are they all tired?"
"No, look—that was a perfect setup and he just missed."
In the supply closet, Chen'ya was recording everything with an undetectable camera. "Look at Azul's face."
Azul Ashengrotto was on the sidelines, cycling through confusion, frustration, and that particular look of someone mentally calculating how to turn a disadvantage into an advantage. He pulled out a notebook and began jotting observations.
"Showtime," Chen'ya said, producing a second device.
One moment, Azul was standing on the sidelines, taking notes. The next, a flock of pigeons—definitely not supposed to be inside a magical stadium—descended upon him with military precision. They didn't attack or land on him. They simply swirled around him in a perfect formation that looked like a small tornado made of birds.
Azul's notebook went flying. The pigeons completed three rotations and vanished into the rafters.
The entire sequence lasted perhaps ten seconds.
On the field, play had stopped. Azul stood covered in loose feathers, looking like he was questioning reality.
"What was that?" Jamil asked.
"I have no idea. But I want it studied."
"Maybe later. Game's still in progress!"
Play resumed, but the pigeon incident had added a new layer of confusion. Players periodically glanced at the sky.
"Pigeons?" Lilia asked. "Where did you get pigeons?"
"Family of them near the library. I negotiated an arrangement."
"You negotiated with pigeons."
"I have a talent for communication."
The game grew increasingly surreal. The reality distortions caused players to move in unexpected ways. The disc seemed affected too, occasionally changing direction mid-flight.
With five minutes left and the score tied, a Scarabia player moving through a dense cluster of distortion fields experienced several glitches in quick succession. The result was a movement pattern that should have been impossible—a zigzagging, spiraling, somehow-forward motion that left defenders standing confused.
He emerged from the distortion field with the disc, directly in front of the Octavinelle goal, and scored.
The crowd went wild.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," Lilia said, surprised.
"You created an environment of chaos and are surprised when chaos produces unexpected results?"
"Fair point."
The final minutes passed without further major incident, unless you counted the moment the referee's whistle produced a sound like a slide whistle. Scarabia won by a single point. The players on both teams looked exhausted, confused, and slightly shell-shocked.
In the supply closet, Lilia and Chen'ya rested and regrouped. One more match remained: Diasomnia versus Ignihyde.
"We need something big for the finale," Lilia said. "Something that ties everything together."
Chen'ya nodded, tail swishing thoughtfully. "Something that involves both our magics. Both our approaches. Your teleportation provides new destinations. My mist removes old ones. Together—"
"Together we don't just disrupt reality. We redesign it."
Chen'ya's eyes lit up. "What specifically are you thinking?"
Lilia explained. As he did, Chen'ya's grin grew wider.
"That's either the best or worst idea I've ever heard."
"Why can't it be both?"
Chapter 8: The Final Match
The final match—Diasomnia versus Ignihyde—was supposed to be the dramatic conclusion. Instead, it became the moment when reality decided to take a coffee break.
Diasomnia, led by Malleus, looked imposing as always. Ignihyde looked like they would rather be anywhere else. Their captain was giving a pep talk that mostly consisted of "let's just get this over with."
The referee approached the center with the disc.
"Teams ready?"
"Ready," Malleus responded.
"I guess," the Ignihyde captain replied.
"Then let's—"
Lilia teleported the disc, replacing it with one that combined both their magics. Chen'ya's mist was woven into its very structure—the disc's destination was perpetually lost, unreachable, gone. Lilia's teleportation magic filled the gap, providing new destinations that were chosen by neither logic nor intention.
The result was a disc that followed no rules, obeyed no laws, and existed in a state of quantum uncertainty until someone interacted with it.
The referee threw it into the air.
It went up.
It kept going.
And up.
Until it was a small speck against the sky.
The referee stared up at it. The players stared. The entire stadium stared.
"Well," the Ignihyde captain said, "that's a problem."
The disc stopped. It hung there impossibly still. Then it came down. Fast. Faster than should have been possible.
Players scattered. The referee dove for cover.
The disc hit the ground with a force that should have created a crater. Instead, it bounced—a chaotic bounce that sent it careening in a direction unrelated to the angle of impact. It hit a goalpost, ricocheted into the air, did something that looked like a loop-the-loop, and disappeared.
One moment it was there. The next, gone.
Silence.
Then, from near the refreshment stand: "WHY IS THERE A SPELLODRIVE disc IN MY POPCORN?!"
The disc had teleported into a customer's popcorn bucket. The popcorn exploded outward. The disc, apparently offended, teleported again—appearing directly in front of Malleus.
Malleus didn't flinch. He looked at the disc with mild curiosity.
"Interesting. A disc with teleportation capabilities. Lilia, is this your doing?"
In the supply closet, Lilia winced. "Don't answer that," Chen'ya whispered. "Keep the mystery alive."
Before Malleus could investigate, the disc teleported again—appearing directly above the Ignihyde goal. It hung there, as if considering its options, and dropped straight through the goal ring.
The referee stared. "I suppose that's a point for Diasomnia?"
The crowd erupted.
The game continued in a fashion that could only loosely be described as "continuing." The disc teleported randomly, changed direction unpredictably, and occasionally did things that defied explanation. A Diasomnia player would reach for it, only to have it teleport to the other side of the field. An Ignihyde player would try to block a shot, only for the disc to reverse direction and go through the goal from behind.
The referee gave up enforcing rules and started providing color commentary. "The disc appears to be floating. Not moving, just existing horizontally. Oh, now it's spinning. Still not moving, just spinning. Fascinating."
In the supply closet, Chen'ya watched their creation with a mix of pride and slight concern. "It might be too chaotic."
"We might have overdone it."
"Nonsense. Look at them."
"Them" was the players, who had given up playing normally and were treating the game like surreal performance art. Diasomnia and Ignihyde players were working together to try to corral the chaos disc, their competitive instincts overridden by shared bewilderment.
Malleus simply watched the disc with academic interest, occasionally making notes. The Ignihyde captain sat down on the field, accepting that control was an illusion.
"Score?" the referee called.
"One of the goal rings is on fire. Does that count?"
"Is it on fire because of the disc?"
"The disc flew through it, and then it was on fire."
"Then it doesn't count. Unrelated phenomena."
The match continued for another twenty minutes. The final score was a matter of debate—the disc had scored several goals on its own, players had accidentally scored in the wrong goal, and at one point the goals themselves had switched positions.
When the final horn sounded, the referee made an executive decision. "The match is over. The final score is also over, in that it no longer makes sense. Both teams are declared participants. Thank you for your time."
The crowd gave a standing ovation. It wasn't clear if they were applauding the players, the chaos, or the fact that the ordeal was finally over.
In the supply closet, Lilia and Chen'ya collapsed against the wall.
"We did it," Chen'ya said, his tail making one final, weak swish.
"We broke Spelldrive."
"We didn't break it. We liberated it from the constraints of rules."
"The disc is currently trying to eat a goalpost."
They looked out at the field, where the chaos disc was indeed attempting to consume a goal ring through some combination of teleportation and aggressive nibbling.
"Okay, slightly breaking," Lilia conceded. "But in a fun way."
Chapter 9: The Aftermath
The days following the competition were a blur of explanations, investigations, and increasingly creative theories.
The official explanation, released in a statement clearly written by someone who had no idea what had occurred, attributed the events to "unusual atmospheric magical fluctuations combined with equipment malfunctions and the natural unpredictability of competitive sports."
No one believed it. But the alternatives—admitting that reality had temporarily stopped working, or that powerful chaos agents were targeting school events—were unappealing enough that most people accepted the lie and moved on.
The sound equipment was examined by three magical technicians, all of whom concluded there was "nothing wrong with it" despite evidence of goat yodeling and jazz saxophone solos.
The sentient disc was never found. Replacement discs were inspected and certified as "definitely not conscious," though this did little to reassure players.
The halftime show became the subject of intense analysis. Professor Trein, despite his earlier retreat to strong drink, wrote a paper on "The Emergent Choreography of Unplanned Magical Disruptions" that became required reading in several performing arts programs.
The reality distortion stones were eventually discovered and removed, but not before spawning at least a dozen conspiracy theories. The most popular, propagated by Ignihyde students, alleged a secret government experiment in reality manipulation.
The pigeons remained a mystery. Some claimed to see them forming coordinated patterns days after the event. A few students started leaving bread crumbs near the library, "just to be safe."
Azul devoted considerable resources to investigating the pigeon incident. He never found evidence of foul play, but he developed a newfound respect for urban wildlife and started carrying an umbrella.
The chaos disc was eventually contained by a team of professors, but not before it had teleported into the middle of a history exam, briefly turned into a flock of butterflies, and ended up in Crowley's office, where it was found attempting to organize his paperwork—more competently than Crowley himself.
Throughout all of this, Lilia and Chen'ya maintained perfect innocence.
"I have no idea what could have caused such chaos," Lilia said during a dormitory meeting when Malleus brought up the topic. "It's almost as if some powerful force of unpredictability was at work."
"Curious," Malleus replied, his eyes meeting Lilia's with a knowing look. "Almost as curious as the fact that you and that beastman have been spending considerable time together."
"We share common interests. An appreciation for the absurd, a distaste for excessive order, and a mutual acquaintance who happens to be a very knowledgeable pigeon."
"A pigeon."
"His name is Gerald. He has strong opinions about campus architecture."
"I see."
They both knew Malleus knew. They both knew he knew that they knew. And they both knew he was unlikely to act on it, because even a dragon fae prince could appreciate chaos that didn't directly affect him.
Chen'ya fielded questions with wide-eyed innocence and plausible deniability.
"Me? Involved? That's crazy. I was in the stands the whole time."
"You can't name anyone who saw you there," a first-year pointed out.
"That's because I was sitting in a section where I didn't know anyone. Theoretically, you could ask them."
"That's not how alibis work."
"It's how my alibis work."
Chapter 10: The Legacy
In the weeks and months following the competition, something unexpected happened: the chaos began to spread.
Not intentional chaos, but a general loosening of the rigid structures that had defined Night Raven College. Students started experimenting more. Classes incorporated practical, unpredictable elements. The arts program developed a curriculum on "spontaneous creative expression." Even Heartslabyul found itself relaxing certain rules—not because they'd been challenged, but because "but why?" had suddenly become harder to answer.
Lilia and Chen'ya had agreed to pace themselves after the competition. Too much chaos too quickly would lead to crackdowns. Instead, they engaged in "chaos maintenance"—small disruptions that kept the spirit alive: a missing sock here, a mysteriously rearranged classroom there, the occasional sound of duck quacking from a non-duck location.
Their partnership had evolved beyond prank-making. They had discovered a genuine connection, but it was built on something unexpected: the recognition that their relationships with chaos came from completely different places.
One evening, a few weeks after the competition, they were sitting on the roof of the school watching the sunset. Chen'ya had his legs dangling over the edge, tail hanging limply, ears relaxed. It was the most unguarded Lilia had ever seen him.
"Can I ask you something?" Lilia said.
"You just did."
"Why chaos? For me, it's easy. I've lived for centuries. Order bores me. But you're young. You could do anything. Why spend your time making things unpredictable?"
Chen'ya was quiet for a long moment. Not the performative silence of someone building suspense, but the genuine quiet of someone deciding whether to be honest.
"When I was a kid," he said, "I got lost. A lot. Not in the fun way—just literally, physically lost. My sense of direction has always been terrible. My parents would find me miles from where I was supposed to be, completely turned around, no idea how I'd gotten there. They thought something was wrong with me. Took me to specialists. Nobody could figure it out."
He picked at the edge of his sleeve.
"Then my Unique Magic manifested, and it turned out that I hadn't been getting lost by accident. My magic had been active since I was born, making me unable to reach my destinations. Every path I tried to take, my mist scrambled it. I spent my entire childhood lost, and I didn't even know I was doing it to myself."
Lilia said nothing. Just listened.
"The day I found out, I should have been devastated, right? My whole childhood explained as a magical malfunction. But instead I felt…" He trailed off, searching for the word. "Free. Because it meant I wasn't broken. I was built this way. Getting lost wasn't a mistake. It was what I was for."
His tail started swishing again, slowly.
"So I stopped trying not to be lost. I started leaning into it. And the more I leaned in, the more fun it became. Not just for me—for everyone around me. People laugh when things go wrong. They connect over shared confusion. A room full of people who don't know what's happening is a room full of people who are all in the same boat, for once. No hierarchies, no competition, no one knowing the right answer. Just… people being lost together."
He looked at Lilia. "That's why I do it. Not because chaos is fun, although it is. Because being lost together is the most honest people ever get."
The sun had dipped below the horizon. The sky was turning deep purple and orange. Lilia let the silence sit for a moment before speaking.
"I've been alive for a very long time," he said quietly. "I've seen kingdoms rise and fall. I've watched people I cared about grow old and die while I stayed the same. Do you know what the loneliest part of immortality is?"
Chen'ya shook his head.
"It's not the loss. You learn to live with loss. The loneliest part is that eventually, you stop being surprised by anything. You've seen every pattern, every outcome, every variation. The world becomes predictable, and predictability is a kind of death."
He turned to look at Chen'ya.
"Then I met you, and for the first time in decades, I didn't know what was going to happen next. You don't just create chaos. You create genuine uncertainty—the kind that can't be predicted even by someone who's seen everything. That's a gift, Chen'ya. A rare and precious one."
Chen'ya's ears had gone very still. He blinked a few times.
"That's… a lot of feelings for one sunset," he said, but his voice was softer than usual.
"Blame the orange sky. It's very emotive."
Chen'ya snorted. Then, after a moment: "You're the first person who's ever framed my magic as something other than a problem to be managed."
"Most people are too busy trying to reach their destinations to appreciate the value of being lost."
"Yeah." Chen'ya leaned back on his hands. "Yeah, they are."
They sat in comfortable silence as the first stars appeared. Somewhere below, they could hear the sounds of campus life—students talking, doors closing, distant laughter.
"So," Chen'ya said eventually. "Same time next year?"
Lilia's grin cut through the gathering dark. "I was hoping you'd ask."
Epilogue: One Year Later
The Spelldrive competition had returned.
In the year since the Incident (capitalized now, in the official records—a distinction that carried more weight than it probably should), the event had undergone changes. New safety protocols. Thorough equipment inspections. Increased security.
And yet.
Lilia and Chen'ya watched from their new hiding spot—a small room above the stadium officially classified as "storage" but completely empty except for their supplies. Below them, the Opening Ceremony was beginning. A new referee approached the microphone with the confidence of someone who had been assured that "the technical issues from last year have been completely resolved."
They had not been completely resolved.
But this year was different. This year, they weren't going to repeat themselves.
"Ready?" Chen'ya asked, but he wasn't reaching for any device. His hands were empty. His tail was still.
"Ready," Lilia said, equally calm.
Below, the referee reached the microphone. The crowd fell silent.
"Welcome to the Annual Night Raven College Spelldrive Competition—"
The microphone worked perfectly. The sound came through clear and strong, exactly as intended. The referee continued without interruption. The crowd settled in, relieved, assuming that this year would be normal.
And it was. For the most part. The games were played. The discs behaved. The halftime show went off without a single unexpected butterfly.
But if you looked closely—if you were the kind of person who noticed the spaces between things rather than the things themselves—you might have spotted something strange.
The shadows in the corners of the stadium were slightly more shadowy than they should have been. The breeze carried a faint smell of strawberries that had no source. One of the goalposts had a very small, perfectly carved potato crow perched on top of it that no one could remember putting there. A pigeon with unusually knowing eyes sat in the rafters, watching the proceedings with what could only be described as professional interest.
And in the stands, in a section where no one quite remembered sitting down, two empty seats remained throughout the entire event. Occasionally, someone nearby would glance at them and feel a strange warmth, like the memory of laughter they couldn't quite place.
The competition concluded without incident. The winners were crowned. The crowd filed out, chattering about the games, the players, the perfectly normal proceedings.
It was, by all accounts, a successful and uneventful day.
Except.
As the last students left the stadium and the groundskeepers began their work, one of them noticed something tucked under a seat in the empty section. A small note, written in handwriting that was somehow both elegant and messy, in ink that shimmered faintly before fading to ordinary black.
It read:
"The best chaos is the kind you don't even notice happening.
See you next year. — L & C"
The groundskeeper stared at the note for a long moment. Then they folded it, put it in their pocket, and went back to work.
They were still smiling by the time they got home.
==================================================
Author's Note:
No spelldrive discs were permanently harmed in the making of this chaos.
Gerald the pigeon has since been promoted to Head of Avian Relations at Night Raven College, a position created specifically for him that comes with a small office and unlimited bread crumbs.
The original sentient disc was last seen somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle, where it is reportedly having deep conversations with a group of very confused dolphins.
Chen'ya's enrollment status remains unchanged: still technically not a student, still attending classes, still invisible to anyone who might ask uncomfortable questions.
Lilia has been asked to "please stop" by three different faculty members. He has not stopped. He will not stop. He is having too much fun.
