The Splendor of the Academy Ball
The Continental Academy buzzed with vibrant energy once more, as if the recent attack had been ages ago. At the heart of it all was the grand Empire Academy Ball, dominating every student's conversation. Word had it that shops selling tuxedos and dresses weren't just swamped near the academy—they were packed across the capital. Jokes were even flying that the Empire hadn't hosted the ball just for the students.
Reactions from every nation were overwhelmingly positive. They hoped this event would foster deeper ties between their nobles and the Empire's, strengthening future diplomatic relations. Setting all that aside, most academy students were nobles anyway. Social galas and balls were their natural habitat, and plenty of them adored such occasions.
Masterful dancing. Charismatic conversation that could enchant anyone. And the crowning touch: their own prized looks, polished to perfection. Many saw this ball as their chance to shine, convinced they'd at least catch a few admiring glances, even if they weren't the center of attention.
The days slipped by, and at last, the eagerly awaited night arrived. Students and staff alike were buzzing with more excitement than necessary. It was a first for everyone, after all—and surely nothing could top the thrill.
"Heh heh heh. But the star of this ball is gonna be me," Flam declared with unshakable confidence. No matter who he faced, he was certain his fiery flair would reduce them to ashes. As the son of a prestigious family, he'd attended countless balls, but none had demanded—or received—such meticulous preparation.
From dawn, he'd done everything: grooming every strand of hair, every whisker, with near-maniacal focus. He'd even unpacked his most treasured tuxedo, brought from home—not prepared specifically for tonight, but perfect as a secret weapon. Draped in crimson, he looked every inch the flame-wreathed noble scion.
Gazing in the mirror, he found no flaws. This'll make Seria see me in a whole new light. He'd long fretted that his casual academy slouch had worn thin on her. A rushed image overhaul hadn't stuck; too many sloppy moments already etched in her mind. But tonight was different. The ball was the ideal stage to unveil his prowess as the continent's top pyrokinesis heir.
"Well, well. The arsonist put in some effort, huh? But that doesn't make you any less of an arsonist."
"...You little—"
Flam whipped around, temper flaring, only to clamp his mouth shut at the sight of Portus. Squinting, he sized up his lifelong rival in silence.
"What? Why the glare?"
"Nah, it's just... you look like you went all out too, water boy."
"I'm the same as always."
"That your usual? The world's been remade, you punk."
Portus had already transformed upon his return from that month off, but tonight he was on another level—deliberately polished. His face even had a powdered glow, pale as if he'd never seen sunlight. When Flam called it out, Portus shot back that this was normal; it was Flam's neglected, sun-scorched mug that would disappoint Lady Seria.
"Fighting again?"
"No, Rel—this time he started it... Uh, yeah."
"Hmph."
The bickering duo fell silent in unison at Rel's approach. He looked different—far from his usual straitlaced scholar vibe, now radiating a raw, feral edge in his style. His shirt hugged his frame just right, subtly outlining arm and chest muscles. Passing girls blushed and giggled, murmuring "Oh my!"
It wasn't mere dressing up; he'd sculpted that body. Flam and Portus reeled. Time to hit the gym harder ourselves.
"Everyone assembled?"
Kalligo arrived last. Unlike the others, nothing screamed "change"—just his usual self, the Empire's third prince quietly minding his business. Yet an innate nobility emanated from him, invisible to the trio: the unique aura of royalty, no—imperial blood.
"Abel and Lady Seria haven't arrived yet."
"Seria's delay is one thing, but Abel? He's always first to move."
"Maybe they went ahead without us?"
"Nah, Abel's straightforward, but not that much."
The four lingered near the ballroom entrance, chatting. Every passing student—especially the girls—stared in awe. A prince, two hotshot nobles, and a prime minister's son? An irresistible lineup, all handsome and refined to boot. Ignoring them would be weirder.
Suddenly, a murmur swelled from behind. Groups of guys froze, entranced.
"...Oh."
Rel noticed first, gasping softly. Then Flam, Portus, Kalligo. All lost their composure.
And small wonder—a pink-haired vision approached, upending every rational mind in sight.
"L-Lady Seria?"
She was transformed. Their first meeting, she'd been a delicate wildflower—pure, innocent, mysteriously uplifting. Now? A riot of resplendent blooms. Her pink locks danced in the breeze, lethally intoxicating. She wore a daring, high-exposure dress she'd never donned before, exuding feminine allure to conquer every man there.
"Ah, you four got here early."
"L-Lady Seria."
"Wh-what's with the outfit?"
"Ahaha... I-I tried putting in some effort. Is it weird?"
No one—Kalligo, Flam, Portus, or Rel—could answer. Time for words was wasted on awe. They drank in her fatal beauty, desperate to etch it into memory.
"Truly, utterly breathtaking."
Kalligo recovered first, voicing his sincere admiration before anyone else.
"Y-yeah! His Highness is right, Lady Seria—you're stunning!"
"I'll never witness a sight more beautiful in my life."
"It could be painted and treasured forever."
"Wh-why are you all like this? Stop teasing—it's embarrassing!"
Teasing? Hardly. They were gritting their teeth, barely holding back. Kneel and beg for a dance. Propose courtship. Promise a future together, plead to be chosen. Restraint came from two things: their positions barely tethering reason, and the fear that a slip-up would hand opportunity to the other three.
...No, four. And one was the worst rival imaginable.
That thought struck as the Seria-induced hush deepened into perfect silence.
Into its midst strolled Abel, casual as ever.
A physique blending power and beauty. Manly sturdiness radiating from afar. Up to here, classic Abel. But the rest? Unrecognizable.
No sloppy academy wear. Head to toe, pitch black. Hair impeccably groomed, uniform evoking tension and gasps. Other students finally saw it: Abel hid a masterpiece physique behind his odd antics and training-ground grind.
That face, that body? Men envied to the point of disbelief. Women? Irresistible.
"You all gathered here. You four... and Seria."
"A-Abel."
Seria, lately so at ease around him, flushed crimson. The four men could muster no retort. Instinct screamed: Abel had claimed the night's biggest glow-up.
As if he'd sharpened a blade, Abel unveiled a flawless metamorphosis. But this was no personal resolve or scheme.
"You have to wear this. No excuses, Bel. Got it? Put it on while I'm asking nicely!"
"Try skipping it, and I'll chase you down nagging."
"Dragging all the family ladies here, and you can't manage this? Shut it and listen to Sis."
Head to toe, it was the tearful culmination of his sister Lumine's efforts.