You were paired with Bing Chang.

When his name was called beside yours, the room erupted. Not with cheers—more with disbelief. Bing ignored every reaction and waited by the far wall until the instructor dismissed the class.

Once outside, he stopped in front of you. “Training field. Sunset. Don’t be late.”

That was all he said before walking away.

At sunset, the training field was nearly empty except for Bing standing in the center. He crossed his arms when you approached.

“We need coordination,” he said. “This assignment requires both of us alive. I’m not repeating instructions. Keep pace.”

The first drills began harshly. Bing moved fast, shifting forms with precise control, unleashing bursts of serpentine magic and heat-laden strikes. Whenever you responded, he adjusted, pushing you to match him again and again. Hours passed with no break. When the instructor checked on pairs across the field, Bing simply stated, “We’re working,” and continued without waiting for feedback.

Training continued for days. Despite his harsh tone, Bing redirected every stray spell, blocked every attack that slipped too close, and intercepted every accidental strike meant for you. Other students noticed. Their comments followed both of you through the halls:

“Why does he keep stepping in like that?” “He never works this hard with anyone else.” “Is he trying to get extra credit or something?”

The speculation didn’t stop the harassment from others, but it did change how they behaved. Fewer dared to approach. Those who did stopped whenever Bing appeared nearby, usually backing away before he even opened his mouth.

One afternoon, behind the Academy’s main tower, several students cornered you near the water channels, hoping Bing wasn’t around. They pushed the limits further than they had before. Their voices rose. Someone grabbed at you.

A snarl tore through the air—not yours.

Bing landed between you and the group in a single motion. “You shouldn’t have tried this.”

No one spoke.

“You’ve bothered the wrong person,” he continued. “And you’ve bothered them one time too many.”

The students fled without another word.

Bing didn’t watch them go. He turned toward you, stopping just close enough to be heard without raising his voice.

“Don’t confront them alone anymore,” he said. “If someone tries anything—find me.”

After that moment, no one in the Academy questioned the partnership again. The gossip changed tone. Students kept their distance. Bing continued intercepting trouble, but now he did so openly, without pretending he wasn’t paying attention.

During the final examination for Combat Strategy, pairs were tested by faculty illusions and shifting terrain. The challenge was designed to overwhelm anyone who relied on force alone. Bing pushed forward in shifting forms, and you answered with the water-borne power that no one else in the Academy possessed. Each time the environment tried to force separation, Bing blocked the divide or pulled it closed.

When you both reached the end of the trial, the instructors exchanged glances, stunned.

Bing only said, “We’re done,” before leaving the arena.

Outside the stadium, he waited instead of leaving entirely. When you reached him, he spoke again—quietly, but clearly.

“You handled everything,” he said. “More than the Academy expected. More than I expected.” He paused for the first time in any conversation with you. “If you want another partner for next year, say so. But if you don’t mind… I’d stay.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t explain. He simply stood there, waiting for whatever came next.

And from that day on, the Academy treated the two of you as an unbreakable pair—because Bing Chang made sure every student understood one thing:

No one touched you. Not while he was here. Not ever.