Misfit At Magic Academy: They Wanted a Godly Summon, Got Me Instead

"Frost Touch."

The moment his icy fingers brushed against Amon’s neck, his skin began to freeze — like a spreading virus. Fast. Sharp. Relentless.

Amon couldn’t react in time. He slipped sideways, barely dodging a full grip of that frigid hand.

"What’s wrong, pal? Now you’re the one running?" Salazar’s eyes followed him with a predator’s calm.

Amon could feel the frost crawling deeper into his neck. Pale trails of ice branched out like veins, and every movement punished him with burning pain.

"You bastard..." he croaked.

I understood then — Salazar’s goal was clear. Turn his opponent into a solid block of ice. Instant victory. Smart move, you cocky little brat.

Without wasting a breath, Amon snapped his fingers again — summoning another barrage of mini-runes, each one birthing explosive orbs that streaked toward Salazar.

Amid the chaos of flashing lights and thunderous impacts, the teachers observed from the balcony above. From behind, the student council president — tall, handsome, insufferably confident — approached.

"Enjoying the match?" he smirked. "A little more exciting than usual, right? Top-5 matches like this always fill seats."

"Impressive work," said Dean Hellmaine, nodding. "This time, your preparations were... exceptional."

"Well, duh. Even a blind man could tell that newbie was hiding power. Just a matter of time before it showed. That’s why you came here, wasn’t it?"