Chapter 6: A Spellbound America Awaits

After a brief silence, the crowd erupted in exclamations.

It was like the end of a playoff game—the entire auditorium coming alive at once. Cheers, whistles, even a few whoops from the back row. Phones shot up everywhere, kids livestreaming on TikTok, hashtags like #MagicBee and #SATShowdown already trending.

“This kid still looks so young!”

A lady in the front row whispered, clutching her pearls. Someone started recording on their phone, probably already uploading it to TikTok.

“He can master such complex classical language!”

You could almost see English teachers everywhere weeping tears of joy.

“Which academy is she from? Why haven’t we heard of her before?”

The room buzzed, speculation spreading like wildfire. Was I a new transfer? An undercover genius? The possibilities felt endless.

I had no time to care about the murmurs around me. I stared straight at Derek.

My hands shook, but I kept my chin up. I’d seen enough bullies to know you never back down when it matters.

His face twisted in rage as he glared at me.

He looked about ready to explode—every inch of his body telegraphing frustration and disbelief.

“You little brat, you’re asking for it!”

His words were pure venom, the kind of threat you hear in locker rooms and bad TV dramas.

Derek glanced at his sleeve, then launched several more attacks:

He didn’t hesitate, drawing on every trick he had left, desperation etched in every gesture.

“A golden goblet of fine wine worth ten thousand dollars, a silver plate of rare delicacies worth a fortune!”

He shouted the lines with theatrical flourish, the words weaving into a shimmering wave of force. The crowd gasped, recognizing the reference—middle school literature, the kind that usually pops up on standardized tests.

The audience gasped:

“Just in terms of literature, Derek is probably at the middle school level!”

The whispers grew frantic, the drama unfolding like a well-loved movie. Even the judges exchanged glances.

“Even if it’s just first-year middle school, that’s not something a mere elementary school student can withstand!”

The tension thickened, sweat beading on my brow. All eyes were on me—waiting to see if I’d break.

“Looks like that kid is doomed.”

I heard the words echo, but I didn’t let them shake me. My hands clenched into fists, determination burning inside.

...

But I ignored Derek’s attack. I closed my eyes and intoned softly:

I reached deep, searching for words that felt right—words that felt like home, like the crackle of a campfire or the hush before a storm.

“In the city of Savannah, where the rivers meet the sea. The stars are scattered across the sky, the land stretches wide and free..."

With each phrase, I felt the energy build—gentle, persistent, inevitable. The world quieted, the crowd fading to background noise.

With each word, a strange sensation welled up inside me—like spring rain nourishing the earth, everything happening naturally.

It was like something old and patient was guiding my voice, steadying my hands. My heartbeat slowed, my focus sharpening to a single point.

A coolness flowed from my heart, spreading outward.

It wrapped me in calm, the kind you get standing barefoot in dew-soaked grass at sunrise.

“Embracing three rivers and circling five lakes, guiding the people and leading the way..."

I remembered old textbooks, field trips, stories of pioneers and dreamers. It felt powerful—uniquely American, full of hope and grit.

I opened my eyes and took a single step forward. Instantly, cracks snaked across the entire arena.

The stage trembled beneath my sneakers, the energy so real it sent shivers down my arms. The crowd leaned forward, caught in the moment.

“The land is rich and treasures abound, the sunlight shines on old ruins..."

My voice rose, gathering strength. The air filled with words—glimmering, sharp, alive. They spun together, forming a storm of shining blades that hovered above the stage, aimed straight at Derek.

Countless words gathered before me, transforming into a sky full of shining blades aimed at Derek.

He shrank back, eyes wide with fear—the kind you can’t fake, the kind that comes from knowing you’re truly outmatched.

Derek was so terrified he collapsed to the ground, trembling.

He let out a whimper, hands raised in surrender, his bravado crumbling in the face of real power.

“This is... a high school level expert!”

The declaration swept through the crowd like wildfire—text messages flew, phones recorded, history being made in real time.

“That kid has actually stepped into the realm of a high school student!”

“Such a young high school level expert—what kind of monster is she!”

The excitement was electric; teachers in the front row sat bolt upright, jaws dropped.

Just as I was about to finish off Derek, a wiry old man in a faded Cleveland Browns jacket stepped between us, his eyes sharp as broken glass.

With a flick of his hand, he blocked my attack—effortless, like swatting a fly.

Derek, as if seeing his savior, cried out:

“Headmaster, save me!”

He clung to the old man’s sleeve, voice wobbling between relief and desperation. The crowd fell silent, watching, waiting—wondering what would happen next.

The crowd stared at me, half in awe, half in fear. For the first time, I wondered—what else was I capable of in this strange, spellbound America?