Let’s start with the obvious.
I did not sign up for this.
Presidential candidacy? Public speeches? Student politics? Banners with my face pstered across school halls like I’m some kind of teenage demigod?
No. Just no.
I wanted to quietly go back to being a prodigy mage, do weird alchemy experiments with Gram (without legal consequences), casually blow things up in the name of “practical magic training,” and maybe, maybe flirt with Rielle when no one was looking. That was the pn. That was the life.
But no. Because Princess Sylvaria, chaos incarnate in silk and smiles, decided to nominate me as the next Student Council President during a school-wide announcement. And because life loves mocking me, Princess Celestia—our new frosty royalty from Sarnhild—accepted the nomination on my behalf and basically challenged me to a one-on-one battle in the arena of… student popurity.
Kill me now.
Which brings us to this scene: me, Rielle, and a very confused Squad 7, standing awkwardly in front of Headmaster Davian’s office like we were about to be punished for setting fire to the greenhouse (again). Inside, I was making my final plea.
“Headmaster,” I began, voice dripping with all the respect I could fake, “I really think this whole presidency nomination thing is... beneath me. I’m a Third Year now. I should be focused on my mage path. Spell refinement. Elemental mastery. Not fighting an emotionally detached first-year in a glorified popurity contest.”
Davian, looking every bit like a man who'd seen too much and survived on tea and trauma alone, steepled his fingers.
“Lucien.”
“Yes?”
“The rule is that the outgoing Student Council President nominates their successor.”
“Yes, but—”
“And this year, due to… unforeseen ambition,” he said, with a weary look in Sylvaria’s direction from a portrait above the firepce, “we approved two nominations.”
I blinked. “So you're telling me this is the system's fault? That I have no say in this?”
He nodded. “Correct. You now must begin your presidential campaign. Election voting begins next week.”
I rubbed my face with both hands, muttering curses in three magical nguages under my breath.
“And what if I don’t?” I asked, in a tone that was less rebellious and more pathetically hopeful.
And then.
Of course.
She appeared.
The door creaked open, and in walked Princess Celestia. Dressed in her formal uniform, hair tied neatly with a blue-gold ribbon, eyes sharper than a sword forged by lightning.
“Are you afraid of me?” she asked, calm as you please.
Oh, good. Now the personal attacks were starting.
Before I could reply with something appropriately sarcastic, another voice cut in like a dagger dipped in cinnamon-sweet rage.
“Cheap taunt,” said Rielle, who had somehow teleported behind me like a demon of romantic vengeance. “But we accept.”
She stepped forward, grabbed my hand like I was her royal consort, and practically dragged me out of the room.
Now I’ve been pulled into many things by Rielle—fights, arguments, shopping trips—but never a full-blown political campaign.
And as we made it down the long hallway, past confused staff and snickering students, she finally turned to me and whispered, “So… how are we going to defeat her?”
I gave her the most soul-dead stare I could muster.
“You challenged her without a pn?”
“She insulted my man,” she said, nose in the air like some prideful noble. “That’s my Lucien. If she thinks she can intimidate you, then she can fight me too.”
I facepalmed. “So now this campaign is personal because of me?”
“Yes,” she said proudly. “You’re mine. Deal with it.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Absolutely fantastic. We’re going to get assassinated by bureaucratic procedures.”
And that, dear reader, is how my reluctant campaign for Student Council President began.
The Chaos Campaign BeginsSquad 7 took the news about as well as you'd expect.
Gram: “Can I make a campaign potion that causes hallucinations of Lucien being a war hero?”
Eli: “Do we get uniforms? I want a uniform. Something red. Or bck. With shoulder spikes.”
Rielle: “We’ll need banners. Giant ones. With fmes. And maybe your face.”
I sighed. “None of that sounds normal.”
“That’s the point,” Rielle said with a devilish smirk. “We’re not running a normal campaign. We’re Squad 7.”
And so began the single most unhinged political campaign in the history of Welliston Academy.
Posters appeared overnight. Not elegant, diplomatic ones like Celestia had with her calligraphy and motivational quotes. Ours had slogans like:
“VOTE WYR-HARD OR GET WRECKED.”
“HE BURNED A DEMON KING, HE CAN BURN YOUR HOMEWORK TOO.”
“YOUR PRESIDENT, YOUR CHAOS.”
Some of them had me riding Ember like a war-dragon into battle. One had me giving the finger to paperwork with the words ‘No Bureaucracy, Just BOOM.’
I did not approve of these designs.
I also didn’t stop them.
Within days, we had support from every student who’d ever hated the Student Council’s stuffy rules. Alchemy bs. Combat nerds. Duel junkies. Even a few professors pced unofficial bets.
Celestia’s campaign was neat. Organized. Speeches. Values. Ptforms.
Ours?
Pure, distilled madness.
Rielle led rallies like a general marching to war. Gram gave out free “support potions” (they were energy drinks, but no one questioned it). Eli did dramatic sword dances at lunch to draw attention. Ember lit the campaign fgs on fire for “special effects.”
By the third day, the student forums had renamed us Team Wyrhart: Vote for Pain and Glory.
And through all of it, Celestia remained composed.
Elegant. Untouched. Smiling that quiet, ominous smile.
She didn't need to say anything. Her stare said “You will kneel eventually.”
And Rielle?
She stared right back like “Over my dead, fming body.”
So now, here we are. A week out from voting.
The arena of politics has been reduced to fming posters, dueling slogans, and one accidental explosion near the cafeteria. (Sorry, that was me.)
And I?
I’m just Lucien Wyrhart.
Mage. Monster-wrangler. Accidental prince of chaos.
And now... apparently... a presidential candidate in the most absurd war of popurity this academy has ever seen.
Gods help us all.
