Jaxson steps into the underground arena, jaw set, heart steady. He wants respect, not laughs. Voices jeer at his messy chants. He smiles and cups the noise like coins. "Sdrawkcab nrub," he mutters, and a bright lash snaps the sand. Gasps replace giggles. He bows, collecting every doubt like a trophy, and walks out planning the next fight. The week brings new chances to sharpen his skills. He finds a practice sword with a gleaming surface that catches the light. Each swing feels clean and fast. His chaos magic works best when his body moves without thinking. The blade cuts air in smooth arcs while he whispers backwards spells under his breath. A carnival sits at the forest edge, bright flags snapping in the wind. Jaxson spots an axe-throwing target near a victory bell. He grabs the axe and hurls it hard. The blade thunks dead center. The bell rings loud and clear. People stop and stare. He nods once and walks on, already thinking about his next arena match. The Colosseum Arena looms ahead, stone walls high and ancient. This is where fighters earn their names. This is where mockery turns to silence. Jaxson cracks his knuckles and pictures the crowd watching his scrambled words do impossible things. Every jeer he's ever heard sits in his chest like fuel. Soon they'll all see what backwards magic can do.