Chapter 539

As his mind buzzed with static and he almost heard the divine bird’s cry, he pushed his intent outward.

Reaching beyond the material plane, Nick stretched his will into the abstract void where myths governed reality, testing the limits of his newfound power.

He wanted to know how far an Eidolon's authority extended, whether he could pluck a divine beast's Truth from the cosmos and anchor it to himself, giving his spells a whole new dimension of power.

The air in the isolation chamber thrummed. A web of condensed plasma bloomed before him, coalescing into the form of a raptor. Its feathers blazed with a white-hot intensity, and its eyes held a spark of uncompromising judgment.

Then, the connection finalized.

Nick felt a sudden pull in his soul, and he knew he had touched it. Across an infinite expanse of void, the true Thunderbird, the Divine Beast of Thunderstorms, turned its attention to the microscopic thread of intent Nick had woven.

A moment later, the fractal space housing the Magic Tower's true form shuddered.

The impact rang through the bedrock, and Nick felt the Genius Loci flinch. A bolt of golden lightning, summoned from a distance so vast it defied description, struck the exterior wards.

Innumerable defensive arrays flared with brilliance that bled through the stone walls, bathing the isolation chamber in a shadowless glare.

Yet the Tower absorbed the blow. The infinite distance had sapped its world-breaking power, leaving a violent tremor that rattled the foundations and cracked the runic circles etched into Nick's floor.

The plasma bird dissolved into harmless sparks as Nick severed the connection. He stood at the center of the ruined circle, chest heaving, skin prickling with residual static.

He had touched a Truth. The myth was real, and it had answered him.

No more than a moment later, the door flew off its hinges, a kinetic blast tearing through it like parchment.

Archmage Tholm stood in the doorway, power glowing around him, ready to unleash it at a moment’s notice. He looked around the room, his eyes darting from the cracked floor to Nick.

"Pack it up," he ordered, his voice tight. "Right now.”

"I was just running a test," Nick said, picking up his coat from the bench.

"You just rang the Tower’s wards loud enough for every Archmage to feel their teeth rattle," Tholm snapped, stepping aside to let Nick pass. "If you do anything flashier than a spark before the duel, Horatio will drag you before a Tribunal for endangering the nexus’s structural integrity. We are leaving.”

Nick slipped his arms into his coat and followed his master into the corridor, but he offered no apologies. The experiment had been a resounding success.

The next morning was the day of the duel.

Nick sat in a plush chair in Tholm’s office. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

The past evening had been a bit anticlimactic after all that excitement, but he’d enjoyed spending time with his fellow Apprentices. With word of the Archmages being up in a huff already filtering in, he didn’t mind being out of sight for a while.

Tholm signed the bottom of a thick vellum document, set his quill aside, and pressed his signet ring into a dollop of blue wax.

"It is done," he said, sliding the document across the mahogany surface. "The preparations for your Graduation Exam are complete. You begin the trials next week.”

Nick glanced at his mentor. "And the title?”

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"The Council convened at midnight," Tholm replied, leaning back in his chair. "They agreed. If you stand your ground today and prove that your ascension to Prestige makes you worthy of representing the Tower, they will bypass the standard decade of service, and you will be named a Mage Errant.”

Nick nodded. It was exactly what he needed. The freedom to move, to act, and to explore the limits of his power without begging permission from a committee of old men. Very powerful old men, to be sure, and ones he suspected Tholm had to bribe to agree so readily, especially after his little experiment. But his teacher had accrued a lot of goodwill over the years, and if he didn’t want to explain how he’d gotten their agreement, he would let him keep his secrets.

As long as there are no strings attached.

"There is a complication," Tholm added, steepling his fingers. Nick resisted the urge to groan. "Your little challenge became public knowledge. I tried to keep the duel restricted to the combat faculty, but Horatio caught wind of it and decided that a clash between our youngest Prestige and the Grandmaster of the Sword was too interesting a spectacle to keep private.”

"How public?" Nick asked with dread. It wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened, but he’d hoped to keep the duel out of the public eye.

"He opened the Abyssal Arena to the high nobility, the clergy, and the merchant guilds, aside from all mages and students, of course,” Tholm said grimly. "There are almost three thousand expected. Horatio wants to remind Alluria that the Tower remains the pinnacle of might, and that you are the exhibit, Nicholas.”

“He does know I will lose, right?” Nick asked drily.

“Everyone does,” Tholm dismissed. “But how you lose will say much. You are a known figure after the Incursion, and your recent rank-up has drawn many to you. If the youngest Prestige mage of the Tower can hold on against someone as powerful as Xander for even a minute, it will mean the more experienced members would do even better.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, and Tholm chuckled. “Of course, we know that isn’t necessarily true, but people will still believe it, and it will do much to restore our reputation after the recent troubles.”

“Ah,” Nick nodded. “Yes, I can see why that would be useful.”

He still didn’t like it, but if that was the price of his elevation to Mage Errant, he’d gladly pay it. He already intended to put on a show anyway.

They kept chatting for a while about minor topics, and Tholm even suggested he attend a couple of specific lectures before his Exam, with such obvious intent that Nick knew they’d be watching for the topics that came up.

He was almost tempted not to go, because he was certain he was more than prepared to face anything they might throw at him, but he eventually decided the costs of saying no outweighed the benefits, and more knowledge was always useful.

Finally, it was time to leave. The descent in the spatial elevator felt longer than usual, though he knew it was actually much faster than it had once been.

The metal doors parted on Sub-Level ten, and they took the right path to their destination until the doors opened and a wall of noise hit them.

A chorus of voices reverberated through the cavernous amphitheater. The Abyssal Arena spread as a vast field of dark, packed sand, enclosed by smooth obsidian walls. Overhead, the spectator galleries glittered with enchanted illumination, embedded in the cliff face.

Tholm said his goodbyes, leaving to get situated, and Nick followed the light until his path was blocked.

Master Lasazar Imperius waited by the tunnel entrance, his bowler hat pulled low and a fresh, unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. As Nick approached, the Battlemage stepped forward, his portly frame blocking the view of the sand.

"Listen to that," he rumbled, thumb raised. "Three thousand vultures waiting to see if the prodigy fails.”

"I have fought in front of crowds before," Nick noted, keeping his voice level. To be honest, they mostly involved hordes of monsters or enemy combatants, but there was that one time in the tournament.

"Not like this one," Lasazar said, shaking his head and stepping closer. "In a tournament, they want to see skill. Down here, they want a revelation. The nobles are betting gold on how quickly you’ll lose. The priests will be watching to see if your magic is heretical. The merchants are calculating your worth, and every second you last will increase the count.”

Lasazar gripped Nick’s shoulder, his large, rough hand squeezing with a force that would have bruised him if his physical stats were still those of a mortal mage.

"When you step out there, more than the noise will try to press you down," he said, his jovial mask gone, leaving only the hardened veteran. “The ether will fill with the rumble of their emotions, all directed at you. You must ignore it. The crowd does not exist. The Archmages do not exist. There is only the enemy and the steel trying to cut you down. Understood?”

"Understood," Nick said.

Lasazar released him and flashed a proud smile. "Good. Go show that old man what you’re made of.”

Notably, he didn’t tell him to win, but that wasn’t really in the cards.

With a nod, Nick walked past the Battlemage, stepping out of the tunnel and onto the arena floor.

Magical spotlights washed over him as he walked to the center, feeling the coarse grains under his boots. He stopped a fourth of the way in, where he expected to start the duel, folded his hands behind his back, and looked up at the galleries.

They were packed behind thick slabs of runic glass. Crimson, gold, and azure silks blurred together in the stands.

A man in the robes of a Tower official stood on a small balcony jutting from the highest tier. He raised a crystalline amplifier to his mouth, and his magically amplified voice boomed through the cavern, cutting through the crowd's roar.

“Archmages, Masters, Lords, Ladies, Honored Guests," the Master of Ceremonies announced, his voice bouncing off the walls. "Welcome to the Abyssal Arena. Today, we witness a demonstration of the highest martial and arcane arts. A clash of generations. The vanguard of our youth against the unbreakable bedrock of our martial tradition.”

As the man spoke, the runes carved into the galleries’ glass began to glow with power.

Nick felt the ether shift as the Genius Loci flexed its might.

The air between the arena floor and the stands thickened, shimmering like a mirage. Multiple layers of kinetic and conceptual wards locked into place, designed to contain the catastrophic fallout of a Prestige-tier battle and keep the spectators untouched, no matter what happened on the sand.

Nick’s eyes went to the VIP box at the center of the gallery.

Horatio Bluetear, the Tower Master, sat on a high-backed throne of carved ivory, wearing midnight-blue robes stitched with silver constellations. He was silent for the moment, seemingly lost in thought, yet even through the wards, Nick could sense his immense power.

Flanking him were the Archmages. Nick saw Tholm seated near the edge, speaking with an older woman. The other seats were filled, except for one conspicuously empty chair to Horatio’s right—the Vice Tower Master's seat, still empty since the demonic incursion.

Nick’s eyes tracked further down the line of dignitaries.

He easily spotted the Tidemaster, who wore flowing sea-green robes and whose long, braided beard was adorned with pale pearls. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his expression a mask of cold neutrality. He had caused Nick endless grief a while ago by forcing him out of Alluria, yet he seemed unclouded by malice.

A few seats down sat Bishop Umlaut, the leader of the local Sashara congregation. The Bishop stood in stark contrast to the Tidemaster, draped in immaculate white and gold, his hands folded serenely in his lap, a polite, distant smile plastered on his face.

The Master of Ceremonies lowered the crystal, and Nick refocused on him.

"To my left, the challenger. Lord Nicholas Crowley, son of Baron Crowley, Apprentice to Archmage Tholm, and the youngest Prestige mage of this century!”

Polite applause rolled through the stands, mingling with a few genuine cheers from the section where Nick knew his friends sat, and even a couple of whoops from the younger students' section.

"To my right," the Master of Ceremonies boomed, the crystal vibrating with the volume. "The Grandmaster of the Sword, Xander Wolfram.”

The grinding of stone echoed from the far end of the arena. A set of obsidian doors slid open, and Xander stepped onto the sand.