Chapter 543

Nick sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, enjoying a cool draft from the window brushing his back.

Summoning his status screen, he dismissed the alerts about the damage he’d taken and opened the notification log to review the spoils of his duel with Xander, along with his earlier training.

That takes me to level one hundred and four. Not bad.

But beyond the numbers, his attention caught on the name of his new magic. Saga-spells.

Nick leaned back, taking a moment to reflect on everything that had led him here.

During the duel, Xander’s blade cut through his elemental magic with ease. Fireballs and lightning bolts carried physical force, heat, and momentum, yet they lacked weight. Xander severed the intent behind the magic, causing the spells to unravel before they could strike.

The [Saga of the First Flame] had resisted the cut, as had [Saga of the Storm Caller].

Nick ran a hand over his jaw and was startled to find the first hints of stubble. Shaking his head, he refocused.

For the first spell, he had anchored the fire to the mythological weight of creation itself, something he suspected was possible only because of his experiences with Sashara. By infusing the magic with a Story—a narrative the World inherently recognized—he had given it conceptual sturdiness rooted in the idea of the fire that birthed the universe.

Many religions would contest such a claim, but while he couldn’t be certain it was true, enough people believed it that it didn’t really matter for his purposes.

To cut it, Xander had to fight the myth's narrative weight alongside the magic itself.

The same went for [Saga of the Storm Caller], which had taken shape from the Thunderbird’s power and was further enhanced by his mastery and familiarity with wind and water. The Story there was more obscure, but he’d encountered enough of the Divine Bird to use it nonetheless.

This was the path forward. Raw power meant little against opponents who could manipulate the fundamental laws of reality. He needed to evolve his entire arsenal, transforming his elemental magics into Saga-spells and anchoring them to myths to give them the structural integrity needed to face this world's true monsters.

It wouldn’t be easy, given the requirements to craft even one such spell, but he already had several ideas in mind that could serve as a basis.

With a smile, he dismissed the screen. The blue light faded, leaving him to his plotting.

The next day at noon, Nick stood before the doors of a room on the sixtieth floor, as Tholm’s note directed.

The standard Graduation Exam lasted for weeks and was a grueling gauntlet designed to push mortal mages to their breaking points.

As far as he knew, the Archmages had condensed Nick’s trial into a single afternoon. They already knew he possessed the power required to be called a Graduate Mage, after all. They needed only to test his control and knowledge now.

With a whisper of mana, the doors opened of their own accord, and Nick stepped into a brightly lit circular chamber. At its center stood a long table covered with arcane artifacts, boxes, and runic arrays.

At a glance, many of them looked unstable.

Three proctors watched from an elevated balcony, their faces impassive, while a dozen more observers looked on through divination spells.

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A voice echoed through the chamber, magically amplified so it seemed to come from every direction. "The practical examination will commence. You have one hour to dismantle the dimensional knot, align the Irvinic lock, and defuse the alchemical core. Any release of volatile energy will result in immediate failure.”

And that was that. Nick doubted other students were treated quite so curtly or given so few instructions, but he supposed he wouldn’t make a very good Mage Errant if he had to be guided to the answers.

I’d be willing to bet that giving me those descriptions was already more than some people wanted.

With a rueful smile, he approached the table and looked down at the first object: a sphere of dark glass swirling with spatial mana, similar to Raphael’s spells but more unstable. The space inside the glass was folded a hundred times on itself, forming a chaotic tangle of esoteric energy that would implode and tear a hole in the material plane if mishandled.

If they could even interface with it, a mortal mage would probably have to spend days carefully teasing the threads apart, coaxing the dangerous magic with delicate counter-spells until it finally broke.

Nick wasn't a mortal mage and didn't need fiddly counter-spells. He reached out with his authority, asserting his sovereignty over the space. He threaded his intent through the glass like a microscopic needle, seizing the frayed ends of the corrupted dimensions. Once he’d permeated all the layers, he ordered the space to correct itself.

He was doing his best to make it look easy—if he was to be subjected to such treatment, he’d get his kicks where he could—but he wasn’t as familiar with spatial magic as he would have liked, and it still took him several seconds before he was sure what he wanted to do would work.

Fortunately, the chaotic swirl stopped at his command, and the folded dimensions snapped into orderly alignment, making the previously dark sphere transparent.

Huh. I wonder if this is how spatial items are made. I’ll have to set aside some time to study my ring more closely now that it’s properly mine, and not just a loaner. I’ve had it for so long that I almost forgot.

When the peanut gallery didn't respond, he moved to the Irvinic lock, a puzzle of interlocking gears and runes.

His first thought was that it had something to do with demons, and he was prepared to bring the World into the equation, but a second look told him the Irvinic was used only as a language, not for its unique properties.

An attempt to fool me. The internals are certainly delicate enough that too much power, especially if not fully controlled, would ruin them.

He pressed his palm against the metal, sensing the mechanical and magical tension points. With a clear mental map, he sent a calibrated pulse of kinetic energy, shifting the internal tumblers in unison. The lock clicked open, the gears sliding apart with a satisfying chime.

Once he knew the trick, it wasn’t much more troublesome than some of the safes he'd broken into.

The alchemical core was the most disappointing of the lot; it took only a moment to neutralize the volatile liquid with one of Rhea’s spells. After all, there were only two ingredients, and neither was anything special.

Was that supposed to be the first and throw me off? No, that doesn’t seem likely. Maybe it’s just because alchemy isn’t widely studied here and is known to take decades to master. A regular mage, even a Prestige one, wouldn’t know where to start, and brute force would have made it explode.

Still, he was mildly disappointed that this was all they could come up with after making such a big deal of it. He stepped back from the table. Less than five minutes had passed.

The proctors in the balcony exchanged quiet glances. Though a ward shielded their emotions, their shadow in the ether told him they’d hoped to cause him more trouble. One of them scribbled on a piece of parchment.

"Proceed to the lecture hall," the amplified voice instructed as a new door materialized.

Nick left as bidden, following a winding corridor to an amphitheater-style room lined with dark wood paneling.

Two figures waited for him behind a podium.

Master Koran Battera stood with his hands folded over a gnarled wooden staff, his skin even more weathered than he remembered, though that wasn’t unique to him. Many of the best mages had suffered during the Incursion, taking the brunt of the demons to protect the students.

Beside him stood Archmage Iona, the Tower's best biomancer. She was statuesque, her skin the flawless white of polished marble, her ageless features striking and utterly cold.

"Apprentice Crowley," Master Battera greeted cheerfully. "Take a seat.”

Nick sat in the single wooden chair before the podium.

“It is clear to all with eyes to see that your finesse is as good as your raw power,” Iona began, though her tone lacked warmth, and he sensed it was more of a dig at someone else. "This brings us to the theoretical portion of your examination. We must determine whether you truly understand the forces you wield or are merely a child swinging a sharp blade.”

Once, he would have bristled, but now he merely waited with a placid smile. He’d spent months studying Tholm’s libraries and lectures, and he was confident he'd grasped the higher concepts of Magic in this world. If anything, the basics might have given him more trouble, simply because he understood them differently than they did, but he’d worked to fix that.

Iona leaned forward, her dark eyes pinning him. "Consider the nature of Mystery. It is said that the more a spell is cast, the more the World understands its mechanics, and the easier the resulting magic becomes to summon, while at the same time losing its more esoteric quality. Tell me, Apprentice, how does a Prestige existence circumvent the deterioration of Mystery?”

That was not an easy question, especially since it seemed to run contrary to his new Saga-spells. She’s sharp, tailoring her examination so precisely after a single showing.

"The mortal mage has power of his own but needs support from the World, borrowing its Law to enact change," Nick answered without hesitation. "When a concept becomes common, the World at once becomes more familiar with it and hardens against it. The Mystery of it fades. A Prestige soul, however, operates differently. We do not borrow from the World. We impose our own internal reality upon the external plane. The Mystery does not deteriorate because the source of the magic is not collective understanding. The source is the Truth of the caster.”

Master Battera nodded slowly, his weathered face creasing into a thoughtful frown. "You speak of imposing your Truth, yet Worldcraft teaches humility, and I know you are learned in it. It teaches the caster to act as a conduit for the planet's rejection of the unnatural. How do you reconcile the arrogance of your internal reality with the World's inherent will?”

“It cannot be reconciled through a unified method, for every soul interacts with the World differently,” Nick shook his head. “Everyone has a different way. Personally, I anchor my reality to the narratives the World already accepts. A raw display of force invites the World's resistance. Wrapping that force in something known lets the magic exist without friction. The World accepts the Truth, and therefore it accepts my spell.”

Iona’s features remained still, but he sensed a flicker of genuine surprise beneath her cold expression. She exchanged a look with Battera.

The questions went on for a while. They grilled him on the mutability of the soul, the origins of dimensional space, and the integrity of the Empyrean.

Nick answered every inquiry, drawing on his experiences and turning them into academically acceptable answers by citing references when his claims would have been a bit too outlandish.

Finally, Master Battera raised a hand. "That is sufficient.”

Only then did the old druid smile warmly at him.

Archmage Iona made a final note on her parchment. "The Council of Archmages will convene to debate your results. You are dismissed for the day. Remain within the city limits.”

Nick stood, bowing to the examiners. As he turned to leave, he caught sight of Tholm standing in the shadows near the back of the lecture hall, who gave a deliberate wink before slipping out the door.

Tension drained from his shoulders. He had passed, and now it was time to reap his rewards.