Before he met the others, Rifi made one last stop—Suburana's inner armory.
Selmak had granted him access at their last meeting, a rare privilege normally reserved for high-ranking legion commanders of the clan. Even then, the real treasures—the true magic-forged relics—remained locked away in the Matriarch's private vaults.
Even though Rifi now stood among the highest mage ranks, bearing an Orange Core, he wasn't a member of the Suburana clan. It was only natural that the best they had to offer remained out of reach.
The quartermaster, a thin man with hawk-like eyes, didn't bother speaking. He simply handed Rifi a manifest, stepped aside, and waited.
Rows of armor lined the walls—from heavy plated suits to lightweight flexible sets. Swords, spears, polearms, and nearly every weapon a legionary might need were neatly organized and catalogued.
And among them, plenty of empty spaces—gaps where equipment had once stood, already stripped by the demands of war.
Rifi moved quietly through the aisles, his boots making almost no sound on the stone floor.
He knew better now than to be impressed.
Last time, he had received a durable set of armor and swords from the City Lord, crafted from the remains of a Tier 7 beast. The gear had proven its worth—but it had also taught him an important lesson.
Most equipment wasn't made for every mage.
Good armor helped. It could mean the difference between surviving a blow or feeling the full bite of the attack. But in the end, it wasn't about the metal. It was about the mana.
The real strength of armor and weapons lay in the beast the materials came from—their elemental nature—and how well they aligned with the mage wielding them. Craftsmanship mattered too: the density of mana circuits, the way the mana was etched and bound into the material. Every detail counted.
Even Nala, his former master, hadn't explained that. Nor had the City Lord.
Nala had likely assumed Rifi already knew—never imagining how little such knowledge was passed down outside the great clans.
The City Lord, on the other hand, had simply chosen not to share it—hoarding every advantage, as all powerful mages did.
In the end, Rifi had been forced to learn it himself—through blood and battle.
Lower-ranked mages—those below Red Core, and even many Red Cores themselves—relied mostly on brute durability. Steel plates. Hardened leathers. The higher the beast's tier, the tougher the material. Nothing more. Their natural mana shields were too thin, too brittle, to matter. So they clung to armor like a second skin.
Higher up—at Red Core and beyond—some could afford better. But even then, it was mostly the great clans that could provide it.
Mage-optimized armor: durable leathers and beast hides reinforced with mana-conductive channels.
Not truly magical gear, but good enough to strengthen a mage's natural mana shield, thickening it over the heart, along the spine, across the forearms.
It didn't create a barrier. It augmented what the mage already had.
If the armor's mana filaments aligned well with a mage's natural flow, the effect was subtle but vital.
A shield that would have shattered under a hammer blow might instead hold—or at least hold a heartbeat longer.
And sometimes, a heartbeat was all it took to survive.
And even if the rich could afford it, most Red Cores still lacked the spirit space to use it fully.
They could conjure only the thinnest shields, if any at all.
Only at Orange Core and beyond did mages with truly expanded spirit spaces begin to appear—those capable of extending thicker shields outside their bodies.
Elemental resonance was rarer still.
True magic-forged armor—where the mana channels harmonized with a mage's own element—belonged to Orange Cores and above.
In the richest clans, even a few trusted Red or Green Core mages might be gifted such equipment—but only those deemed irreplaceable.
Fire-wrought scale mail. Water-bonded cloaks. Earth-hardened gauntlets.
Gear that didn't just thicken shields, but resonated with a mage's element—allowing them to shape and amplify their spells faster, sharper, deadlier.
This resonance let wealthy mages bypass the need for increased spirit space—relying on their armor's affinity to strengthen attacks and defenses. Elemental mana took the place of a natural mana shield, offering a decent alternative that most mages gladly accepted.
It was one of the reasons spellbounds outnumbered battlemages by far. Elemental resonance was easier to buy than building a strong spirit—and in real battle, only a true mana shield kept you alive when the enemy managed to break through your elemental defenses.
A clever cheat.
But true greatness—the real path—came only from expanding one's spirit space.
No shortcut could replace that.
Rifi had never owned armor like that.
Not even close.
Not even close.
But now—
Now, standing in the heart of Suburana's armory, with war raging and a mission too dangerous to refuse—he knew he needed better.
True magic armor was still out of reach.
The perfect set for him would require slaying a lightning-aspected beast, finding a master craftsman, and forging something hand-fitted to his mana.
There were no lightning beasts near Hepestus.
Lightning itself was rare—uncommon even across the wider world.
But at least he could finally get his hands on properly optimized gear. So he would settle for what he could get.
Speed mattered more than brute strength.
Freedom of movement mattered more than raw protection.
His mana shield—thicker now than any mage's he had fought, thanks to his deepened spirit—could bear the worst of it.
The armor only needed to augment that shield, even by a few precious extra percentages.
The heavy, thick armors were more a hindrance than a help now.
In battles between Orange Cores, raw armor rarely mattered. Their strikes could tear through steel, stone, even reinforced beast hide.
What mattered was being faster. Hitting first. Surviving longer.
Still, every layer of protection counted.
Going into battle naked wasn't an option.
He passed the heavy plate suits without a glance.
Too slow. Too heavy.
Near the back, he found what he needed: a set of layered dark leathers, reinforced with wyvern hide, stitched with fine mana filaments—clearly the work of a skilled blacksmith.
Not elementally aligned. Neutral.
But good enough to reinforce his shield without hindering his mana flow.
Most mages would have skipped over this set—preferring thicker armor with higher durability.
But for someone with spirit space like Rifi's, it was a lucky find.
He ran his hand across the armor, sending a slight pulse of mana into the weave.
The response was clean.
Smooth.
Not perfect.
But it wouldn't drag against his flow, and it wouldn't slow him down.
It would suit him well—allowing him to slightly extend his mana shield and maintain its utmost density.
The armor wasn't just a chestpiece—it came with layered protections for the shoulders, forearms, thighs, and shins.
Slim. Flexible.
Designed to move with the body instead of against it.
For weapons, he hesitated longer.
His conjured lightning blades were faster and deadlier than any steel—unbroken by anything they had yet faced.
But conjuring them drained mana steadily—and in a long fight, even a few wasted breaths could decide everything.
He sifted through the racks, bypassing heavy swords and great axes, until he found a pair of short, curved daggers—obsidian-forged, pulled from the bones of a Tier 7 magma wyrm.
Fire-aspected.
Not lightning but close enough.
Before, he had always used swords—longer reach, more traditional.
But now, he was simply too fast, too overwhelming for weaker opponents to withstand.
A lighter weapon would serve him better.
Speed over reach.
Not perfect for channeling lightning.
But durable enough. Reliable.
They would suffice against weaker enemies, where he didn't need to pour his full lightning density into every strike.
He strapped the daggers low across his back, testing the draw once.
The leather grips fit smoothly into his palms.
A good backup.
No more, no less.
He was ready.
Fast enough to outpace most enemies.
Strong enough to crush weaker ones.
Decent enough even against those who could match him.
He couldn't cover every angle.
No one could.
It was what it was.
He finished strapping down the armor, signed the manifest with a sharp, quick stroke of his name, and gave the quartermaster a silent nod.
Time to meet the others.
He had already spent the better part of an hour here.
A few final supplies to grab—and then the main gate.
Best not to make the team wait for him again.
Rifi rushed toward the main gate.
He was early this time—but still the last to arrive. His team was already assembled, fully prepared and waiting.
It irritated him more than he'd admit. He was early. But still the last. Somehow, that felt worse. But somewhere in the back of his mind, the irritation faded into something steadier: trust. If they were this sharp without him breathing down their necks, it meant he could rely on them.
The sun was already setting, casting long shadows across the outer wall. There was no time for idling. They exchanged only a few brief words before moving out.
Every moment of darkness was precious.
Shadow mana lost its strength under daylight—Kiva could still cloak their mana signatures during the day, but sight was another matter. And for this mission, stealth meant everything.
At first, with the border still far off, they moved quickly—pacing smooth, mana-enhanced, conserving stamina without crawling. But as the terrain shifted and the outer ridges of territory that was now occupied by Esquiliana's neared, they slowed. No risks. No noise. The group sank into formation instinctively.
Kiva's mana thickened around them like mist. Every few minutes, she'd vanish into the darkness ahead and return a short while later, confirming the way was still clear. No wasted words.
The air was cool. The march was long.
There wasn't much conversation—just the soft tread of boots on dirt and the occasional dry remark from Brann, aimed mostly at Dereth and Alin. Nothing biting. Just enough to keep their shoulders from locking up with tension.
The night passed uneventfully.
Even before sunrise, they reached their position above Gorath's Hollow. From their vantage, they had a clean view of the valley and the fortified structure below—part garrison, part command post, barely visible beneath the rolling mist.
They stayed low. Kiva's shadow veil still held strong.
Under that cover, Velen stepped forward.
He raised both hands, exhaled once, and shaped the earth beneath them—sinking the center of their position into a shallow basin about a meter deep. Then he reinforced the edges with a low ring of hardened stone, forming a protective wall just high enough to break line of sight.
Once he finished, Kiva moved around the perimeter, weaving a second layer of shadow mana across the structure. It wouldn't block everything, but it would scatter any attempt to detect signatures from above or afar.
She would need to reapply the cloaking every few hours. A passive ward out here could only do so much.
Still, it was enough.
The team slipped into the pit silently, settling into their temporary shelter.
Now they waited.