A man once told me...
"I pity you, boy."
I rarely felt any emotion because of my upbringing. I was taught to be calm and collected at all times, as I am above everything. I do not need to give any attention to anything that is below me.
But this bastard really knew how to push my buttons.
"Yikes, if looks could kill, I'd be dead several times over... haha."
The man laughed nervously as he scratched the stubble on his chin. He was unrefined and ordinary. He wore a black cloak over a simple shirt, plain pants, and a pair of worn-out boots. He looked like the kind of man you'd spot drunk in a pub on any given day.
But it was undeniable that he was a Mage.
Mages are more than spellcasters — they are visionaries. Born from noble lineages or chosen by fate, they stand as pioneers of the arcane arts and architects of progress. Their mastery of magic is not only a weapon but a tool for discovery, shaping kingdoms, advancing knowledge, and pushing the boundaries of what the world believes possible.
Respected as leaders and innovators, Mages embody both tradition and change. They carry the weight of ancient wisdom while daring to forge new paths, guiding societies toward enlightenment, prosperity, and sometimes peril. To be a Mage is to hold power that can heal or destroy, inspire or terrify — a responsibility that demands discipline, intellect, and vision.
And this man... looked nothing like that.
"That's a very beautiful thought, boy. But unfortunately, mages and the world of magic are anything but that."
The man sighed, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and with a flick of his finger conjured a small flame — just enough to light the tip before exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.
"Power, fame, knowledge, we humans just can't stop wanting them all. We destroy, kill, trick and lie to each other to get them."
The man spoke with a weary expression, muttering under his breath, "I did not become a mage to be like that."
The man turned his gaze towards me and showed a smile of disappointment.
"That's why I pity you, boy. Despite your greatness, you're tied to the same old reasons that make mages repulsive; name and duty."
The man stood up from the ground he was sitting on, his gaze turned towards the distance.
"Tell me, have you ever made a decision that you can say it was your own? Have you ever felt the freedom of dreaming? Even just once in your life?"
I could not give him a response.
"What a pity."
With those as his last words, the man vanished before my very eyes. Like leaves carried away by the afternoon breeze.
I was left there on my own, deep in thought.
"Freedom, huh..."
I reached out to the sky above, pondering the words he left me. Never realizing how deeply they would etch themselves in my heart for years to come.
Yes, even now, I...
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
He opened his eyes, consciousness snapping back in an instant.
Did I faint? He wondered. For how long?
He was plastered on a wall, cracks formed from the impact of his body colliding to it. No broken bones, just bruises. That must mean he managed to coat himself with a Barrier to protect himself.
Taking a moment to steady himself, he rose to his feet, feeling the stinging pain all over his body.
He scanned his surroundings and realized he was in an arena. Meters ahead stood a young woman with silver hair.
"Ah, right..." He finally remembered.
This was a Spellclash — a ritual where mages stand against one another to prove whose worth is greater. Spell against spell, thus the name. It was a common event in the world of magic, happening almost every day. Mostly friendly bouts, but this one was different.
After all, this Spellclash was between two great houses of the Seven Circles: the House of Croule and the House of Lunareth. And each was represented by none other than their scions.
Maevrik von Croule against Aurea von Lunareth.
This was no ordinary Spellclash. No friendly sparring. This was a battle between two rival names, a feud raging since their very founding.
It was a battle to decide the worth of a name and its successor.
And it seemed there wasn't long until the victor was named.
"My apologies," Maevrik said as he cleared his throat, fixing his collar and patting dust off his shoulders. "I was not expecting your spells to be so... destructive. And here I thought the Lunareth's valued elegance and grace."
The young woman named Aurea only glared at Maevrik in response. She kept her wand leveled at him, mystic lines swirling around, ready to fire off a spell.
Strong, Maevrik thought. Far stronger than I am.
She was not just above him in mana capacity and output. Her fiery will to win, to carry her name into glory, far surpassed his.
However, this was not a reason for him to waver. He flicked his wand and casted his spell.
"Be bound, [Chains of Malruth]"
Demonic chains emerged from the arena floor, surrounding Aurea like serpents. The chains tightened with a snap, binding the young woman in an instant.
However, the chains couldn't touch her at all. It only seemed like they bound her, but in reality, the chains stopped an inch away from her body.
It was as if some force surrounded her body. It didn't seem like a Barrier. Not at all. If it was, the [Chains of Malruth] would've easily devoured the Barrier upon contact and pierce through.
So how did she do it?
"Don't tell me... A Personal Dominion!?" Maevrik gasped in surprise.
Personal Dominions — the sphere of influence a mage "rules" in their own right. It is a pocket reality that only exceptional mages can manifest. Within this domain, their Authority is absolute, bending the laws of reality and space to their will.
To be able to manifest a Dominion required tremendous amounts of magic and decades of mastery. Only for an eighteen year old to shatter all preconceptions.
As expected of a Lunareth, the leading House of the Seven Circles.
To think they'd produce such a terrifying monster.
Maevrik could only sigh in exasperation. His rival has officially surpassed him by leagues apart. He couldn't even confidently see himself as a proper rival.
Aurea casted her spell, [Heavenly Spears]. As the name suggests, it was a spell that conjured spears made of the element of Light.
The number and size of each spear depends on the caster's mana capacity and mastery of the element. And of course as the daughter of the House of Lunareth, the Masters of Light, she had it all—hell, she had officially surpassed her predecessors by conjuring fifteen spears of light that was the size of pillars of a temple.
So this is it, huh…
Maevrik could not withstand the incoming barrage even with his mastery of the Dark element, which was the only counter element to his rival. If that wasn't enough, then there's nothing in the world that could protect him from it.
It simply showed how wide the gap between them in terms of strength and mastery. Maevrik was confident in his own training and studying, but it seemed his rival was simply more gifted than he was.
He wished he could do more, at least something to answer the might of his strongest rival, but he was already spent. His mana pool was dangerously low, and any further use would lead to Stasis—paralysis from mana deficiency.
Only she could bring him this far.
"I yield..." Maevrik announced, raising his wand in surrender.
The small audience in the gallery let out an audible gasp. After all, being crushed by overwhelming force was understandable in a Spellclash. However, to willingly admit defeat was far more shameful for any mage.
It was an open admission of inferiority — unbecoming of any mage. Especially for a scion of a noble lineage.
Such a declaration even left the scion of the House of Lunareth stunned.
"Why did you..." Aurea tried to ask, but was met with a curt response.
"I cannot see myself winning. Congratulations, Lady of the Lunareth. I, Maevrik von Croule, admit defeat."
Leaving those words, Maevrik turned his back on her and stepped down of the arena. However, his steps came to a sudden halt.
A young boy stood in front of him with a piercing glare.
"Have you any idea what you've done?" The boy asked him.
"I do," he replied. "I made a... decision."
Yes, a decision.
Hearing those words from himself didn't seem so bad. It felt very refreshing. There as no shame, no frustration, only release.
"Father will hear of this."
"I know."
"This won't be just another slap at the wrist. This time he will—"
"Enough." Maevrik cut him short.
His voice, which was usually so cold and so commanding, was now soft and gentle. It was as if he was simply scolding a troublesome child.
"I am prepared." Maevrik continued, putting his hand on the head of the young boy. "You don't need to worry."
The young boy was stunned. Maevrik understood his reaction. After all, he was never this soft to anyone.
As a son of the House of Croule, he was taught to be above everything and everyone. But at this moment, he didn't feel like being that kind of Maevrik.
This time, he chose to be soft.
"Let us go." He said, snapping the boy back to reality.
As he began to walk away, he turned his gaze to the sky above him. It had been cloudy all morning, but this time, the gray seas began to part and the warm light of Sol passed through.
Maevrik felt it on his skin, and this time, it didn't feel so bad.
"Freedom, huh..." He muttered.
He wasn't sure if he knew exactly what it meant or what it felt like. But this time, he was sure that, whatever he was feeling in his chest right now, it was close to it.