Kai leaned back in the chair, the sun warm on his face as he brought a glass of orange juice to his lips and took a slow sip. The field behind the Sorcerer’s Tower stretched out around him, green and open, a rare bit of peace in a world that rarely allowed it.

After months of countless battles, which included an extreme level of planning, construction and near death, he had finally taken a break— a real one.

Though, even his break came with work.

Before him, a group of newly awakened Mages were spread out across the grass, shouting, laughing and blasting small bursts of mana in chaotic bursts of movement. They were playing mana ball, their robes pulled up, sleeves rolled back and cheeks flushed red from all the exertion.

Kai watched with mild amusement, resting his foot on a small stone and tilting the chair slightly. The glass in his hand clinked softly as he swirled the juice inside.

Most games in the kingdom—hell, in the whole world—were built around duels. Sword duels. Spell duels. Duels of wit or blood. At best, you’d see children playing catch with sticks or chasing each other through the mud.

But this—this—was different.

Mana ball was a relic from the Second Golden Era of Magic, a time when spells weren’t just weapons, but part of everyday culture. A time when high-circled Mages created games to challenge themselves in ways that didn’t always end in death.

He took another sip and watched the play unfold.

Two teams of eleven Novices ran across the field, chasing a shimmering orb of condensed mana. Each time a player kicked or passed it, the sphere scattered a small wave of energy into the air, thinning with each move. Whoever controlled it had to infuse it again with their own mana—refuel it on the fly—or risk letting it disappear.

And if it vanished while you were in possession? That was a five-point penalty. Enough to lose the match outright.

The only other way to win was the traditional method of scoring a goal. But even that wasn’t easy. The defending team had a single keeper, and that Mage was allowed to use a first-circle spell—just one—to block the ball at any moment.

It was a stripped-down version of the real thing. High-circle matches had three or more mana balls, faster spells, enchanted rules that changed mid-play, and often ended with someone bleeding. Or unconscious. Or both.

But with these fresh Novices—barely past awakening—it was just rigorous enough to teach them pacing, mana control, and teamwork, all while giving them something to enjoy.

Kai leaned back further, watching as one of the girls on the blue team lunged forward, her boot connecting with the dimming ball and sending it streaking toward the other end of the field in a burst of golden light.

A few cheers went up. One of the defenders scrambled, eyes flaring with focus as they prepared their single-use spell.

Kai sipped his juice, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the play unfold.

Chasing a glowing sphere wasn’t the main goal of the game; it trained more than movement and mana management. Every player subconsciously kept their mana perception active across the field, adjusting it to follow the ball. And most importantly, they were being forced to push mana through their legs.

That was something this era’s Mages sorely lacked.

Most focused entirely on hand-based casting—the classic posture of spellcraft. Logical, sure; spells were easier to control that way. But it was also limiting.

Why let your entire body be a conduit for mana if you only used one part?

Kai had long since integrated mana flow into his entire body. His [Flight] spell used his legs as the primary release point, which gave him speed and stability most other Mages couldn’t dream of. And yet here, on the field, it was painfully clear that these young Mages had barely started down that road.

The result? The defenders barely had to do anything.

The glowing mana ball would fade out in mid-pass, shrinking to a flicker in the air, and then vanish completely—giving the other team a five-point bonus by default. It happened again and again.

Only two players managed to keep it going longer than a second:

Rhea, his apprentice, sharp-eyed and burning with focus, who led the blue team with a precision that mirrored her training and her strong determination to win. And Silvren, a wiry boy from the streets of Veyrin, found by Claire and brought into the tower less than a month ago, who looked like he’d put everything in his power to keep the game going.

Both of them could move with mana in their legs. Not for long. Not perfectly. But better than the rest.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Not when the rest of their teammates fumbled basic flow, losing energy with each step. Kai leaned forward slightly, observing their reactions.

Rhea’s expression was tight, frustrated—she barked instructions, trying to guide the others, but her tone was too pointed. Her teammates looked terrified of her. The way they flinch every time she opened her mouth was enough evidence for him to know; she was a natural caster, not a leader yet.

And Silvren?

He didn’t shout. But he started doing something worse—hoarding the ball. Taking longer runs, pushing himself harder, refusing to pass unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t trust his team, and that trust breakdown was visible in every move.

Kai sighed softly.

It was another test, really. One they didn’t even know they were taking. Leadership.

Rhea had the raw power but lacked patience. Silvren had adaptability, but no faith in his allies. Both of them were losing not because they lacked skill—but because they lacked the ability to bring others with them.

And Kai watched it all unfold like a slow-burning lesson written across the field.

Another pass collapsed mid-air. Another five-point penalty.

He set down the glass on the armrest of his chair, just as Silvren clenched his jaw and pushed mana hard enough that sparks flew from his feet. It was not efficient, not in the long run. It was a mere burst of effort that would burn him out before long.

But Kai didn’t move. He didn’t call out. They’d have to learn the hard way. But he’d be watching every moment of it.

As for Rhea, she moved across the field like a storm trapped in human form—the very image of an angry young goddess. Every time her team lost points, her voice rang out sharp and cutting, like a lash across exposed skin.

“Are you blind? The ball was right there!”

“Do you even know how to push mana into your feet? Or are you just pretending?”

“If you can’t play, move!”

Not one of her teammates answered back. They kept their heads down, eyes averted, swallowing whatever pride they had left. But Kai could see it—the tight jaws, the stiff shoulders, the occasional glance passed between them when Rhea’s back was turned.

It wasn’t fear. It was dissatisfaction. The only reason it hadn’t boiled over into open defiance was his presence—and the fact that she was his apprentice.

He had known for some time that Rhea was receiving special treatment. No one dared train with her too harshly, and she got resources faster than most. She wasn’t spoiled exactly—she worked hard—but her link to him placed her above the others by default.

That wasn’t her fault. But this? This attitude? It would rot her from the inside out. And the worst part? It was his fault.

In the madness of the past months—wars, plagues, treants, courts—he had neglected her. He had given Amyra time, yes, but Amyra had needed it. She was different—gentle, composed, and thoughtful by nature. Even with her powers, she remained grounded.

Rhea, though…

Rhea had always carried the scars of a cruel family and a cold childhood. Magic had given her power. Power had given her confidence. And confidence, in her case, was now turning to arrogance.

Kai took another slow breath, watching as the ball zipped across the field.

One of Rhea’s teammates—a boy with short brown hair and a nervous stance—suddenly found himself with the ball at his feet. His eyes widened, panic setting in.

The ball immediately began to shrink.

He tried to force mana into it, his arms flailing slightly as he focused—but it was too slow. The glowing orb dimmed to a flicker and then vanished with a faint hiss of displaced energy.

A maid acting as referee—one of the tower’s staff given the task of scorekeeping—blew a sharp whistle and called out the penalty. “Five points to Silvren’s team!”

Cheers erupted from the opposite side of the field. A few high-fives, some laughter. Silvren himself just crossed his arms and gave a smug little nod.

But Rhea—she snapped.

She stomped across the grass, fury in every step, her hands glowing faintly with unstable heat. The boy didn’t even try to defend himself as she marched up to him, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“You had so much time!” she shouted. “You saw the ball fading, and you still let it vanish! You could’ve passed! You could’ve done anything! But you stood there like an idiot!”

Her mana surged. Sparks danced at her fingertips.

“How incompetent are you?”

Kai’s eyes narrowed.

That was enough.

The young Mage stepped back, hands trembling at his sides, his eyes wide and lips parting in a rush. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I just thought I could—”

“You thought?” Rhea snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. Her mana flared again, a thin line of heat visibly rippling around her arms. “What exactly did you think you could do? Because from where I’m standing, it’s clear that none of you can push mana properly through your bodies. That’s the basics. The bare minimum.”

The boy lowered his head, face flushed with shame.

“You realize my master is watching this?” she continued, voice rising. “Do you know how embarrassed I feel when you can’t even hold the ball for a full second—”

A sharp snicker broke through her tirade. Rhea turned, eyes blazing toward Silvren, who stood across the field with his arms loosely folded, laughter playing on his lips.

“What’s so funny?” she growled.

But before the tension could snap and devolve into a full-on confrontation, a voice cut clean through the field like a blade.

“That’s enough.”

The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be.

Kai had finished his juice. The glass now rested beside his chair, forgotten. His gaze was fixed on Rhea, steady and sharp—not filled with anger, but with the kind of cold clarity that demanded silence.

Every Mage on the field stilled. All heads turned. Rhea’s shoulders tensed, and for the first time that day, she visibly shrunk back under his gaze.

Kai stood slowly.

“It’s not your group that’s incompetent, Rhea. It’s you.”

Her eyes widened.

“What?” she breathed. “How? I never lost the ball! If it weren’t for them, we would’ve—”

Kai raised a hand, and she fell silent.

“You’re not incompetent because of your spellwork,” he said calmly. “You’re incompetent because of how you act as a leader.”

He stepped forward onto the field.

“This is a training match, not a life-and-death battle. It’s meant to teach coordination, mana flow, trust. And instead of encouraging your team or planning around their weaknesses, you let your anger rule you. You lash out. You humiliate your teammates in front of others. That’s not strength. That’s immaturity.”

Rhea’s arms dropped to her sides, the flames around her dissipating like embarrassed sparks. Her eyes lowered, the fight drained from her.

“But I… I tried my best…” she said quietly. For the first time throughout the match, Rhea looked… small.

Kai nodded. “I know you did. And I’m not saying your effort isn’t there. I know you want to win.” He paused. “But berating your fellow Mages in front of others—and in front of your own master—isn’t just unkind. It’s against Mage ethics.

“You have a long way to go, Rhea. As a Mage. And as a person.”

There was silence across the field.

The members of the other team—especially Silvren—couldn’t help themselves. A few smiles broke out. One of them even snorted faintly, quickly covering their mouth when Kai’s gaze swept over them.

Silvren, however, didn’t bother hiding it. He stood a little taller, the satisfaction plain on his face. Kai’s eyes locked onto him.

“And you—Silvren.”

The silver-haired boy flinched, though his smile didn’t vanish entirely. Kai’s tone turned colder.

“I don’t know where this little rivalry of yours with Rhea started, and I don’t particularly care. But don’t think I didn’t see how you handled this match either.”

The boy’s smirk faltered. Slightly.

He hadn’t met Kai before today, that much was clear—but the stories had reached him. The Count of Veralt, the Mage that stood against a beast wave, the man who had killed his brother in a war that had killed hundreds.

And now that same man was staring straight at him with a frown.

Silvren straightened defensively, that cocky edge in his voice returning. “But we won.”

“Yes, you did,” Kai agreed, “but you were an equally incompetent leader.”

That shut the boy up fast.

“You didn’t trust your teammates. You held the ball too long, even when it was clear you were burning more mana than you could afford to. You trust yourself, and that’s good—but you’ll end up isolated like that.”

Silvren’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue.

Kai turned, his gaze sweeping across the rest of the team. “And you,” he said, voice carrying, “you all didn’t do better. Just because you won doesn’t mean you performed well.”

Some of the other Mages looked up hesitantly, uncertain. A few of the younger ones glanced at each other.

“You were content being sidelined,” Kai continued. “You didn’t fight for the ball. You didn’t try to improve. That’s not the mindset of a Mage. You’re too easily satisfied with being carried.”

The words hit home. Heads lowered. Backs hunched. Even some of the older recruits—those who had discovered their mana organs late in life—looked shaken under his sharp critique.

Kai took a slow breath, eyes narrowing just slightly as he let silence settle over them.

Then, one by one, he picked them out.

“You,” he pointed to a tall boy near the back, “kept trying to use your hands. You need to reframe how you think about spellcasting. If your legs can’t hold a spell, they’ll never support flight or movement enchantments.”

Another, a girl who had stayed near the sidelines, flinched when his gaze landed on her. “You were too hesitant. You waited too long to act. If the ball scares you, what’ll you do when it’s a live spell flying at your head?”

And on he went. Not with cruelty, but with a disappointed tone they deserved. And by the time he was done, the field was quiet. The Mages stood with sullen faces, shame mixing with quiet understanding. Even the older ones—once proud of their newfound status—looked chastened.

Kai watched them for a beat longer, then smiled faintly. They would learn.

In time, they’d learn to keep their expressions neutral under criticism. They’d learn to take correction without letting it bruise their pride. For now, it was good that they still felt it. That meant they hadn’t grown numb.

He took a long breath, then finally spoke again.

“But despite all that—some of you didn’t do badly.”

A few heads lifted.

Kai pointed to Rhea and Silvren. “You two clearly have the best aptitude and raw talent among the group. That’s something to be proud of.”

Both of them brightened at that, even if their shoulders remained tense.

“But,” he added, “your personalities need work. Talent without humility is just a blade with no hilt. You’ll hurt yourselves—and others.”

Then he turned slightly, pointing at three more. “You three—not bad. Your control is rough, but considering you’ve never channeled mana through your legs before, you held the form longer than most.”

A few of them straightened, surprise flickering behind their eyes. Then Kai clapped his hands, loud and sharp, like the start of a new lesson.

“Reset the field. Start again.”

Looking at the gathered group of Mages—half of them still wearing the weight of his words—Kai softened his tone just a touch.

“As for the rest of you,” he said, “don’t worry too much. It’s your first time playing this, and some Mages take a while to map out all the mana veins in their bodies. You’ll get there.”

A few hopeful glances flicked his way. He saw one or two straighten their posture slightly, as if already trying to feel for mana in their legs again.

“So—do you want to play another round?” He said and glanced around the Mages for a final time.

The answer was immediate. Nods. Smiles. Even Rhea, still quiet, lifted her head, and Silvren grinned, clearly ready to redeem himself.

Kai raised his hand and conjured a fresh mana ball, letting it hover in the air for a heartbeat before sending it spinning toward Silvren, who caught it mid-step with a controlled burst of mana at his heel.

Then Kai turned, walking back toward his chair as the shouts resumed and boots pounded the grass.

He sat down slowly, sighing as the sun warmed his shoulders once more. His plan had been simple—to rest today. The plague lands had drained more out of him than he liked to admit, and his heart was still stabilizing after the fourth circle.

But now that the game was going again, the idea of spending his whole day supervising eager young Mages wasn’t exactly appealing.

Maybe the library, he thought. He hadn’t touched the new archives since he had ordered it’s expansion. And if he remembered right, there were some old novels tucked away between spell theory and political journals. Light reading. Something relaxing.

He was already picturing himself with a book in one hand and tea in the other—until movement at the edge of the field caught his attention.

Kai turned his head, and his casual plans shattered instantly.

Two figures approached—one was Ansel. Beside him was Siton.

The moment Kai saw them, he knew. These weren’t men who left their posts for trivial reasons. If they’d come here, now, it meant something was about to land in his lap.

Sure enough, both men came to a stop a few feet away, bowed in unison, and Siton spoke first.

“Lord Arzan,” he said quickly, “apologies for disturbing your rest, but we bring good news.”

Kai blinked, surprised. “Go on.”

“The location you requested—we found it.” Siton lifted the scroll slightly. “Or rather, Ansel did. And I’ve already moved to verify it personally.”

Kai’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t expected it to be so fast. Truthfully, he thought it would take weeks—months even. Valkyrie hadn’t built her inheritance in Lancephil, that much he had been sure of.

The idea that they had found it now… so soon? All the weight of fatigue slid off his shoulders in an instant.

He looked directly at Ansel, excitement tightening in his chest like a drawn bowstring. “Where?”

Kai leaned forward slightly, the chatter of the game fading behind him. He needed to find the inheritance before the assembly, not just to retrieve the medallion, but to understand what kind of knowledge—or weapons—a Magus of Valkyrie’s level had left for her son.

If the rumors were true, her inheritance would contain spells, techniques, maybe even artifacts from the past. Things that had been lost in the future he had came from.

His eyes locked onto Ansel. “So where is the tower located?”

Ansel took a small breath, then a deeper one, as if gathering himself. “It’s in the Ashari Desert, my lord,” he said carefully. “My home.”

Kai blinked, caught off guard. “Ashari?” he repeated. “Are you sure? You’ve never mentioned such a tower before.”

“That’s because I’ve never seen one there,” Ansel said, shaking his head. “I only recognized the map you drew. The peaks, the paths—I know them. I’ve walked those ridges as a child, climbed them with my brothers. That’s how I knew.”

Kai’s frown deepened. “You’re certain the terrain I drew matches?”

“Yes,” Ansel nodded. “Exactly. Especially the forked path and the narrow ridge leading between two needle-shaped cliffs. Siton here,” he gestured to the administrator beside him, “confirmed it too. He checked the regional maps, compared elevation notes.”

Siton gave a respectful nod. “The formation is real, my lord. There’s no mistaking it.”

Kai leaned back slightly, the gears in his mind spinning. If the peaks were known… then why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned a tower? It was massive in his vision—tall, looming, impossible to miss.

Only one conclusion made sense.

It was enchanted— basically, hidden.

If it truly was a Mage tower, then it would be built with layer upon layer of illusion and protection. The structure wouldn’t just be cloaked from view—it could be woven into the fabric of the land itself.

And if the enchantments had failed, the mana would’ve leaked into the atmosphere. In a desert like Ashari—a region with mana scarcity—a surge like that would’ve drawn the attention of every man and beast in a hundred-mile radius.

But there had been no such things he had heard of a tower being discovered there. Which meant the enchantments were still working.

As Kai’s thoughts deepened, Ansel’s voice pulled him back. “My lord…” he hesitated. “Why are you looking for the Ashari Desert?”

Kai’s gaze turned toward him. “There’s something there I need,” he said simply. “The tower I drew—the one hidden among those peaks—it’s real. And I need to find it.”

For a moment, Ansel and Siton locked eyes. Then the former spoke.

“Then… are you going to take a trip there?”

Kai nodded slowly, the decision already made in his mind. “Yes. Soon. I need to get there before the assembly.”

Ansel inhaled once. “Then, Lord Arzan… can you bring me with you?”

Kai raised an eyebrow. “Why? I’m pretty sure you have a lot of tasks here. You’re the head of the Watchers. You disappearing won’t go unnoticed.”

Ansel didn’t deny it. “It’s true. I do. But there’s something… unfinished in the desert. Something personal. Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for a long time now but… I never got the chance.”

Kai narrowed his eyes slightly. “You’re asking for a favor?”

Ansel nodded once. “Yes. If you’re really going there, then I would like to ask you to grant me one. A personal one.”

“And what kind of favor are we talking about?”

Ansel met his gaze without flinching.

“The kind that involves saving my people. My tribe. From extinction.”

The words dropped like a stone into still water.

***

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