With Lord Arzan’s victory, Mages from every corner of the kingdom had begun pouring into Veralt.

They came in caravans and in pairs, cloaked and robed, carrying staffs wrapped in cloth and spellbooks tightened with leather. They stood in long lines inside the Sorcerer’s Tower waiting hall, waiting to have their names recorded and their circles tested.

The city had grown used to the sight of spells that were stirred unintentionally by overexcited apprentices.

Every inn and tavern had at least one table of robed figures debating spell theory in loud voices. And by now, every innkeeper had learned to keep buckets of water nearby.

Lord Arzan’s name hung over all of it.

Afterall, he was the youngest Magus in recorded history. Not only that, he was the king who had defeated the previous strongest Mage in an open duel.

Even those who had once stood against him now came to stand beneath his banner. Respect in the Mage world was given due to strength, and Lord Arzan’s strength was unquestionable.

They wanted to prove themselves,

But when so many Mages gathered in one place, pride gathered with them.

Some arrived humble, careful with their powers. Others arrived with clear arrogance and a need to prove that they were better than the others.

Enforcers had already broken up three duels in the past week. One over a spilled drink. One over an insult. One simply because a second-circle apprentice believed he deserved better lodgings.

Most had learned quickly that Veralt was not a lawless city.

Artheon stood firmly among the kind that liked to cause trouble.

He was young—no more than his early thirties and reaching the third circle so early meant he was clearly talented. His robes were also well tailored, and his boots were polished, meaning he had lived a pretty good life serving the count. Someone like him was probably not accustomed to being told to follow.

When Killian had asked him to come along quietly, something had clearly shifted behind Artheon’s eyes.

Even now, the fire in his palms flickered wildly, and Killian could see the calculation behind the man’s glare.

This was not just about a thief anymore.

Artheon had recognized an opportunity.

Third-Circle Mages were not fools. They understood politics as well as power. If he could stand toe-to-toe with the First Sword of the King, it would spread his name across the tower before he even registered.

Killian had already received letters—sealed and overly formal—requesting sanctioned duels from newly arrived Mages eager to test themselves. He had declined every one of them without response.

Artheon, however, did not look like the type to accept rejection and he doubted the confrontation would end with words.

For one thing, it had unfolded in the middle of the street.

There was no quiet way out of it.

If Killian stepped back now and refused outright, it would not simply reflect on him. It would reflect on the Enforcers, on the title of the First Sword, on Lord Arzan himself, who had entrusted him with that position.

Pride was a dangerous thing, but so was perception.

Dragging Artheon away by force would only turn the street into a battlefield. Shops would burn and civilians would be hurt. And he knew it wasn’t worth it.

So when Artheon lifted his chin slightly and said, “Very well then, Knight Killian. Why don’t we duel to decide who is right and who is wrong?”

Killian answered evenly. “We will not do this here.” He gestured toward the smoking wagon and the cracked stones beneath their feet. “We move to the castle grounds. There will be space.”

Artheon’s lips curved faintly. “As you wish.”

Before leaving, Killian turned to the boy. “What is your name?”

“… Koen,” the boy answered quietly.

A small patrol had already arrived by then, pushing through the thinning crowd. Killian gave them clear and clipped instructions.

“Escort him to his sister. Make sure she’s safe. After that, bring him to the castle grounds.”

The boy looked stunned, clutching the potion like something sacred.

Then Killian turned away and Artheon followed him.

As they moved, the crowd followed behind them like a living tide. More whispers rose with each step.

Artheon leaned slightly closer as they walked. “You may still step back,” he said, voice low enough for only Killian to hear. “I have no wish to hurt you.”

Killian didn’t look at him. “I cannot step back from a duel.”

From a distance, the castle walls grew closer. After several steps, Killian sensed another presence beside him.

His father.

The older man had forced his way through the crowd and now walked nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, face tight with worry.

“Killian,” he muttered urgently, keeping his voice low. “Back out of this.”

“If I do, our house loses face. Do you want that?”

“It will be worse if you lose,” his father shot back immediately.

Killian paused for half a step. He turned his head slightly, studying his face. The lines on his father’s face were deeper now. The worry was clearly displayed.

“Why don’t you have faith in my abilities?” Killian asked quietly. “I am an Enforcer now.”

“I know who you are,” he said quietly. “I’ve heard what you’ve done. But Mages did not begin appearing two years ago like Enforcers. They have ruled the peak of power for centuries.”

He glanced briefly toward Artheon walking a few paces ahead.

“And you are a Count now,” he continued. “You cannot duel a respected Mage over a thief who is probably from some slum.”

Killian did not answer immediately.

He kept walking, jaw tightening, forcing himself to think rather than react. There was merit in his father’s words. Reputation certainly mattered.

But beneath the logic, there was something else. His father didn’t think he could win, and he hated that.

Finally, Killian spoke. “I will win. As for fighting over a thief,” he added, “I understand why you oppose it. But he’s barely an adult. Children make mistakes and learn from them. What he did was wrong, but the reason behind it was not selfish.”

His father shook his head, unconvinced. “Still, it isn’t worth it.”

Killian exhaled slowly, eyes fixed ahead on the castle gates.

“I can make my own decisions now,” he said. “About this. About our house.”

He paused for half a step before continuing.

“I know you believe you’re doing what’s best. But this isn’t it. You need to let me lead in my own way. I am here because of my choices. And I don’t want to argue about this anymore.”

Silence followed.

His father did not respond again and Killian was grateful for that.

The castle grounds came fully into view now, the open training fields stretching beyond the inner walls. With the duel moments away, he did not need distractions, and his father had always been the loudest one in his life.

Since childhood, his words had cut deep. Every word out of his word had been about what he lacked.

Even now—after titles, victories, and elevation beyond anything either of them had imagined—his father still tried to steer and control him. It was exhausting.

A small, quiet part of Killian was almost relieved that he would soon leave for the Earth Plane.

At least there, he would have distance from his father’s voice, and his constant doubt.

As he thought that, there was a shift in the surroundings as the wide expanse of training fields stretched out ahead, banners fluttering along the stone walls.

When he looked around, he saw the crowd had grown.

What had begun as curious onlookers in the street had turned into a procession. By the time they stepped through the inner gates, dozens had followed. Soldiers mid-training paused, lowering wooden practice swords. A few Knights had also gathered. Even maids and servants watched from windows and rooftops.

The longer they waited, the larger it would become.

Killian did not want a spectacle.

So, he immediately pointed toward one of the nearby training arenas—a circular pit reinforced with compacted sand. He had ordered it constructed a year ago after watching too many trainees break bones on stone during practice duels.

“I think we should begin,” he said.

Artheon tilted his head slightly. “The thief isn’t here yet,” he replied. “Don’t you want to confirm whether he lied to you?”

Killian’s brow creased. “My men will find that out, Mage Artheon. And this has gone on long enough.” He glanced briefly at the growing ring of people. “I don’t like it becoming a spectacle.”

Artheon’s lips pressed thinly. For a moment, he looked as though he wished to delay further—to make this a bigger spectacle—but the murmurs around them were already swelling.

Finally, he gave a small nod. “Very well. We can begin.”

They immediately stepped into the arena.

Across from him, Artheon rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers, faint sparks dancing between them.

Around them, the crowd formed a loose circle. Killian caught sight of his father near the front. The older man’s expression was tight.

But he didn’t watch him for long, looking back at his opponent, who was stretching his neck.

“Are you certain you want this, Knight Killian?” he asked lightly. “I heard what your father said. He is right, you know.”

For the briefest second, anger flashed across Killian’s face. Despite wanting to thrash Artheon’s head on the ground, he tried not to give a visible reaction.

“I suggest you focus on the duel instead of eavesdropping on my conversations, Mage Artheon.”

The Mage’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Killian adjusted his stance on the ground and asked, “What should be the rules?”

In an official duel there were specific rules but this was not one of those. They were free to decide their own terms.

Artheon frowned slightly at the question, clearly unused to negotiating terms with a Knight. After a moment, he said, “Just let it continue until one of us surrenders. There is no need to kill each other.”

Killian inclined his head. “I am fine with that.”

The Mage’s lips curved faintly. “Then why don’t you begin, Knight Killian? I will grant you that courtesy.” His gaze sharpened. “But remember, if I win, you will apologise to me publicly.”

Killian kept his gaze on the man.

“It won’t come to that.”

He drew his sword and felt the familiar weight settle into his hand, grounding him. He lowered his stance, and let his shoulders relax.

Across from him, Artheon waited. For a few seconds, neither moved.

Then flames bloomed in the Mage’s palm.

Even a fresh recruit could read his strategy—keep distance, overwhelm with ranged spells, exhaust him before he could even close the gap. It was the classic Mage’s advantage, one his father had praised countless times growing up.

Killian had no intention of playing along.

He inhaled once, and charged.

Fireballs shot toward him instantly, exactly as expected—bright spheres tearing through the air with heat that warped the space around them.

Killian dropped low mid-stride, sliding across the ground. The first fireball roared past his shoulder, close enough for heat to sting through his armour.

Behind him, the crowd screamed and scattered as the spell slammed into the arena wall.

He didn’t look back, and surged forward.

Artheon’s composure faltered for a fraction of a second, surprise flickering across his face at how easily the attack had been avoided.

More fireballs formed, faster this time.

Killian watched the Mage’s hands instead of the flames. The angle of the wrist. The tightening of fingers. The instant mana gathered—

He moved before the spells fully left Artheon’s palm.

One step left, a pivot, and then, he moved forward again.

Each projectile passed where he had been, scorching trails through the air. Smoke burst upward behind him with every missed strike.

And the distance shrank rapidly.

Artheon’s confidence began to crack as Killian advanced through the barrage, slipping through fire as if walking between falling raindrops.

The gap between Knight and Mage closed with terrifying speed.

Artheon might not have known it, but Killian had spent countless hours sparring with Lord Arzan.

Compared to facing him, this was tame.

Lord Arzan’s spells twisted mid-flight. They curved, split, and recombined without warning. Fighting him had been like chasing a storm that thought for itself.

Artheon, by comparison, was precise, but predictable.

Each dodge shaved distance away between them. But then, he noticed Artheon’s jaw tightened.

The spell structure around his hand suddenly shifted and the air changed.

Heat surged around Killian from all sides.

He didn’t hesitate and leapt.

A wall of flame roared upward where he had been, rising in a sweeping arc before him. In the same breath, the wall shuddered, reshaped, and sharpened—collapsing inward into multiple burning lances that shot forward in a deadly wave.

Utility conversion.

Killian recognized it instantly.

A spell built upon the remnants of another. Lord Arzan had done it often, using lingering mana to form something new before the opponent could react.

He hadn’t expected Artheon to possess that level of control. But surprise did not mean panic.

The lances tore toward him.

Killian’s body moved before the thought fully formed.

He adjusted midair, letting the first wave pass beneath him. Artheon had launched them in a straight trajectory.

They could not adjust, and screamed past harmlessly.

Killian landed lightly in the sand, and saw the final lance.

It had formed slightly later, narrower, aimed precisely at his chest.

There was no room to dodge cleanly. Instead of retreating, Killian stepped into it.

He drew his blade across his body and cut straight through the center of the flame.

The sword split the lance apart in a shower of sparks. Heat flared against his face, embers biting at his skin, but the spell lacked solidity. Fire was fury, not form.

Steel parted it. The broken halves dissipated into harmless tongues of flame behind him.

He did not pause. Killian lunged forward.

Artheon’s eyes widened as he closed the remaining gap. Flames flared around the Mage’s legs, coiling downward in a tight spiral.

In a burst of light and heat, Artheon shifted sideways, propelled by a movement spell.

He reappeared several strides away, robes fluttering.

“How did you do that?” Artheon demanded, breath sharper now. “Is that an Enforcer ability?”

Killian rolled his shoulders once, sword still steady in his grip.

“I haven’t used one yet.” As Killian spoke, he finally stopped holding back. “But I will now.”

Mana surged through his arm the next second and into his blade.

Lightning appeared.

It crawled along the length of his sword in thin, jagged veins at first, then burst outward in a brilliant flare. Blue-white arcs snapped through the air, crackling loud enough for the nearest spectators to flinch. The sand beneath his boots darkened as energy spilled downward, racing along his legs like living light.

Until now, he had only been testing the man. Now that he knew enough, he intended to end it.

Lord Arzan’s words surfaced in his mind, spoken during one of their training sessions.

According to him, Enforcers had stood beneath Mages for a long period of time in the history he knew of, then came an era when Enforcers began challenging Mages openly… and winning.

Each victory had rewritten the balance of power.

Today would be the start of the shifting of power and creating a balance.

Lightning surged brighter each second and Killian finally moved.

The ground exploded behind him as he dashed forward, speed doubling in a single heartbeat. Electricity trailed in his wake, snapping across the arena floor as he chased Artheon.

The Mage reacted instantly—flames spiraled around his legs and he blinked sideways with another movement spell.

Then again.

And again.

But Killian kept coming.

Artheon wasn’t slow for a Mage, yet compared to an Enforcer reinforced by lightning, he might as well have been wading through water. Worse still, he lacked what made Arzan terrifying—he could not cast twice at once, didn’t have the experience.

So the duel became simple.

A chase.

And Killian was the better hunter.

Artheon tried to curve away in a wide arc, attempting to reset distance.

Killian anticipated it.

He pivoted sharply, lightning surging forward through his blade, extending past the steel in a blinding streak, and struck Artheon square in the chest.

The impact cracked like thunder.

The Mage was thrown backward, robes snapping as he hit the ground hard. Gasps and cheers erupted from the crowd all at once.

Artheon’s hands moved instinctively, a spell structure forming between his palms, but Killian was already there.

He dismissed the lightning and stepped forward, planting his boot firmly onto the Mage’s stomach. Air rushed from Artheon’s lungs in a pained groan, the forming spell collapsing instantly as his concentration broke.

Killian’s sword rested against his neck. Silence spread outward through the arena.

“It seems,” Killian said evenly, “like I won.”

Artheon glared up at him, pride warring with disbelief. “How… are you so strong?”

Killian didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze lifted past the crowd, to where his father stood, eyes wide, expression frozen between shock and realization.

A small smile tugged at Killian’s lips.

Then he spoke louder, making sure that his voice carried across the arena.

“They don’t call me the Mage killer for nothing.”

***

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