Chapter 174: Flashing Steel

I barely dodged the thrust with a desperate parry, my foil coming up at the last possible second to deflect Mavus’s blade away from my throat with a sharp clang that echoed across the empty theater.

The force of the impact drove through my arm, numbing my fingers and sending a hot ache blooming in my shoulder as I staggered back a step, desperate for space. My heart was already hammering with adrenaline because holy shit this man was fast.

His blade had moved like liquid silver, appearing in my personal space before my brain had fully processed the lunge, my enhanced reflexes the only thing keeping me from being skewered.

Mavus didn’t press the advantage. Instead, he flowed back into his stance, standing perfectly straight with his shoulders loose and unbothered, the foil dangling in one hand like it was a decorative accessory rather than a weapon that had nearly opened my throat.

His painted clown face cracked wider into a grin that showed far too many teeth, the kind of smile that didn’t belong on a man enjoying a spar but on someone savoring a private joke at my expense.

“Good reflexes,” he observed, his voice carrying that smooth-rough quality that made everything sound like philosophy disguised as casual conversation. “Most people would have frozen. You moved. That’s promising.”

I shifted my grip on the foil, testing its weight, finding my center of balance. “I’ve had a lot of practice slipping past death,” I replied, already circling to his left, looking for an opening that likely didn’t exist. “It’s become something of a hobby. Now are we actually fighting or was that just a greeting? Because I need to know whether to be terrified or mildly concerned.”

“Let’s call it an evaluation,” Mavus said, not moving an inch to track my circling, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance as if I wasn’t even worth watching directly. “Attack me. Show me what you can do.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I surged forward with my blade leading, driving a clean, honest thrust toward his shoulder—the kind of textbook attack that should’ve at least earned me a flinch.

Instead, his foil rose to meet mine with insulting efficiency, a lazy twist of the wrist redirecting my strike like I’d thrown it exactly where he wanted.

I barely had time to recoil before his riposte snapped back at me, so fast it registered more as a feeling than a sight, forcing me to scramble backward

I tried again, this time with a feint toward his chest that I converted mid-motion into a cut toward his thigh. But his blade was already there, meeting mine with perfect timing.

I spun away, using my momentum to create space, then surged back in—high, low, center—my strikes chaining together in a rapid succession, angles shifting just fast enough to be rude.

It didn’t matter. His foil appeared where it shouldn’t have been, intercepting each attack with surgical calm, each deflection so economical it felt insulting, like he was budgeting his effort while I was hemorrhaging mine.

“You’re thinking too much,” Mavus observed, still not moving his feet, still standing in that same relaxed stance. “Each attack is calculated, planned, executed with intent. That makes you predictable.”

I flooded my legs with enhancement and exploded sideways, skimming across the stage in a blur of motion meant to outpace his awareness entirely. I slipped behind him in a heartbeat, blade snapping in fast and low toward the small of his back.

His foil caught it anyway. He didn’t turn. Didn’t shift his stance. The blade simply appeared behind him, intercepting mine with effortless, humiliating precision, as if the concept of blind spots simply didn’t apply to him.

“How—” I gasped, already retreating before he could punish my failed attack. “You’re not even looking!”

“I don’t need to look,” Mavus said with the infuriating serenity of a man explaining basic arithmetic to someone who’d just eaten the chalk. “Your intent precedes your action. The moment you decide to strike, the world shifts in response. Learning to read those shifts—that’s the first step to true mastery.”

I pressed the attack again, refusing to be discouraged, my blade seeking any gap in his defense. I enhanced my arms for speed, my core for stability, cycling through different combinations of reinforcement while maintaining a constant barrage of strikes.

Thrust, slash, cut, parry, feint, lunge—each movement flowing into the next with increasing desperation as each attack met that damned foil over and over again.

“Tell me something,” Mavus said conversationally, not even breathing hard despite the pace of our exchange. “Have you heard the fable of the River and the Stone?”

I tried to stab him in the chest while he was talking—because really, who starts telling stories mid-duel—but his blade intercepted mine yet again.

“Can’t say I have,” I managed between gasps, already circling again to try a different angle. “But I have a feeling you’re about to enlighten me whether I’d like it or not.”

“Once there was a River who encountered a great Stone blocking her path,” Mavus began, his foil dancing through the air to deflect my increasingly frantic attacks without breaking his narrative rhythm. “The River crashed against the Stone with all her might, trying to move it through sheer force. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and still the Stone would not budge. The River grew frustrated, angry, convinced that if she simply pushed harder, applied more force, she could overcome this obstacle.”

I feinted high and struck low, enhancing my wrist for a lightning-fast redirect that should’ve been impossible to track. His blade met mine with a soft clink before I could even finish the motion.

“Let me guess,” I said, already knowing where this was going but too stubborn to stop attacking. “The River learns some profound lesson about patience or going around obstacles?”

“Not quite,” Mavus said, and I heard genuine amusement in his voice. “One day, a Traveler passed by and asked the River why she didn’t simply flow around the Stone instead of against it. The River, indignant, explained that flowing around would mean admitting defeat, accepting that the Stone had won, allowing the obstacle to remain unchanged. But the Traveler smiled and said, ’You misunderstand the nature of water. By flowing around the Stone, you don’t lose—you change the landscape. You carve new channels, discover new paths, and given enough time, you erode everything in your way. Resistance is not strength. Adaptation is.’”

I tried one last, desperate combination—a blur of slashes and thrusts from every angle I could think of, pouring enhancement into my speed until the world smeared at the edges and my own limbs felt half a second ahead of my thoughts—yet still, nothing.

My frustration was mounting, my breathing growing ragged, and I could feel sweat dripping down my back despite the relatively short duration of our exchange.

“So what’s the moral?” I panted, finally backing off to catch my breath. “That I should stop trying to stab you and find some metaphorical way around instead?”

“The moral,” Mavus said, his painted clown face somehow conveying satisfaction despite the fixed expression, “is that you’re the River crashing against the Stone. Every attack is force, direct and unsubtle. You haven’t yet learned to flow, to adapt, to let the world move through you instead of trying to impose your will upon it.”

“The hell is that supposed to—?” I began to ask. But before I could finish, Mavus moved. Not the small movements he’d been using to defend—this was something else entirely, an explosive burst of motion that closed the distance between us in a heartbeat.

His blade came in from an angle I couldn’t track, struck mine with perfect precision, and suddenly my foil was flying through the air in a spinning arc directly above our heads.

Mavus caught it with his free hand without looking, the weapon smacking into his palm with a satisfying thwap, and then his original blade was at my chest—not touching, but close enough that I could feel the cool metal hovering centimeters from my heart.

We stood like that for a long moment, his painted face so close to mine I could see where the makeup had started to crack around his eyes.

“You’re a concarnic mage,” I said quietly.

Mavus pulled his blade back and stepped away with a small, approving nod. “Ah, I suppose Grisha must’ve told you. Yes, I’m concarnic—one of the rare few born with the capacity to manipulate both the body and the external world. It’s what makes me valuable to Julius, what allows me to teach others despite my…” he gestured at his painted face, “unorthodox presentation.”

I swallowed hard, gathering my courage, because what I was about to say would either be believed or laughed at and I genuinely wasn’t sure which outcome was more likely.

“I’m concarnic too,” I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart. “I did the test with the nullglass and everything. That’s actually why I came to find you—I want you to teach me how to properly utilize its full capabilities.”

Mavus stared at me for a long, silent beat—and then he lost it. Not a polite huff or a dignified little chuckle, but real, unrestrained laughter that tore out of him and rang across the empty theater, loud enough to bounce off the rafters.

He doubled over slightly, one hand braced on his thigh, shoulders shaking like I’d just delivered the finest joke of his life.

“You?” he wheezed between laughs. “You’re claiming to be concarnic? Oh that’s—that’s absolutely precious!”

I bristled. “I’m not lying! I really am—”

“Your use of enhancements is amateur at best,” Mavus interrupted, still chuckling even as he straightened himself. “I could see when you channeled magic into your muscles—the way your body tensed, the slight glow that flickered along your limbs, the complete lack of subtlety in your application. You’re flailing around with incarnic magic like a first-year student who just discovered they have a nexus.”

Heat flooded my cheeks with indignation. “Well maybe that’s because I did!”

Mavus wiped at his eyes, his laughter finally subsiding into occasional chuckles. “Fine, fine. If you’re truly concarnic as you claim, then show me some form of excarnic magic. Anything. Move an object without touching it, create an illusion, manipulate the temperature of the air—any of the basic external applications that would prove you have access to both types of magic.”

I hesitated, my mouth opening and closing as I searched for the words that would make this sound less pathetic than it actually was.

“I… don’t know any,” I admitted meekly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can do enhancements fine, but the external stuff? I’ve never even tried…”

Mavus’s laughter erupted again, even more sporadic this time, until he actually had to lean against a prop pillar for support. “You came to me—to me—hoping to learn the secrets of utilizing concarnic magic without even knowing the basics of excarnic magic first? Oh gods, that’s—that’s like asking to learn advanced calculus when you haven’t mastered counting!” He wiped at his eyes again. “I admire the audacity, truly, but you’re putting the cart about seventeen miles ahead of the horse.”

I tried to protest, my mouth opening with half-formed arguments, but Mavus held up a hand to silence me. “Listen,” he said, his voice taking on a more serious quality despite the lingering amusement. “If you truly are concarnic as you say—and I’m willing to entertain that possibility—then you need to go to Willow first.”

I blinked, confusion replacing my indignation. “Willow? Why would I—”

“You and Willow are of the same species, are you not?” Mavus interrupted, his painted face somehow conveying knowing satisfaction. “Succubi. Demons. Whatever terminology you prefer. The point is, those of your species have specific spells and utilizations of magic that only you can perform—abilities hardwired into your very nature that other magical practitioners can’t access no matter how much they try.”

He began pacing across the stage, his hands gesturing as he warmed to the topic. “I taught Willow the basics of excarnic magic a long time ago, helped her understand the fundamental principles of manipulating the external world. And now she’s making significant progress in delving into her own specialty spells. Dream manipulation, emotional influence, pheromone control—all branches of excarnic magic that align with her natural talents.”

He stopped before turning to face me fully. “If you want to make full use of your latent abilities, you need to learn from someone who understands your specific species’ relationship with magic. Go to Willow. Learn the basics. Then come back to me and we’ll discuss concarnic integration.”

I perked up at this, excitement flooding through me despite my earlier embarrassment, because of course—why hadn’t I thought of that before?

“Thank you,” I said with genuine gratitude, already backing toward the edge of the stage. “That’s—that’s actually pretty helpful. I’m gonna go find her right now.”

Mavus waved me off with an amused smile. “Good luck.”

I paused for half a second, questions about his true motives and the various other mysteries surrounding his presence bubbling up in my throat, but I swallowed them down.

Those answers could wait. Right now I had more immediate knowledge to pursue. Interrogating a crime lord dressed as a sad clown could happen another time.

And so I launched myself off the stage with a reckless burst of enhancement, hitting the floor in a low crouch that barely existed before I snapped into motion. My boots thundered as I broke into a sprint toward the stairs.

My heart was racing—not from the run, not from the magic, but from that sharp, electric thrill that meant I was about to do something spectacularly unwise and fully intended to enjoy it.

I took the stairs two at a time, then three, then stopped counting altogether, my body moving faster than my thoughts as the second floor rushed up to meet me.

I skidded to a halt in front of Willow’s door and immediately felt it—that presence—pouring out of the wood like heat from an open furnace, thick and unmistakably demonic. The door itself seemed alive, the grain subtly flexing as if it were breathing, dark energy pulsing through it in slow, predatory waves that made the air feel heavy and intimate.

Before I could even consider knocking—before I could organize my thoughts or rehearse what I wanted to say—the door exploded inward. A crimson hand shot out, iron-fast around my wrist, and I was yanked forward so hard my feet barely had time to remember what the floor was for.

I stumbled inside with a sharp curse, momentum carrying me a half-step too far before I could recover, and then the door slammed shut behind me with a finality that made the sound feel personal.

I glanced around the room then before breathing a sigh of wonder despite my undignified entrance, because saints above, the place was magnificent.

The room was dark and compact—no larger than the other bedrooms tucked into the theater’s upper levels—but it carried a density to it, the kind that came from intention rather than clutter.

Every inch felt cultivated. Gothic lines traced the walls in dark stone, carved into sharp arches and layered filigree, with recessed alcoves that looked less decorative and more ritualistic.

Small gargoyles crouched in the upper corners, their ruby eyes catching the light and reflecting it back at me in a way that made it uncomfortably easy to imagine they were watching.

Everything was steeped in red. Not lamplight, not firelight—just a pervasive crimson glow with no visible source, as though the room itself bled illumination.

Shadows stretched where they shouldn’t have, bending and overlapping, slipping out of alignment like they were playing by rules I hadn’t been taught yet.

Stone pots were scattered across the carpet in deliberate disarray, dozens of them in varying sizes, each holding a different liquid that glowed softly from within. Blues churned like deep water, greens pulsed in slow, organic rhythm, purples spiraled lazily as if stuck in perpetual transformation.

A few bubbled now and then, releasing thin ribbons of colored smoke that curled upward and vanished before they could reach the ceiling.

Most of the remaining space was claimed by worktables and desks buried beneath books, loose pages, and half-finished notes. Diagrams were pinned across the walls—complex magical circles layered with symbols and intersecting lines so dense they made my eyes ache to follow.

The handwriting scattered among them was meticulous to the point of obsession, elegant strokes that bordered on calligraphy, as if whoever wrote them believed precision itself to be a form of power.

Off to the right was the bed, and calling it colossal would be an understatement. It was a massive four-poster giant, easily twice the size of the one I shared with Felix, draped in black sheets that looked like they cost more than my entire wardrobe.

Plush pillows were piled high at the head, and black fabric had been draped between the posts for privacy, creating a dark canopy that looked like it belonged in a vampire’s castle.

Willow, still gripping my hand, circled around me with predatory grace, her fingers brushing against my neck in fleeting touches that made my skin prickle with awareness.

Her thin tail—which I hadn’t really noticed before during the chaos of last night—traced along my spine with deliberate precision, the pointed tip dragging across my lower back with enough pressure to make me shiver.

She was still wearing her lingerie from before—the delicate fabric stretched taut over her lush curves, crotchless and shamelessly baring the smooth, glistening slit of her pussy, dark lips already swollen and parted like an invitation.

Her wine-rich skin drank in the crimson glow of the room, turning it into a slick, infernal sheen, while those piercing emerald eyes pinned me with a predator’s certainty.

She slid her arms around my neck from behind, heavy breasts crushing against my back through the thin lace, her full weight pinning me as her hot breath fanned my ear. She pressed closer, the damp heat of her bare cunt brushing my lower back, smearing a teasing trail of wetness through my dress.

When she spoke, her voice came low and rich with promise, dripping with suggestions that made my cock twitch despite my attempt to stay focused on the actual reason I’d come here.

“I know exactly what you came here for,” she purred as her tongue slid slow and wet along the curve of my ear, tracing the ridge before dipping inside with a teasing flick that sent molten shivers straight to my already-throbbing cock.

And despite every instinct screaming at me that this was about to get complicated, I couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—learning magic from Willow was going to be significantly more hands-on than I’d originally anticipated.

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