“Out of my sight. Now!” Seraph barked, the command cutting through the air like a lash.

  “Yes! Yes, lord! I’m going! I’m gone!” the three stammered in a frantic rush.

  They scrambled to their feet, clawing at the dirt to stand before sprinting away from the forest’s edge. In their haste, they did not even bother to retrieve the three gemstone staves discarded upon the ground. Before long, they vanished into the Sanctus citadel with desperate speed.

  Seraph watched their pathetic flight with eyes of irritation. Finally, he could not suppress a low curse to himself.

  “Hmph. You wouldn’t take the path of peace when it was offered,” Seraph muttered, his voice deep and resonant. “You chose to march straight into hell instead. If you’re ever so foolish as to cross me again... I won’t be so kind.”

  Compared to the torment these thugs had once inflicted upon him, the young man considered his retaliation exceptionally restrained. Naturally, Seraph harbored resentment toward them, yet he knew that grievance is not always resolved through vengeance alone.

  Every acomage and magis was no ordinary entity; each often possessed a formidable power structure behind them. A minor scuffle or physical altercation within Sanctus was typically dismissed as the bickering of subordinates—but should a life be extinguished, it could escalate into a catastrophic affair.

  Seraph lacked the vast influence of a great house to bolster him. Should he perish, Zurek and his cohorts might face nothing more than a severe reprimand; however, if the young man were to accidentally kill these men, the consequences would escalate far beyond a mere expulsion from the Sanctus Sanctum.

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?

  Seraph remained indifferent to the brewing conflict. He persisted in his mageia training and followed his daily routine as before. Once dusk fell and the young man finished his evening meal, he intended to continue his practice in the training hall until midnight.

  Yet, the moment the young man emerged from the Grand Refectory, he was met with a wall of hostility.

  Five acomages stood their ground, encircling the exit. All five leveled their gemstone staves at him, poised to incant at a moment’s notice. Their expressions and stances were grim, as if ready to launch an immediate assault should Seraph make the slightest movement.

  “Goddess... does it truly take five of you just to muster the courage to face me?” Seraph asked, his lips curling into a mocking smirk

  The young man provoked them without showing a flicker of fear toward the five acomages. However, Seraph’s words only served to deepen the visible rage on their faces. The surrounding atmosphere grew heavy with sudden pressure.

  “Keep your mouth shut!” Mogar bellowed, his voice thick with crude arrogance. “We’ve been far too patient with the likes of you. You think just because you got lucky against Zurek, you’re suddenly some Archwarlock? You’re coming with us, right now—unless you’re looking for a world of hurt!”

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  Mogar was a man in his forties, short and rotund with coarse, thick skin. No part of him resembled a magis or a noble. Yet, his cloak and his entire frame were draped in extravagant gems; but when combined upon his person, the effect was merely gaudy—a display utterly devoid of taste.

  Seraph gazed at them with cold discontent. Their words were a transparent lure, a snare they had undoubtedly prepared to ensnare him. The young man harbored no dread of treading into their trap; however, he would never again submit to the dictates of others.

  “And where, exactly, do you think you’re taking me?” Seraph asked with icy calm.

  “You don’t have the right to ask!” Mogar barked. “Shut your mouth and move!”

  Regrettably for them, the young man remained anchored to the spot, even as the five converged to press him forward.

  “I asked a question—WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?!” Seraph’s roar thundered through the corridor.

  A violent surge of mageia force erupted, hurling the five men backward in every direction. While a few managed to remain upright, three of them went sprawling across the stone floor, blindsided by the sheer intensity of the sudden shockwave. Their complexions ashened, washed over by a wave of terror.

  The transition within Seraph surpassed their wildest calculations. Mageia is a cryptic force; vast reservoirs of esoteric knowledge remain unperceived and veiled. Legends of Archwarlocks tell of frail magis who became supreme warlocks overnight, yet such miracles were relics of a distant age, often dismissed as mere myth.

  Nonetheless, the potent mageia power Seraph displayed was undeniably aberrant. The young man before them had once been their weakest subordinate; now, he stood like a monolith, unyielding against the ocean’s gale.

  “Will you answer, or not?!” Seraph demanded again.

  The five stood stunned, exchanging pale, bewildered glances. Finally, Mogar stammered a reply.

  “To... er... the training hall, it was.” Mogar uttered hesitantly.

  “Hmph. I have no intention of following your damn designs,” Seraph declared, his voice cold and final. “I’ll be at the forest’s edge, near the citadel. Follow if you’ve the stomach for it—or don’t. It’s all the same to me.

  He strode past the five without a trace of concern. Yet, after taking only a few paces, the young man came to a halt. Seraph turned back, his voice cutting through the silence once more.

  “Oh, and as for those waiting at the training hall... bring them out, the lot of them,” Seraph added, a lethal undertone creeping into his voice. “Tonight, we put an end to this idiocy once and for all.”

  With his piece spoken, the young man walked away without looking back. Behind him, they remained kneeling in silence, not a soul daring to rise or obstruct his path. They stayed there, stunned for a long duration—statues carved from pure humiliation.

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?

  Seraph arrived at the forest’s edge. The young man stood waiting in the devouring darkness. He had planted a torch nearby, its flicker was weak, failing to ward off the shifting shadows that submerged him.

  His silhouette stretched deep into the woods amidst the biting chill of the night. Demonic miasma-like mist began to drape over the hill, and frost crystallized upon the leaves. A lone young man standing in the dark formed a hauntingly peculiar image.

  After a long wait, a group of magis marched directly toward Seraph. They numbered ten in total—all of them acomages of Sanctus.

  Though the group of acomages consisted of ten men, the solitary, cryptic figure standing within the forest’s gloom gave even the ten men pause; they could not fathom the source of his courage. An inexplicable shiver raced down their spines.

  The young man before them wore a tattered gray cloak that reached his feet. In his hand, he gripped a wooden staff. However, they could not discern the face of their opponent; the young man’s features were buried beneath a hood, mantled entirely by the absolute dark.

  Seraph had summoned their group to convene at the edge of this forest. Yet, they could not discern the identity of the cryptic figure beneath the gray cloak. Their opponent bore no resemblance to the frail Seraph they once knew. The current situation was as aberrant as any they had ever encountered; had someone claimed the man before them was an assassin infiltrating Sanctus, they would have believed it.