CH8 • The Jester’s Prowess

The Duke's castle was nothing like I had expected. I had anticipated a tedious but comfortable contract—a ceremonial role that would see me filling reports, logging archives, and performing the occasional parlor trick.

I had been wrong.

The first few days were consumed by formalities. Administration work, endless documentation, and introductions to my so-called colleagues—eight mages, all older than me by decades, some even centuries.

I was fresh blood in a system that had long calcified.

The prince? Nowhere to be seen.

His chambers were guarded fiercely, his inner circle filled with healers, priests, shamans, witches, and druids. They had all tried and failed to restore his health, but their presence alone made it clear—I would not be meeting him anytime soon.

Elton had been evasive, his usual confidence replaced by something more subdued. And the whispers in the castle? They spoke of his demotion.

The first thing I learned within these walls was this: everyone knew everyone's business.

Even my own.

It didn't take long before the noble ladies began to glance my way. At first, I ignored it. But a stray reflection in a mirror made me pause—

I was on the far end of handsome.

Mages often altered their appearances with magic, so I had long assumed my face was simply the result of subtle enchantments.

But then I encountered the Runestones.

Ancient relics embedded into the very foundation of the castle, designed to suppress magic within a five-foot radius.

The moment I stepped too close, I felt it. My magic—gone. No sigils would form, no mana would flow.

And yet, my appearance remained the same.

Interesting.

These stones were used as restraints, a way to detect and neutralize magical deception. An old system to prevent criminals from altering their looks or bypassing justice with illusions.

Mitca, of course, was fascinated.

He had been restless ever since we arrived, always trying to slip away and learn from the older mages. The arguments between us were constant—his reckless curiosity clashing with my insistence on discipline.

It was proof of the old saying:

Mages are selfish. Always seeking, always learning—independent to the point of defiance.

Aura users? Stubborn and traditional. Locked in their ways.

But us?

We bent reality itself.

***

A month passed. Winter crept into the duchy, and the time had finally come.

The prince was ready to see me.

Secretly, I had advanced to the Fifth Circle and hidden it well.

The older mages suspected something, of course. High-circle mages could normally sense those beneath them, but mana density played a role in masking one's true rank.

My reports had already painted me as an abnormality. So they assumed my mana density was merely high.

They weren't wrong. But they weren't entirely right either.

Only Mitca knew the truth.

Among the castle's mages, there were:

• Four Third-Circle Mages.

• Two Fourth-Circle Mages.

• Two Fifth-Circle Mages, including me.

And yet, despite my rank, my first meeting with the prince would be as a jester.

—

The mages—particularly the Third-Circle ones—warned me.

"Young mage, make sure to appease the prince, no matter what," one of them said. "Unless you want to end up working for the guards like the rest of us."

I smirked. "To be honest, I'll probably be joining you soon after today."

I waved them off and stepped forward.

The iron gates opened, and I entered the hall.

Expectation weighed down on my shoulders.

The Duke's banner hung weakly in the cold air, as if even the fabric knew this land was dying.

At the heart of it all sat Lucien de Vestra.

The Duke's only heir.

A boy-prince with the sharpness of a blade and the fragility of glass.

His aristocratic coldness was a mask—but beneath it, I could see exhaustion.

He barely spared me a glance.

Then, his voice rang through the chamber.

"Show me a magical show. Begin."

The court was watching.

Aura knights stood with unreadable expressions.

The head mage observed with mild interest.

Elton… stared at the ground.

It was all a performance. I was not here to serve a purpose. I was here to entertain.

A glorified trickster.

I sighed. "Well, my prince, I have no tricks. I'd rather be sent to the guards to do labor, like the other Third-Circle mages."

Silence.

It seemed no one had ever refused before.

Then—

Lucien laughed.

A quiet, humorless chuckle.

"You are going to the cells if you don't display any sort of tricks."

A test. A warning.

I thought for a moment. Then, I raised a hand—summoning the most basic spell.

Light.

A soft glow formed above my palm.

Lucien's smile faded. His eyes darkened.

"…Fine."

He leaned back against his chair.

"Throw him in the cells. Let my father know when he returns. I suppose the rumors of the so-called magical genius were false."

The head mage stepped forward, attempting to reason with me.

I simply shook my head.

I had made my decision.

And so, as the guards stepped forward to escort me away, I went without resistance.

Because this?

This was only the beginning.

***

"A name bestowed. The Lord has spoken."

The young aura knight stood by my cell, arms crossed. "Per contract with the mage tower, of course. You'll still reside here."

I sighed, pushing myself upright. He had gotten to know me slightly in our brief interactions, but he had also realized how little I revealed about myself—or anyone else, for that matter.

Elton, ever the opportunist, had made the first move regarding my so-called identity.

"You need a last name," he had said earlier, adjusting his gloves as we stood outside the grand hall. "It would be improper to introduce you otherwise."

I raised an eyebrow. "And I assume you've taken the liberty of choosing one for me?"

Elton smiled, too pleased with himself. "Maginas."

I scoffed. "How original."

"It has meaning now," he said with a knowing look. "The people call you Holiness Maginas. Why not embrace it?"

There was no argument to be had. The Duke approved it without much ceremony, merely waving a hand as if my identity was a trivial matter.

"Caelum Maginas, then," I murmured.

A name granted not by lineage, but by expectation.

The young knight escorting me cast a wary glance my way. "Sir Maginas, if I may… I know you're only biding your time until new nobles take over—mages tend to outlive most people anyway—but can't you at least try to amend things?"

Before I could respond, Elton interjected. "I would have said something before, but I'm petty too." He smirked before turning to the knight. "But for you, young knight, I'll let you in on a little secret about Caelum."

"A secret?" I shot him a dry look as we continued toward my cell. "You have none on me."

I watched as he whispered something to the knight, whose eyes widened in shock.

"Oh… Really?" The knight swallowed. "That's… difficult. But I'll see what can be done."

I narrowed my eyes at Elton. "What lies did you just feed this poor fool?"

He merely grinned.

Later that evening, the call came.

"The prince has summoned you."

I glanced at the young knight who delivered the message. He avoided my gaze, making it clear that whatever Elton had told him was still weighing on his mind. Saying nothing, I followed him toward the courtroom.

Inside, the atmosphere was expectant. The head mage stood at the forefront, holding a parchment.

"Here is the list of spellcasting requirements for today's spectacle," he said as my shackles were removed and the runestones pushed away. "You have five minutes to cast each spell."

I took the parchment, scanning it in three minutes flat before setting it down.

The room stilled. They assumed I would ask for more time or, perhaps, admit defeat. Instead, I lifted a hand and began casting.

I altered the spells, bending them into grander, more complex variations. The rain dance, once a simple summoning of water, became a full orchestration of droplets forming shifting patterns in the air. One spell melded into the next seamlessly. Seven spells in total, woven together in perfect succession—executed as if it were nothing.

The applause was immediate, but among the mages, there was only silence. Their expressions were frozen, their horror unmistakable.

"Sire," I said flatly, "may I return to my cell now?"

Boredom laced my voice, as if this entire display had been a waste of time.

And then, amidst the crowd, I spotted him.

Mitca.

Our eyes met, and he stiffened, his breath hitching. A flicker of panic crossed his face as he averted his gaze, blinking rapidly. He was hiding something.

The others, noticing my stare, turned their attention to him. He began to sweat.

"Sir Magio Mitca, are you alright?" The prince asked, amusement flickering in his gaze.

I froze.

Mitca… Magio Mitca?

He had taken a last name as well.

And he hadn't told me.

I blinked at him, smiling. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. And then—he collapsed.

Gasps echoed through the court as attendants rushed forward. The prince, now more curious than ever, turned back to me.

"You'll not be returning to your cell," he declared. "From now on, you will accompany the healers—along with Mitca. I expect to see interesting things from the both of you."

For the first time, I smiled at the prince.

"S-Sire, thank you. Truly. I am so overjoyed to be spending more time with my long-lost pupil."

Elton flinched. A few others noticed.

The meaning was clear—I was furious.

The head mage, once dismissive, now regarded me with deep thought. He had finally realized something was very off about me.

***

Elton's fall from grace was swift.

The moment we entered the castle, he was demoted from head butler to chief butler—a seemingly minor difference in title but a brutal blow to his authority.

He tried to hide it from us at first, but soon he realized we all knew.

His replacement, a thin, vulture-like man named Vernand, carried himself with the air of someone who enjoyed breaking spirits.

"An unfortunate oversight," Vernand had said when Elton gritted his teeth at a banquet, forced to endure the company of those reveling in the winter lockdown. "But you will still serve well… under my guidance."

I knew immediately that this man was trouble. He had been present in council halls and among the prince's retainers. He had power, influence, and an agenda.

I didn't like him. And he had long since given up trying to earn my favor.

Lately, my interactions with Mitca—who Vernand loved to nag or use as a proxy for communication with the mages under the head mage—had shifted ever since the prince removed me from my cell.

Vernand didn't like that.

More importantly, Mitca didn't like it.

Because I had found out something—Mitca had progressed to the Second Circle. Something he had never dared to dream of. And now, with my return, that dream was unraveling.

His gaze lingered on me too long. His words dripped with forced politeness, barely masking his frustration.

He did not outright antagonize me—he was too clever for that—but I saw it in the way he spoke, the way his lips twitched in satisfaction when I was made to wait longer than necessary or given deliberately vague instructions.

"You may be a mage," he said one evening, pouring himself a glass of wine, "but you are still a servant of the Duke. It would do you well to remember that. You are neither a Head Mage nor a Master. You hold no authority over others."

I smiled. "It would do you well to remember that I am not like the others."

He did not respond, only taking a slow sip of his wine, eyes gleaming with amusement.

Mitca, who would normally follow Vernand's every gesture, didn't move. His eyes flicked between the two of us. And in that moment, he realized something—his fear wasn't directed at Vernand.

It was at me.

That was… interesting.

Vernand had a personal Aura Knight and two mages aligned with him—one at the Fourth Circle, the other at the Third.

And yet, Mitca still feared me more.

That could only mean one thing.

I had traumatized him.

Which meant Vernand would try to use that. He would either force me to bend or find a way to eliminate me—saving his little puppet in the process.

***

As the new year approached, the Head Mage, Mirva, came to my quarters. He had only done this once before—upon our first meeting. Never since.

"You need to stop mistreating your so-called pupil," he said, smiling thinly.

"I'm not mistreating him," I replied flatly, not bothering to turn around. "It's training."

Two other mages stood behind him, visibly vexed and ready to intervene.

"Maginas, listen." Mirva exhaled sharply. "I'm here to tell you off. Even though Mitca claims he has vowed to obey you, this cannot continue. He is a mage, and he should be learning magic. Yes, he may be… slower than most, and perhaps he will never reach the Third Circle in his lifetime, but still—"

I stood up. The other mages tensed.

"Thank you for your time," I said, cutting him off. "I should be on my way… to see that he learns magic. Does that sound good?"

Relieved, they assumed I had listened.

Later that evening, I drained Mitca of his mana and increased the intensity of his physical training.

To the outside world, we appeared as fools. Well—I did, specifically.

Mitca's physical form had improved considerably, but he was still far from the level of an Aura trainee.

Among mages, however, he was reaching levels unheard of. His stamina surpassed even mine. At times, I nearly fainted trying to keep up.

He enjoyed watching me struggle.

I knew why.

I could never be a Mage Knight. That door had long since closed the moment I fully committed to the path of magic without balancing my energies.

But I had a theory.

I believed that genetics and environmental factors played a crucial role in distinguishing mages from aura users.

Mages had mana, but their bodies were naturally weak. Their physical potential was capped at the bare minimum.

Aura users, on the other hand, had immense physical strength, but their mana reserves were just as restricted.

A natural, built-in limitation.

I needed proof. And Mitca was my test subject.

He couldn't know, of course. He wanted to be a mage—not a knight.

So I had no choice but to be ruthless in his magical training. I needed to push him to his limits—until his aura finally manifested.

I had spoken to many knights, and they all described the same thing:

The first sign of aura awakening was when one could shatter a rock with their bare hands or leap over a tree with ease.

Thanks to their observations, I had the bare minimum I needed.

And so, I continued. Martial arts. Physical training. Constant exertion.

Then, on the first day of the new year, Mirva returned.

"I thought you had listened," Mirva said, his voice laced with irritation. "But it seems you simply decided to join this lunacy instead."

He wasn't alone. The same two mages from before stood at his sides.

They looked ready for a fight.

Raising a hand, Mirva halted them, misinterpreting my silence as a threat. He likely assumed I would run straight to the prince and make their lives difficult.

With a sigh, he whispered something to the others. They hesitated before leaving.

Then, Mirva sat down across from me.

He studied me carefully.

"Mitca wants to learn magic," he said, his tone softer now—like a grandfather advising a stubborn grandchild. "Why are you limiting his dream?"

"I'm not." I met his gaze. "Patience is vital. Give me… four to six years. Then, I'll let you know what happens next."

Mirva turned to leave, shaking his head.

"You've brought this upon yourself."

I watched him go, then returned to my parchments, flipping through pages of mundane spells, monster records, and historical landmarks.

The world would soon understand.

And so would Mitca.

***

Vernand's machinations did not take long to bear fruit.

Mitca had pleaded for help many times, only to be turned away by everyone else. In the end, he had no choice but to return to me.

His shoulders slumped, his head bowed, and his fists clenched at his sides. He wouldn't meet my gaze anymore, wouldn't speak unless prompted. It was a silent resentment, growing like an ink stain in clear water. He was starting to hate me.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my forehead. It was finally dawning on me—what had to be done.

"You once said you'd do anything," I murmured, watching his hunched form. "Was that vow a lie?"

Mitca flinched but shook his head, a small, quiet denial.

"Good," I said. "Trust the process. You'll learn magic."

Still, he refused to look up.

After a pause, I pressed on, my voice soft but firm. "You're Magiown, a name derived from mine—Maginus. Think about that. I am magic-in-us, and you are magic-I-own. That's fate, wouldn't you say?"

His eyes lifted then, uncertainty flickering in their depths. I smiled.

"Once this test is over, trust me. You'll be begging to go back to physical training rather than mental training."

His brow furrowed as realization struck him. A sharp breath, wide eyes.

"M-Master, y-you're training me to be a mage who fights physically?"

"Close," I mused, placing a thoughtful hand on my chin. "But something more. I can't say yet—it would hinder you. One day, you'll be a mage the world fears to fight… Well, except for me. I may not match you in close range, but even at arm's length, you'll still fail against me."

A month passed.

The prince lay in bed, his healers working tirelessly to sustain him. Their magic hummed through the air, steady pulses of energy, like invisible threads stitching him together moment by moment.

Mitca and I stood by, silent observers.

Then, for once, Mitca spoke loudly—too loudly.

"Master, you can heal too. Why don't you try?"

The room stilled.

The distant corner, previously ignored, suddenly became the center of attention. The prince, battered and exhausted, cracked open a single eye, his gaze shifting to me. Pain twisted his face, and I realized, too late, what Mitca had done.

A curse in the form of a question.

Healing was in my reports, yes. But merely as a footnote—healing beggars. Nothing of significance. Nothing noble.

Now, I had their attention. And I hated it.

Scowling, I smacked the back of Mitca's head. "Don't mind this fool," I muttered. "Please carry on."

But the prince groaned, a strained exhale. "N-No… t-try… something."

Even in agony, he was determined.

The other healers, professionals of various disciplines, glared at me in irritation. Their patient had just issued a request—to me. And they did not like it.

"Please," the prince gasped. "Stop the pain… just for a bit. Even a second."

The raw desperation in his voice pulled at something within me, an ache that settled in my chest.

I sighed, shifting my gaze to Mitca, who stood off to the side—grinning.

The others thought he had set me up for failure. But Mitca and I knew better. If I put my effort into something, the results always tended to be… unexpected.

"Fetch Chief Butler Elton," I ordered. "He knows what I need."

"We can ask the head butler—"

"NO." My voice was sharp. "The chief butler. That's all I need. If not, I don't feel confident about this."

The prince nodded weakly, and the others moved.

I turned back to him, speaking lowly. "Sire, I'll tell you the truth. I hate fame. So keep that in mind, no matter what happens."

The healers scoffed, unimpressed. "We'll intervene if we see any sign of harm."

The two aura knights in the room remained neutral, but one of them—the younger—was dangerous. Even I could sense it.

Early twenties, a hardened presence. The rumors whispered that he was like a brother to the prince.

If I was a genius of magic, then he was a prodigy of aura.

His presence alone made my every instinct scream: Don't try anything reckless.

Then, Elton entered.

And strangely, the young knight removed his helmet.

"You're possibly the strongest mage I've ever sensed," he said, his voice low and measured. "Next to Mirva."

Then, softer, "Do your best."

The scene was set.

Every pair of eyes in the room was locked onto me.

I was known for versatility—not mastery. That was why I had no standing among nobles, why I had been sold as a jester rather than a court mage.

Elton, ever perceptive, leaned in. "You're using this situation, aren't you?" he whispered.

I gave a slow nod.

He chuckled, barely audible. "Thank you. It won't be easy, but it's worth a try. He won't go down without a fight."

Then—like a whisper of death itself—I felt cold steel at my throat.

Elton flinched.

The aura knight had moved.

I hadn't seen how.

"I hope you're not talking about our lord," he murmured.

Elton dropped to his knees immediately. "N-N-No, Sire Dorian!"

I stood frozen.

It was in that moment I realized—I needed to learn inscription magic. A rare field, taught only in mage towers or found in the black market.

Dorian withdrew, stepping back. "Good," he said simply. "Continue."

My hands felt clammy.

Aura users were terrifying in close range.

Elton exhaled sharply and straightened his posture. "Caelum," he ordered, voice firm. "Heal with your utmost potent skill. No restraint."

He had never spoken to me like that before.

Mitca, from the corner, watched me with silent, pleading eyes.

I sighed.

"Very well," I muttered. "I suppose the name Maginus is about to gain more attention."

Mitca and Elton smiled. The rest looked skeptical.

Dorian, however, tilted his head.

"It seems you've been hiding," he mused. "Holding back—just like I have been."

I eyed him warily. "Not exactly. I just hate dramatic gestures."

He scoffed.

The prince, watching the exchange, smirked despite his pain. "Show me a trick, then. My honorable servant."

I nodded, rolling my shoulders.

"Very well, my liege."

I began.

A thorough examination—eyes, ears, nose, heartbeat, lungs. The basics.

The others watched in bewilderment.

Mitca and Elton, however, whispered excitedly. "So that's how he starts."

I gritted my teeth. Annoying.

Once finished, I cleaned the prince and refreshed his surroundings using a sanitation spell.

He blinked. "Whoa… I feel cleaner than normal. Is that it?"

I smiled. "Just preparation. I haven't even started yet."

He fell silent.

I reached out, channeling my mana into him—

And recoiled.

Pain shot through me.

There was something else inside him.

A divine blessing.

Two energies clashed within him—aura and divinity. A contradiction. A battle.

No wonder he was doomed.

The priests looked away in sorrow.

The others whispered in frustration.

I… smiled.

They glared.

"No, no," I assured them, waving my hands. "I just love puzzles."

And this—this—was one I could solve.

Confusion was evident as everyone glared at me.

"I'll need inscriptional sigil spell-casting books. That would make it easier to get the result I have in mind."

And so, I was removed from the healing process and sent back, with Mitca furious. He claimed I had said the wrong thing, that Elton was now in even more trouble, and that the Duke would surely hear of it.

For two weeks after that scene, I was met with mistreatment and glares as I walked the castle halls, whispers of discontent and anger trailing behind me.

Word spread—I was undisciplined. I didn't know my place.

Soon enough, the Duke himself saw fit to intervene.

It was a grand affair—an orchestrated display of hierarchy and order.

The eight mages of the duchy stood in the castle courtyard before the assembled nobility, poised like war hounds awaiting the hunt.

From the balcony, the Duke and the Prince watched, their expressions impassive. Vernand stood beside them, lips curled in satisfaction.

"The court mage must learn respect," Vernand declared, his voice smooth with feigned concern. "Let him witness the hierarchy of order. He will learn his place in mage discipline."

The meaning was clear: I was to be humiliated. Disciplined like a disobedient dog.

The chosen battleground lay in the mountain ranges and dunes—a vast, open space where mages could wield their magic freely. It was the perfect setting for my so-called lesson.

I stepped into the ring, facing three opponents. Older, more experienced, their magic refined through decades of study. I was a mere third-circle mage, technically their equal in rank.

Yet Sire Doran seemed troubled. He had once called for my re-evaluation, only to learn it was out of his hands. Vernand's desperate attempt at humiliation was about to backfire.

"But rank means little when ability is unmatched," he murmured to the castle's high mage.

The high mage frowned. "Do you mean his mana density? I accounted for that."

Sire Doran sighed and stepped back, returning to the Duke and the Prince.

The moment the duel began, I moved.

Lightning crackled between my fingers, shaped into something unnatural—something new. A modified spell, twisted from the norm.

I ran toward the three, and they glanced at each other in confusion. Mages avoided close combat, yet I was closing the distance.

The first opponent faltered as his own magic turned against him, his barrier collapsing under a force it was never meant to withstand.

A second launched an ice spear—only for it to dissolve midair, restructured into delicate frost that clung uselessly to the ground.

One by one, they fell, their spells dismantled, countered, or twisted into something unrecognizable.

And then, it was over.

Silence stretched across the courtyard. The Duke leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Vernand's smile had vanished.

Sire Doran spoke, "All mages, engage the unruly spirit."

As if he were the Duke, no one opposed when the mages moved into the ring. I stepped back into position again—eight versus one. It was beyond unfair, but so was the opportunity.

The moment Sire Doran shouted, "Begin!"

I dashed, feeling my mana suddenly suppressed. I knew what it was: mana suppression by the higher-circle mages. This fight was to maim, not kill, as the limitation.

All spells were harmful but not wide-range casting, which worked in my favor.

Spacing and dodging spells—fireballs, lightning, and even earth-based projectiles—albeit painful, I had closed the distance.

Little did they know, casting spells against me was why the mage tower had prohibited me from attending mage battles—not that I had ever cared to go.

Seeing a spell was like me learning it, thanks to my profound rebirth. I had a photographic memory, and seeing runes or sigil discs allowed me to understand the spells, coupled with my mana sense. I was actively learning new spells.

Mirva was an elemental creationist-based mage. Fluma was earth-based. Tyira and Sky specialized in fire-based magic. Aster was water-based. Glick was a multi-utility mage, also the most dangerous among them. Thankfully, he was a third-circle mage. Higgs was also water-based. Finally, Luka specialized in wind magic.

I understood now why the Duke had once been so proud and strong—these mages alone were enough to cover all possibilities in a war, alongside aura knights.

Bound by constants to the noble's lands, it was no surprise that other nobles couldn't wait for the Duke to become a Baron, so they could rob him of his power. In other words, servants.

This year would immortalize his fate if he couldn't provide enough taxes, runestones, or reasonable grand rewards to the royal crown.

Now, within range of the group, Mirva floated in the air, summoning an elemental wind beast. I knocked out Glick with a punch as the others tried to swarm me.

Only to hear, "Stay away from him, or you'll go down like Glick!"

Mirva was quick on the uptake, but it was too late—Aster took a punch to the stomach, and he, too, went down. Most of the mages were moving slow, trying to retreat as Mirva couldn't attack with me mingled among his peers.

Luka and Sky would go down next from a slick roundhouse kick.

Now, only a fifth-circle mage floated on his beast, two third-circle mages left, and one fourth-circle mage remained.

"Well, this evens things up a bit," I said, stretching as Mirva stared at Mitca. He looked down at him, recalling all the times he'd tried to tell him to disobey, but Mitca had refused.

He now understood.

I was abnormal.

I was a bigger threat, too.

"Suppress his mana… no, attack…" Mirva stumbled, thinking for a moment. Suppressing me meant all three of them had to do so, and he would need to attack, but I'd close the distance faster than he'd be comfortable with. Even now, I jogged toward them as they ran.

Moreover, they couldn't suppress me while moving. No current mage could do that—unless they were at least a seventh-circle mage.

They panicked again, attacking as I dodged their spells or deflected them. No longer suppressed, I didn't need to dive for my life or try to flake them out with erratic movements.

Higgs was the next to fall, a victim to my grip as I held him down. I watched them gleefully. Sire Doran was amused, as was the prince and Duke, but not the head butler, who appeared visibly angry but couldn't express his frustration.

In a small stalemate, Tyira and Fluma asked to forfeit, but I grinned. "Not happening. You came at me with the odds in your favor, and now you're backtracking. I don't think I can let you off so easy. The only way out is if you can make it out of the ring or get defeated by me. Now, try flying… can't? Oh well, I guess I'll come to you now."

They began moving to escape the massive ring as I watched them, glancing at Mirva, who couldn't act. "You're last, Master Mage."

Annoyed but unable to act as I held Higgs hostage, Mirva hesitated. I cast quickly, and he flew down between the two fleeing mages. I smiled.

I cast with strength, and his eyes widened. Suddenly, the two running mages stopped, appearing dazed. It was an illusion-based spell, a wide-range effect but focused.

It was a new feat, or rather, a spell kept hidden by mage towers, but I had just shown it. A feat known to mages who specialized in illusion magic, yet it was clear I wasn't one of them.

"Just what are you?" Mirva asked, fear creeping into his voice.

"I told you before, I'm not by your standards," I said with a sigh.

"Is everyone in your mage tower like this? I knew they were prestigious, but to see it…" Mirva said, defeated.

I glanced at him, kicking Higgs repeatedly in the stomach to keep him from interfering with my match. I glanced back at Mirva.

"Show me some tricks, Mage Master," I said, walking away to avoid any bystander interference or crossfire.

He smiled, "…suit yourself. Being cocky is also a weakness. You infuriating headache."

"Woah, that's impressive mana." Mirva unleashed a powerful force upon the field. Three sigil disks formed around us as we began a true mage battle.

Moments later, as the duel unfolded with a trade of spells back and forth, the crowd watched in stunned amazement. A one-hundred-and-six-year-old mage facing off against a mere fifteen-year-old—me—was nothing short of bewildering. His mana far surpassed mine, but I had something else.

Each spell he cast, I countered just seconds after, mirroring his actions. With localized casting, I'd use my own spell and follow it up with the same one right after him, and with projectile spells, I cast them with precision, winning the exchange.

It was a battle of quality versus quantity.

Eventually, I realized I couldn't keep up with his mana. I had to end it.

The fight had already taught me more than I could have learned from reading any number of books. I'd gained new spells, new insights—things I'd never thought I could learn at my age, especially not through a battle orchestrated by our esteemed but stupid head butler, who was now undoubtedly upset. Sire Doran, however, was beyond impressed, as were the Prince and Duke.

As Mirva cast another projectile spell, I decided to counter with an elemental summoning spell, mixing all four elements together, along with the two elemental affinities—light and dark.

Mirva's spell collided with mine, and I barely dodged the impact, feeling the sting of it hit my leg and stomach. My leg flew off from the blow, and my stomach coiled painfully. Mirva shouted in victory, yet no one moved.

Above him, something emerged—a creature with a plant-like form, wings of white, eyes burning with fire, and a tail of water. A dark halo hovered over its head. It looked human in some ways, but also clearly a summoned creature of magic.

What separated elemental summons from monsters of the world was that they shone, gleaming with a magical glaze. This creature was no different.

The creature studied the battlefield for a moment, then turned its gaze toward Mirva, who seemed perplexed. Without warning, it glided to me. Using its vine-like appendages, it grasped my severed leg and gently placed it back in position, continuing to heal me with a soothing energy.

After a few moments, I stopped my quiet crying and whimpering, finally standing up. I glanced at Mirva, who had come to the realization that it was over.

He raised his hands, a resigned smile on his face. "You win. If only we'd known you were a fifth-circle mage before. Anyway, you can't kill me. Heck, I know I'm going to lose an arm, so be it."

As the elemental fusion beast moved toward him, I responded, "Nah, I'd win. Even as a third-circle mage, you said it yourself when we first met, right? Remember, 'What circle are you?' That was my hint that I was stronger then."

His eyes widened in realization as he reflected on my words, and I saw the gears turning in his mind. He finally nodded, understanding that my mana density had long surpassed his. Even a high-circle mage like him hadn't detected it.

"When did you become a fifth-circle mage?" he asked, his voice reflecting a methodical curiosity.

"About six to four months ago. I had another double awakening," I said casually, though I felt the struggle to control the elemental beast that was becoming increasingly hostile.

It had immense will and mana within it, drawing from sources I couldn't fully comprehend.

"How do I release this?!" I shouted, the pressure mounting as the beast thrashed around.

Mirva, now more composed, shouted back, "Suppress it, then absorb its mind's intent. You can feel its will—pull on that into your mana core and it should disappear!"

The viewers, sensing something was wrong, began to leave cautiously.

I closed my eyes, focusing intently on the beast, feeling its will, its overwhelming presence. For a moment, I thought I had it. But the struggle persisted.

After a few moments of stress and frustration, I lost my hold. The beast refused me, its anger flaring as it roared in defiance.

"I couldn't—what now, Mirva?!"

He laughed, stepping back slightly, his face bewildered as he watched the struggle unfold. "It will first kill you to gain complete freedom. Once you're dead, it'll drain your mana, then run rampant, destroying everything until it dies or disappears."

Hearing him explain it so casually, like it was my fault for summoning it, made my heart sink.

"I lost in the contest of will…" I muttered, only for the beast to charge at me.

But just as it moved fast enough that I couldn't dodge, it suddenly vanished in a flash of light.

Sire Doran stood, having cut it down with ease.

"Hmph, that was something. But it appears it's not dead," he said, his tone stern. "What kind of elemental creature did you summon? I've never seen it, nor heard of it."

Mirva glanced at the creature, which had regenerated and now turned its gaze on Sire Doran, then back to me. It was still alive. Still a threat.

The beast was cunning, its movements calculated and precise. It understood the gravity of the situation: I was its link to freedom, and Sire Doran was its end. The choice it faced was clear. I backed away slowly, watching as the beast carved into the ground beneath it, its movements deliberate. Then, without warning, it surged upward, and I found myself in the air alongside Sire Doran, its gaze fixed on us both. It hesitated, watching, weighing its options.

As we descended back toward the ground, I realized something critical—speed. Aura users operated on a completely different level of reaction speed compared to mages. While I relied on casting and technique, they moved with an agility that could outpace magic itself. Distance mattered, and now, more than ever, I saw why.

The battle shifted to a more physical exchange between Sire Doran and the beast. The onlookers, including the Duke, had long since vanished, leaving the arena mostly empty. More Aura knights had arrived, their presence adding a sense of urgency to the fight. But the beast wasn't easily overwhelmed. It had no Sigil disks or magical sigils; it fought with raw, beastly power—no spells, just instinctual strength and deep, primal force.

I was still the beast's tether, its source of mana, but I refused to give it what it wanted. This was my domain, my power, my control. I would not relinquish it.

The creature roared in fury, and its movements grew even more vicious. It didn't hesitate to kill two Aura knights outright, their bodies falling as it injected poison into others, incapacitating them with ease. Its vines—black and white, twisting and sharp—flung through the air, injuring anyone caught in their reach. But what stood out most were its wings. They weren't just decorative. They were shields. They guarded its back, constantly shifting in defense, as if it knew the danger it faced. Its eyes, burning with a fire unlike any I had seen, didn't seem to have a direct attack. Yet something about them felt off, unsettling.

Mirva and the other mages observed the scene closely, their expressions filled with awe and concern. Mitca, too, was watching with a mix of fear and admiration for the creature I had summoned.

"Master," Mitca said nervously, his eyes still fixed on the beast. "I hope they can take it down… or else you're in trouble."

I gulped down, feeling the weight of his words. I had created something far more dangerous than I'd anticipated. I should've known better than to get cocky. This was a brutal reminder of my own limitations. The situation had spiraled out of control, and now it was a matter of survival—not just for me, but for everyone involved.

The beast wasn't just a mindless monster. It had purpose, instinct, and a terrifying adaptability. The poison it injected wasn't the only weapon it had—it was using its environment, its wings, its eyes, and its sheer physical prowess to incapacitate its foes.

Then it hit me. The eyes.

What vision did they grant it? I had seen them burn with an intensity, but they hadn't shown any immediate effects. They weren't just for intimidation.

I realized with a chilling sense of dread that those eyes might grant the beast something more profound. They might allow it to see its enemies' weaknesses, to know exactly where to strike and how to manipulate its surroundings. Its vision could be enhanced with the ability to foresee attacks before they even happened. The beast's fire eyes were a type of precognition.

If that was true, this battle would be much harder than I ever imagined.

The creature's tail, moving with an eerie, almost purposeful grace, had become a new revelation in the battle. Every time the beast sustained damage, the tail seemed to regenerate it instantaneously, weaving a web of vitality into the very essence of its form. Healing factor. It wasn't just a brute force creature—it could heal itself faster than any of us could harm it.

I couldn't help but wonder how much longer it would last. "How long do summons last?" I asked Mirva, watching the beast carefully.

Mirva gave a grim shake of his head. "Depends on the mana used to summon it, its innate dimensional energy, and how much mana is required to sustain it."

I nodded, absorbing his words but remaining focused on the battle. "Well, it's not getting mana from me."

He glanced back at the creature, his brow furrowed. "Initially, it did, but now it should be running on fumes of its dimensional energy. Each time it uses its abilities, that diminishes its time on our plane. Given your insane mana density, I'd estimate it could last up to six hours in total, compared to my summons, which last only about two hours—without additional mana to sustain them."

I nodded in understanding, but the others were not as composed. Their anger was palpable, their eyes flashing with disbelief and frustration. "How could you bring down an S-class summon and not know anything?! How is that possible?!" Their questions hit like an assault of disbelief and confusion. This was a power they couldn't even begin to comprehend.

Before they could press further, Mitca spoke up. His words cut through the tension like a sharp blade. "My master is a genius who can mimic any spell he sees and make it better without knowing the basics. As long as it doesn't require anything special to make the cast, my master can cast it better than anyone."

I froze, caught off guard by Mitca's bold proclamation. I could feel my face heat up in embarrassment. I wasn't sure if I wanted that kind of attention, especially from the powerful figures around me. The mages, who had been glaring at me with a mix of awe and anger, now looked utterly petrified. It was as if they'd just realized they weren't facing a simple mage, but someone who could manipulate magic on an entirely different level.

Mirva, his eyes wide, couldn't suppress his awe. His gaze shifted to me with a mix of fear and reverence. "Why would the Mage Tower send you away?" he murmured under his breath. He stared at me, a realization dawning on him. "Nevermind… I figured it out. I can see it now."

He nodded slowly, as if piecing together a puzzle, understanding something far deeper than mere power. The political ramifications of my existence were no longer hidden. Mirva now understood the situation at play. My presence here was more than just a challenge—it was a symbol of something far more dangerous. Something that the Mage Tower, for reasons unknown to them, had cast aside.

And that made me both a tool and a threat, a paradox that would stir trouble wherever I went.

The event, now as a battlefield was quiet now, save for the occasional groan of the wounded and the whispers of those who had watched the chaos unfold. The summoned beast—my summoned beast—lay in pieces, slain by Sire Doran. But it had not gone down easily.

Doran stood over its fading form, his breathing labored, his stance less sure than before. Blood dripped from a wound on his side, and his left arm hung at an awkward angle, yet his face bore an exhilarated grin.

"Perfect," he muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his good hand. "I have been negligent in finding a suitable opponent." His eyes locked onto me, sharp and unwavering. "This beast you summoned… I want to fight it again."

I swallowed hard.

Could I even summon that thing again? And if I could… should I?

Doran's expression didn't allow refusal. I forced a nod, knowing that hesitation or refusal would only put me in more trouble. "I—I can try."

His grin widened, seemingly satisfied with my answer. As the prince's healers arrived to tend to the wounded, I backed away, letting them take over.

We returned to our castle in silence.

Mitca, walking beside me, wore the smuggest expression I had ever seen on him. He threw occasional glances at the others, his look saying, I told you so. I told you he's scarier than anything!

For him, this was a victory. Proof that his loyalty to me had never been misplaced.

But for the others?

They were silent. Some wouldn't meet my eyes, their thoughts clear—I will never cross him again. Others studied me intently, their expressions thoughtful—Can I learn from him? Can I grasp the power he wields?

And then there were those who remained stiff, their gazes betraying their thoughts—What happens now?

I clenched my fists. I had not intended for any of this. But the moment I had stepped into that ring, the moment I had let my abilities loose for all to see, I had sealed my fate.

***

Three days passed before I was summoned to the Duke's chambers.

I entered the dimly lit room, Mitca trailing behind me. The air was heavy with something unspoken, something inevitable.

Vernand sat behind a grand desk, fingers interlaced, his expression unreadable.

Elton, standing to the side, looked more amused than anything.

I met their gazes without flinching, keeping my pulse steady and my voice calm. "Did I pass your test?"

Vernand exhaled through his nose, lips pressed into a thin line. He studied me for a long moment, and I could almost hear the calculations running through his mind.

Elton, on the other hand, let out a low chuckle. "Test?" he repeated. "You tore through that like a hot knife through butter. If this were truly a test, you didn't just pass—you rewrote the damn requirements."

Mitca smirked. "Told you."

Vernand finally leaned forward, his gaze settling heavily on mine. "You've changed things, Maginus."

I stiffened. "For better or worse?"

"That," he said, "depends entirely on you."

I remained silent.

Elton stepped forward then, folding his arms. "The prince has taken a liking to you. As has Doran, and, though he won't admit it, Mirva." He smirked. "That puts you in an interesting position."

I already knew where this was going.

"The prince's health still requires close monitoring," Vernand continued. "His recovery is progressing, but he will need ongoing magical support."

I nodded. "I understand."

Vernand sat back. "As of today, you are officially the Mage Master of the Castle."

I inhaled sharply.

Mitca whistled. "Damn."

Elton grinned. "Quite the promotion, eh?"

I barely heard them. My mind was racing.

This wasn't just a title. This was power.

It meant authority over the castle's magical affairs. It meant influence. It meant responsibility.

And it meant danger.

Vernand's gaze darkened. "With this title comes expectation, Maginus. You will serve the prince. You will continue your research. You will wield your magic wisely. If you step out of line—"

"I know," I said quietly.

Elton clapped his hands together. "Good! Then there's just one more matter." He grinned at me. "Can you summon that beast again?"

I stiffened.

Vernand sighed. "Elton."

"What?" Elton shrugged. "Doran wasn't the only one who was impressed." He glanced at me. "Well? Can you?"

I thought about the summon. The raw power. The loss of control.

"…I don't know," I admitted.

Elton chuckled. "Well, I suggest you find out. Because sooner or later, someone's going to demand a demonstration."

I exhaled slowly. Of course they would.

Mitca nudged my arm, smirking. "Guess you'd better start practicing, Master Mage."

I shot him a glare.

But he wasn't wrong.

Elton's grin widened as he leaned against the ornate wooden desk. "You know, Maginus, I wasn't the only one to get a promotion today."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Vernand sighed, rubbing his temples as if bracing himself for whatever Elton was about to say. "Yes. The prince and I have agreed to reinstate Elton as the Head Butler of the Castle."

Elton's smirk deepened. "Finally, back where I belong."

Mitca whistled. "That's a big deal. Weren't you demoted before?"

Elton shot him a glare. "Temporarily reassigned—by Vernand here, who thought I was 'too unconventional' for the role." He stretched, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off old grievances. "But turns out, the prince prefers my unconventional ways."

Vernand's expression was tight, but he didn't argue. Instead, he stood, walking over to Elton with an air of begrudging acceptance. "You won," he admitted. "The prince has placed his trust in you. I won't contest it."

Elton clapped Vernand on the shoulder. "That must have killed you to say."

Vernand scowled. "More than you know."

I watched their exchange, sensing the layered history behind it. It seemed Elton's demotion had been more of a power struggle than anything else, but now, with the prince's decision final, Elton was back in full force.

And he was wasting no time enjoying his victory.

"First order of business," Elton declared. "I want every bottle of wine in the cellar cataloged, because I know some of those smug noblemen have been drinking on the prince's coin."

Vernand sighed again. "Just don't burn the place down."

"I make no promises."

***

News of my promotion and Elton's reinstatement spread quickly. Faster than I would have liked.

The nobility outside our lands had been watching for any signs of instability, and this sudden shake-up was bound to cause ripples.

Word reached us that several noble houses were already scheming. Some saw my rise as a threat—an outsider, now granted power within the castle. Others saw an opportunity—if I could be persuaded to join their cause, I could shift the balance of power.

One of Vernand's spies reported back with disturbing news:

"The Duke of Castiren is considering making a formal inquiry," the spy told Vernand and me in private. "They want to know why an unaligned mage of your caliber was placed in such a high position."

I frowned. "Unaligned?"

Vernand nodded. "Most high-ranking mages belong to something—a tower, a noble house, a guild. You belong to no one but yourself."

"And that's… a problem?"

"It makes you unpredictable."

Elton leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Not just that. If you don't pick a side, someone will try to pick it for you—by force, if necessary."

That was an unsettling thought.

I hadn't even had time to process my new responsibilities, and already, the political games were moving around me.

"Keep your head down for now," Vernand advised. "Show competency, but don't make unnecessary waves."

Elton snorted. "Yeah, that'll work. The kid just dropped an S-class summon in the middle of a tournament. You think anyone is going to forget that?"

Vernand pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn it."

***

With my new title came new accommodations.

I was given an entire wing of the castle to use as my quarters, complete with a study, training hall, and a private alchemy lab.

Mitca, of course, was quick to claim the room next to mine.

As we explored our new living spaces, he grinned. "Master, I don't think you realize how much of a big deal this is."

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Oh, I do—I just wish it came with fewer problems."

He laughed. "At least we won't have to deal with cramped servant quarters anymore."

He wasn't wrong. The space was luxurious compared to where we had been staying before. But I knew this was more than just a gift—it was a statement.

They wanted me close. They wanted to watch me.

While I was busy navigating political schemes and noble expectations, Mitca had somehow managed to find himself a new problem of his own.

Or rather, she had found him.

It started when one of the castle clerks—a young woman named Elyssa—began lingering around the training grounds. She was quiet, efficient, and had a habit of sneaking shy glances at Mitca whenever she thought no one was looking.

Unfortunately for her, I was looking.

I first noticed it when she "coincidentally" passed by during one of our sparring sessions. Mitca, usually cocky and full of bravado, completely lost his rhythm.

I narrowed my eyes.

The second time it happened, I caught Mitca sneaking glances back.

Ah.

The third time? She brought him food.

That was when I stepped in.

One evening, as Mitca was about to sneak off—undoubtedly to accidentally run into Elyssa—I stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He stiffened. "Uh. Nowhere?"

"Elaborate on nowhere."

"…To the kitchen."

I folded my arms. "Training hall. Now."

Mitca groaned. "Master, come on—I've been working all day."

"So have I." I gestured to the training grounds. "Which means I still have energy left. And if I do, you do."

He threw his hands in the air. "This is unfair! You're just jealous because I have a love life and you don't!"

I smirked. "Correction—you don't have a love life, because you're training."

He gawked at me. "Master, please—"

I walked past him toward the training dummies. "Unless… you'd rather spar with me instead?"

Mitca paled.

"…Training hall it is."

Elyssa, watching from the distance, stifled a giggle.

She knew exactly what had happened.

Mitca shot her a desperate look as if to say, help me!

She only smiled and waved.

Poor fool.