Magic Breaker Ch 217 - 219 (Patreon)

Chapter 217: The Legend of Ion

Heading back to the fourth ring, I feel good about what I’ve done. Made a deal with Owl, gotten a recharge, visited people. It was… nice. Almost. The rain comes down on my hood, and I make my way to the purekeepers that guard the gate to the fourth ring.

Except, of course, it goes poorly. One of them stretches out a hand, holding me back. “Take off that mask,” she demands. 

Slowly, I tilt my head. “Why?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes. “New regulation,” the purekeeper hisses softly. It’s one of the ones that escorted Jean up. “We need to make sure we know your identity, to confirm there’s no dirt on you.”

“Bummer,” I said. “This trip was going really well.” I’d not hurt or killed anyone. Genuinely, it was really successful. And now, it was about to be ruined.

I see the woman get a little annoyed. “I am asking you once more. Take off that mask or we’ll have to use force,” she says, frowning, shadows broiling around her hands.

Next to her, the other purekeeper looks mildly scared of this situation. She’s a zoof, her beady eyes darting from me to the other guard and back to me. “Hey, calm down. This ain’t worth it,” she says quietly, elbowing the scithian guard.

Except, of course, the shadow-wielder’s wings flare. They’re made from smooth onyx, with cracks of ruby laced through them. “Take off the mask.” she orders. Her authority builds, interlacing with the city networking, steadily growing with each passing second.

So, instead of fighting, I do the smart thing. I just turn around and walk away. I take a single step, before, sadly, the woman steps forward. A shadow cloaked hand reaches for my shoulder. “Hey,” she says, grabbing onto me. “I was talking to you.”

“Please let go of me,” I reply steadily, though my tone grows colder. “I am particular about my personal space.” The words come out practiced, something I have to say far too often. 

“Too bad,” the woman hisses, pulling on my to turn me around. Sighing softly, I go along with the motion, letting her see my face properly, lifting a lantern to let her take in my features. Then, when she sees my bandages, she hisses. “What in the… What happened to your face?”

I frown in annoyance. “Please let go of me,” I repeat, more urgent this time.

“You, I recognize you,” she says. Her hand squeezes around my shoulder.

“No you don’t,” I say. “Now, I am asking one more time. Let go of me.”

“Or what?” the guard goes, and the expression on the other one shifts. The zoof looks nervous, scared, but the scithian just keeps pressing her authority into me. It feels suffocating, in the same way that crowded spaces do.

Am I a wanted criminal for multiple reasons? Yes, absolutely. But still. This sucks. I don’t want to be bothered like this. Already, I feel my lungs struggling to work. Like I’m suffocating. Her hand feels like fire on my shoulder, even through the cloak, and I just want her to let go. To stop touching me.

But she’s not listening, is she? I bite my lips. What’s one more crime, anyway?

Defiance flares to life. My razorblade necklace cuts into her hand, leaving a small, bleeding wound. Instantly, the purekeeper flinches, taking a tiny step back. Then she grimaces, steps forward, reaches for my hood, and pulls.

For a moment, the shadows retreat. For a moment, rain drip-drops onto my hair.

Then it touches my headphones.

And the world goes red.

Mana floods out of me. I don’t hold back, not a drop. Like a roaring tsunami, it floods through barely formed channels, mangling my insides. It roars without a pattern, just a controlled blast, a brutally powerful concussive burst of mana, the simplest attack I can manage. In a moment, the pure’s eyes go wide.

Then, the torrent of power smashes out of me. It lifts from my skin, tearing open a bloody gash, and then slams into her. In one instant motion, she’s slammed backwards, sent flying, smashing into the wall. Her armor creaks with the motion, the zoof flinches, and the stone cracks faintly.

Very gently, I pull my hood forward again, ensuring my headphones stay dry. I take a deep breath, trying my hardest, my very fucking hardest to find it in me to forgive her. 

“You’re falling dead, scum,” she hisses, and draws her sword. Shadows creep along its length, and even as the zoof cowers, I find myself less inclined to be kind.

I shatter her spell. I’m familiar enough with shadows, with Kuro, to make it easy. More mana rips through me, taking the same path, and a violent [Deconstruction] tears her spell apart. The steel of her weapon creaks, and the enchantments on it light up. I sneer. They’re pathetic.

I reach out, wrapping my hand around the steel sword, and let my mana rage. My attunement loop drops away. Blood leaks from my fingers as the woman tries to tear the sword from my grip and it slips slightly, but I hold on. “I can forgive you for being a jerk,” I hiss. “I can forgive you for touching me, just barely. But never, never mess with my headphones. That’s beyond what I can forgive.”

Fear flickers in her eyes just once. My mana courses forward, and in a single moment, I overload and shatter every single rune engraved on the sword. A series of tiny, glowing blue cracks spread down the blade, and when I let go, the steel crumbles to bits. Shards of metal fall to the floor with the same cadence as the rain.

[Inscription 27 > 28]

[Job up! Core Controller 18 > 21]

The purekeeper steps back, and the zoof tries to step up, but I stand there and stare. “One step towards me, and you die,” I say quietly. The words come out calmly, deadpan, without a hint of emotion. 

Showing an incredible amount of restraint, I do nothing at all. I just stare. I let my mana flow in carefully controlled waves. I let the blood drip-drop to the floor from my ruined skin, and I stare. My vessel is still more than halfway full.

Wiping some blood from her lips the scithian guard grimaces. Her weapon is broken, but more than that, it’s her spirit. I cut into their authority too, which must hurt as hell, even with the reinforcement provided by the city. The zoof looks positively terrified of me, cowering.

“I’ll tell on you, bastard. What’s your name?” the scithian woman asks.

Staring at her, I shake my head softly and shatter the attack she was quietly preparing, her shadow rippling as she grabs her heart in a burst of sudden pain. What a coincidence. I kick her with my prosthesis, and she topples to the ground. “Please don’t touch me in the future,” I say calmly. “I’m particular about my personal space.”

Then, finally, I walk through the gate.

- - -

I let the rain fall through the shadows where the woman grabbed me. Wetness soaks through my shirt, onto my shoulder, and I rub the spot, as if washing away her touch. I hate it, hate how comfortable people are about doing that. My hand stings, but the hurt matters far less than the violation.

Slowly, I focus on my breathing, leaning against a wall in an alley. It’s evening, the clouds darkening the sky as always, and as night comes, the perpetual twilight is replaced with an almost absolute darkness. Not that it bothers me - I can’t see, after all.

Someone else does see me, though.

“You!” the noble brat shouts. 

Nope. Fuck that.

[Obfuscation 15 > 16]

Shadows wrap around me, and the glitter-covered young feryran frowns. “Lars!” he calls. “Unveil that cretin!”

I blink. Lars? The name sounds familiar. 

A fire lights up in the darkness of the night, the brightness going through my blindfolds, through my ruined eyelids, and hitting my ruined optical nerve. There’s an indistinct heat against my face, and I reflexively cover it with a hand.

“With pleasure,” the human sneers. It is Lars. The same guy that the Flametouched sponsored, the same guy that Opal threw into a gutter, sending his butt right back to the fourth floor. I almost snicker as I notice him. 

But I hold in the noise, instead breaking the fireball he tosses at me. The shadows grow a bit deeper, and Kuro growls as the pyromaniac steps in. “Huh? I recognize you!” he says

“You’ve got the wrong person,” I say. 

Lars leans in, shaking his head as he stares at me. “No,” he says quietly. “No, I don’t think I do. You’re that weird fuck. The one who stopped me from burning some fools. Fuckin’ hell, were you the one that threw me back down to the fourth floor.”

Smiling at the memory, I shake my head. “That one was, verifiably, not me. I didn’t touch you.”

“The fuck you mean?! I passed out while staring at you!” Lars snarls, leaning in close, his face hovering in front of mine. 

I feel the limits of my ragged patience approaching. A small, gentle sigh leaves my lips. I look from the moron fucking nobody with the jewels all over him, then to the idiot arsonist who can’t tell reality and a game apart for the life of him. And I decide, then and there, that I don’t want to be polite anymore.

“I mean, Lars, that you’re a disgusting fucking creep, and I would literally rather slit my own throat and choke on blood than let you touch me, weirdo. The only reason I didn’t have my friend kill you then and there is cuz I hoped you’d learn, but what you instead did is band together with some puffed up nobody who thinks having an authority makes him the biggest dog around. And now, I have two pathetic, worthless idiots trying to ruin my evening,” I say, calmly and deadpan. 

Lars stares. The noble boy is going red as a tomato. I hold their gaze.

“Now, please, fricken scram before I start a fight with you,” I say. It’s my last, kindest warning, because I’m very tired.

A moment passes in quiet. Then, the noble boy opens his mouth, and all that comes out is a tirade of insults and complaints. “Hey,” Lars says, laying a hand on the man’s lips. “Shut the fuck up, fake.” Which tells me he still holds that idea.

His eyes rest on my face, my eyeless bandages. He wipes his nose and sniffles, taking a small step back, but slowly, a grin creeps onto his lips. The kind of glint that comes with hatred. The noble bites his hand hard enough to draw blood, but he doesn’t withdraw it.

“Okay,” Lars says. “That was a pretty fucking good speech. You still think these people are real. Shit, good for you, honestly. But let’s not get things twisted. This fuckin’ NPC is bankrolling me. I’m doing quests. So, let me get the expansion pack. Hey, bossman!” he yells, turning to the noble, grinning even brighter. “Get me a duel!”

Instantly, the jewel-encrusted idiot freezes, and turns to glare at me. He spits out Lars’ hand, a bit of blood trickling across his metallic lips, and he sneers at me. “A duel?” he asks. “Fine, a duel, yes. I formally challenge you, Ion, to a duel!”

At that, Lars’ face changes. “Ion?” he asks, whisper quiet. The expression flips from joy, to surprise, to vicious glee. “Oh, holy fuck. You’re the real deal, huh?”

Slowly, I tilt my head. “A duel, huh? Okay. If I win, I want… a hundred polished jewels and an item of my choice from your family’s treasury. I also want to remain entirely anonymous in appearance for the entire duel.”

“Deal,” the noble hisses. “What if you lose?”

Smiling softly, I reply easily. “Two skill patterns, including a healing-skill.”

This time, silence ripples across the entire street. Onlookers go quiet, and withdraw. Guards turn their heads. The noble licks his lips with greed, and Lars’ grin turns almost feral. I can see it in him, the desperate desire to burn me down, reduce me to ash. “Deal,” Lars says easily. “Hah. Finally, I’ll get my pick at you.”

Then, I look at the noble. “What’s your name, actually?” I ask.

“Elliot,” he spits, disdainfully. “Elliot Richter.”

“Good day, Mr. Richter,” I say with a nod. “You can have a letter sent to my residence, Upwind Manor.” Then I turn around, and put my music back on, drowning out the noise of the rain and the jeers thrown my way. People clear out when I walk on the street. 

I breathe in deeply, then let out a sigh.

Seems I’ll need a new mask. Trouble.

Chapter 218: Preparations

“Sylveeeeeeees,” I whine.

“Yes?” the polite fairy asks me as I barge into her room and proceed to flop onto her bed, face down.

“I need a new cloak,” I say, speaking to the mattress more than her. 

She tilts her head. “Okay. Sure.”

“And a new mask.”

“Right.”

“And a whole outfit.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” she says cheerily. “Why, though?” she asks. “I know you love what you’ve got going on.”

I smack my face into her pillow again and groan. “I do,” I say. “But I got challenged to a duel under the name Ion and now I have to probably kill a fucker and I just don’t want to deal with that in my day-to-day. The guards are gonna be so annoying otherwise, Sylves.”

For a moment, there’s a bit of silence, then the faerie snickers. “Can I ruffle your hair?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say.

With my permission, she does just that, messing it all up, and making a fair few strands hang into my face. “Alright,” she says happily. “You got yourself a duel. Is this… making a statement?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m running some noble for all they’re worth. Richter family.”

“Ah, jewelers, right?” Sylves asks, rubbing her chin with glee. “Well, I’m sure we can get you a good outfit. Mask… hmm, maybe we can get something made from wood, and have Thatch paint it. Something scary. Big, glowing eyes, no mouth?” she suggests.

I nod eagerly. “Awesome,” I say instantly. 

“And for you, yourself… We want Ion to build a reputation here, yes?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Right, so what if…” Sylves hums, quickly flipping through the air to a rack of fabrics on her walls. She pulls on a few of the rolls, and a few smaller pieces in stashes. “Something in white?” she suggests. “It’ll show blood. It’ll stain. You can be brutal and violent and show what Ion is all about.”

I hum, unsure, but she keeps chattering anyway.

“You’ll need to manifest your mantle. A white cloak that’s waterproof… hm, maybe a satin blue? To pair with your hair-”

“Yes,” I agree instantly.

She smiles happily, then taps my nose. “Knew that’d get you,” Sylves chimes chipperly. “Right. I’ll get you something done. A statement piece. Blue-white, maybe some golden gilding. Talk to Thatch for your mask.”

“Okay,” I say. “You’re not mad?” I ask.

Sylves laughs at that, then gives me a bright smile. “Not at all. I wish I got to dress you up more, rather than less!” she assures me. Then, she waves her hand. “Now, shoo, I’ve got work to do.”

“Wait,” I say, checking my mana. “We can work on your arm a little more before then.”

Her eyes light up and she nods. I leave an hour later, after sharing a dense meal with her and Richard, then promptly putting those calories to use.

- - -

“A mask…” Thatch hums. “Yeah, I can make it work. I can even carve it myself, it it’s a simple design. Spikes?” he asks. 

I nod. “For sure, make it menacing.”

He smiles. The gentle expression looks beautiful on his handsome face. “Knowing you… no mouth, no facial features, just eyes, right? Preferably hiding every bit of skin you have?”

I nod.

“You’re lucky my job recently changed to ‘artist’, rather than ‘painter’. I can shift my essence to have a bit more carving. We’ll need to buy some wood, but it shouldn’t be too much trouble - trees are hardy. Might be a few chits, though.”

“That’s fine,” I shrug. “I’ll win the money back.”

He smiles, then holds out a hand, and with a small sigh, I drop a few chits into his hand. Instantly, he pockets them, then gives me a small bow. “I appreciate your patronage.”

“I love supporting artists, what can I say,” I shrug, then smile. Thatch smiles, too, and for a while, I sit with him, watching him paint our garden. Eventually, though, I walk off, heading back to do more of my own thing.

- - -

Hey, tower? I’d like to use a minor request to see how much it takes for Respitia to give out information about me.

[Request confirmed, consumed. You have: 2 minor requests, 1 lesser request left.]

[Respitia the Pure must expend at least 1 greater request in order to dispense direct information on you to her faction.]

“Why is it so expensive?” I ask out loud, leaning on my hand.

[Processing. Acknowledged. You are eligible for this information.]

[As part of the potential protection agency, the tower automatically assigns each individual a ‘legend’. The more feats they possess, the more protections against being instantly crushed by higher beings they will receive. As a counterweight, these protections consistently degrade if no new feats are detected. An initial protection period upon integration is applied.]

In short, I’m protected because I’m strong. If I’d remained on Earth, on floor 0 and refused to climb, then my protections would have degraded, to some degree at least. Curious. “Are there any official titles associated with this protection-thing?” I ask.

[Affirmative. The individual Ion is currently logged without any official title.]

Oh, interesting. “Are there any benefits to titles beyond protection?” I ask.

[Affirmative.]

It doesn’t say anything else. I smile, a tiny bit. “It’d cost me to hear more?”

[Affirmative. The individual Ion has exhausted information that may be gained via minor request. Recommendation: Acquire information on your own merit to win requests. Recommendation made due to high skill-level in relation to supremacy.]

With that, the screens in front of me wink out, and I lay down on my bed. Tomey-tome floats in front of me, held up by my mana, which I’ve shaped into ghostly hands. They’re a little clumsy, but they do work well.

The pages flip pointlessly, because I’m still blind, but the information still flows into my head. Word by word, I learn. Sketch by sketch, I absorb the essence it holds, feeding it my mana to maintain the integrity of the treasure. 

And the Tower’s words echo in my head. It wants me to prove my own merit, then? Now I’m curious what ranks there are. Really, properly curious. A small smile dances on my face. 

I’m reminded, once again, why I like this. There’s always another mystery around the corner, isn’t there? I complete a class, I get an epitaph. Then mantles, authorities, etching epitaphs, mutating and fusing skills. Training my stats up naturally, skill-patterns, treasure-items and sponsorships. 

And now, even though my authorities are still at their infantile stages, I’m already looking at the next goal, the next thing to do. Titles, the kind that grant you certain rights. Mainly, I really like the idea of not being squashed by bigger things. 

The Deceptive Manipulator had to use an ascendant request to mess with a trial, for example. Perhaps, if we’d been judged as having more potential, I wouldn’t have lost my arm. If we’d been judged to be stronger, then we could have gone further already.

So I want one. I want one, just to rub it in Respitia’s face. To show her that she can’t touch me. 

A small sigh leaves my lips, and I practice tomey’s techniques more. Mana pulses out of me in waves, then roils back in. Gentle emanations that strengthen my resistance against it, and let my mana store more energy without ruining my body. 

Mana ripples so beautifully. It’s rhythmic. Usually, I don’t like the ocean. It makes me afraid of drowning. The salt irritates my eyes, and I hate how it sticks to my skin and hair. Same with sand. But mana isn’t like that.

Mana listens to me. It’s almost polite in what it does. It solidifies when I ask it to. It helps me see. And sure, it might be constantly trying to rip my body apart from the inside, and would turn me into a bloody smear within half a second if I stopped holding it back, but hey. Everyone has flaws.

So, for now, mana gets to be my buddy. My good buddy. I feel tomey and Kuro a little, and then keep reading, keep absorbing essence. Building my archive and my mantle as my mind rattles over skill patterns. My skills grow, not just in levels, and I keep learning.

A letter flies against my window, the paper propelling itself. It tells me to meet someone for a duel at the embassy of the monarch of Downpour in a week from now. 

Soon, I’ll fight in a duel. I’ll make a statement. I’ll let them know what’s coming for them.

And I’ll run them for everything they’re worth.

Chapter 219: Day of the Duel

I wear my new clothes. It’s the closest thing to a suit I’ve worn in a while, and it’s all white. A pale, shiny white, with golden lines down the buttons and the edges of the blazer I wear.

The shirt itself is already long, longer than a button-up usually tends to be, and my blazer is even longer, reaching almost to my knees, with widened shoulders and a narrow waist. It looks good, and I’m annoyed at that. 

My new cloak is gilded as well, and Sylves and Thatch even invented a little icon for me. White cracks spiderweb across the pale-blue cloak, the pattern faint. They gave them to me early enough that I could enchant them, too. Mainly, I put on fire resistance, so that Lars doesn’t instantly turn me naked.

That’d really suck, y’know? I’d have to make clothes from mana, and that just seems like a pain. For now, Kuro hides in my shadow, as I wear the new hood. The golden edges would be bright in the corners of my eyes with how far the hood extends forward, but I’m still super blind, so it doesn’t matter.

Instead, I just take a deep breath, fixing everything in place once again. I pull on a pair of pale-white gloves that extend to my elbow, just to make sure that none of my skin shows. The button-up and jacket are both long-sleeved, so this is a precaution in case the gloves bunch up or slip.

And then, finally, there’s the mask.

It’s a beautiful, wide piece of wood, its inside and outside etched with hidden runes, gingerly painted over in whites, blues, golds and purples. Skies ring the edges of the mask, and two iridescent, yellow-orange eyes stare forth from it. It’s the kind of stare that goes deep into someone’s soul, and I love it.

There’s no other facial features on the mask. No mouth, no nose, just eyes, with swirling patterns of colour spiralling across it, and spiky protrusions reaching out from it as it covers my whole face. Underneath it, my neck is wrapped in yet more fabric, with a white scarf covering all gaps in the outfit. 

Slowly, I breathe, feeling the wood catch the air a bit. The mask doesn’t have eye-holes, because… well. I feel like this is obvious. And it’s perfect. As I wear it all, I give myself a mana-scan, and nod.

“Awesome,” I say.

“I would style your hair, too,” Sylves suggests, humming as she flits about me. 

Thatch just looks at me with a big grin. “Terrifying,” he says. “We could do a different parting. Tie the hair back, to properly show off the mask. Give it one or two loose strands to dangle between the spikes.”

“Oooh,” Sylves hums happily. “I quite like that. Snow?” 

Sighing softly, I nod. “Alright,” I say. Instantly, the faerie is upon me, her hands gently combing my hair backwards, pulling it into a small ponytail that brushes the back of the scarf. She holds the hair down with one hand, tying it together with the other.

Her newly regrown arm is still a little thin. But it’s back. She has a full arm, a hand with five fingers, and she can move them. It looks a little odd and mismatched, one of them full and beautiful, while the other one is a bit… skin-and-bones, but we’re working on that. Still, it does what an arm is meant to do.

Smiling brightly, she regards me again with the job done, and nods. White twine hangs down from where my hair is tied, and Thatch nods with approval, too. There are a few dangling strands that don’t quite make it to the ponytail, still brushed back but ready to get artfully messy in the fight.

“Be honest. If I weren’t wearing a mask, would you have asked to put make-up on me?” I ask.

Sylves nods instantly. “Absolutely.”

Thatch shakes his head. “I don’t have a death wish.”

I snicker softly. Make-up is tricky, because it always feels like something sticky on my skin. It’s why I can barely stand sunscreen. Sensory nightmare. Even all this fabric is only tolerable because it’s soft and light. I breathe in once again, then nod at them.

Inu stands in the doorway with her arms crossed and smiles. “You look great, Snow,” she compliments, and Opal quickly nods in affirmation.

They, too, get a smile from me, though it’s hidden by the terrifying mask magically stuck to my face. “Thanks,” I reply easily. “Sorry that you can’t watch.”

“No prob,” Opal says, grinning. “Means you’ll have to be extra thorough when you tell us about it.”

“If things go to shit, just send me a distress signal,” Inu says with a smile, her [Empathy] attached to me in a thin tether, and hidden by [Obfuscation].

I nod silently. “Of course. I got this,” I reply casually. My heart beats in my chest. I’m nervous.

Lars is sponsored. He’s probably a few dozen levels above me. I don’t have control over the environment, and people will be watching. But I can tolerate all of that. All that matters is crushing them completely.

So, with all of my friends approving, I take a deep breath. “I’ll be off, then,” I say, put up my hood, and head into the rainy streets, cloaked in shadow and [Obfuscation].

- - -

The monarch’s embassy is a large building, looking more like a palace than an embassy. It has castle-like walls, and a whole colosseum-style structure in the back. The shadows spill off me, and I walk inside, reporting myself to a wide-eyed receptionist. He takes me to the back, where I’m scheduled to wait for my announcement. 

It only takes about ten minutes for my name to be announced. The loud noise drones in my ears. I didn’t bring my headphones, since there’s a real chance they’d break, so it gives me a slight headache, but I push through and step out into the arena.

My shoes touch down on soft, white sand that doesn’t stick to me. Moving slowly, I pull off my hood, pale-white hair waving in the wind. The whole arena is covered in a large, translucent blue dome of mana, keeping the rain out. Dozens upon dozens of nobles fill the stands, flobs and descenders, as well as their mercenaries.

But my eyes are drawn to only one person, one single presence that so easily eclipses them all. 

[Skybringer, lv. ???]

Three question marks. Apparently, each question mark means a hundred levels. So three of them is supremacy level 300 to 399. Fuck.

An authority like none before wraps around me. It’s charged with crackling energy, the power of a thousand lightning bolts, and yet, it hovers a millimetre from my skin, never quite touching me. My mana crashes against it in waves, and when the holder of that enormous threat looks upon me, I shiver.

“Ion,” the voice comes. It’s a calm, collected tone, neither high nor low, with the gentle surety of superiority. The person holding it is an automaton, but they look stunningly human. Smooth, golden filament springs from a bronze skull, spilling over their robes like hair. Their face is molded from little metallic plates, interlocking and intersecting.

Eyes, biological eyes crackling with lightning, are set into that metallic face, staring me down. Their face holds no mouth, but their voice reaches me anyway, the whirr of metallic plates ringing from in between their robes. “I am Erodyl, monarch of Downpour. Your legend is known to me.”

“The Monster of the first floor. The Stormbreaker of the second. Guildburner of the third. And on the fourth, your greatest creation, the grand array that killed Ezekiel. I know your story, I know why you are hunted by my lady Respitia, and I say this to you:

“I am sorry.”

[Respitia the Pure gasps in outrage.]

“My lady Respitia wishes for absolute control,” Erodyl says. Their voice is kind, but their eyes are hard. “I disagree with this. But I am not an Eye. I am but a simple avatar, a monarch. But you asked for anonymity in this duel, and so, I grant it to thee. No one shall glimpse you. If your obscurement breaks, you have my word that I will uphold it.”

Silence hangs heavily, and I can tell that the nobles are stewing. Grimaces and frowns spread across the crowd, but no one dares refuse the regal automaton, their sky-blue robes cloaking bronze gears. I simply look upon Erodyl, and feel a shiver.

Even now, their lightning is pointed at my skin. Even now, I feel like I am a single step away from ruin. They could erase me with a thought, a single spell. Even with all my protections, I feel like I’m a mundane human again, with a gun pointed at my face.

And despite that, all I do is not, and gently bow my head in thanks. I don’t kneel, even when their authority crackles with power and ignites fear in my heart. Even when I stand before the greatest power I’ve ever witnessed, an unshakeable person who I cannot surpass on these floors.

“Good,” Erodyl says. “Then, by my powers as monarch, I sanction this duel. There may be no assistants, no additional tools but was is brought into the arena, and no additional interference from anyone in presence. Ion Stormbreaker shall face Lars, avatar-candidate of the Flametouched, representing house Richter, in single combat.”

More voices ripple through the crowd. Elliot stares at Lars as he enters the arena, dressed in black and red. He didn’t know, apparently. Didn’t know that he was an avatar of the Flametouched. But that is fine. 

I breathe in, slowly. The silicate settles underneath my boots. My mana ripples out of me in a wave, then courses back into me as it bounces off the sand. 

Lars stands before me, grinning wildly, his black hair wet from rain. He wears no cloak, nothing but a tank-top and jeans. He looks dangerously casual, but I know it’s a lie - because he is decked out with weapons and gifts.

Sponsored, by both an Eye and wealth. Fighting for the honor of a “quest giver” he doesn’t care for. But he wants to burn me. Burn me for insulting him, for calling him out, for daring to exist in a world that is his.

That’s fine. I forgive him. 

But I’ll break him, anyway.