The Glitched Mage

The Monolith pulsed again.

But this time, the light was different.

Not the steady, rhythmic glow of earlier challenges. This one was slower. Heavier. As though the stone itself understood the weight of what came next. A hush swept across the Training Grounds—not from awe, nor fear, but reverence. Even the air had changed, dense and coiled, like a storm held at bay.

Riven stepped toward the obsidian stone, his fingertips brushing its surface.

The glow responded—deep violet at first, then overtaken by radiant gold. Names flickered and fell away like autumn leaves in wind until only one remained, branded across the Monolith with divine certainty.

Rank 1 – Cassiel Vaigne

Gasps swept through the crowd the moment the name seared itself across the Monolith's surface. Some were sharp, drawn in like a blade caught between ribs. Others came softer, more hesitant—barely audible breaths released by those too stunned to speak. But every sound carried weight, and every face held the same shocked expression.

Cassiel Vaigne.

His name wasn't just feared—it was revered. Spoken with the kind of reverence reserved for the most famous of mages and Paladins. Cassiel wasn't merely the top-ranked student, he was the pinnacle. The golden standard. The one whose divine mana had never faltered, whose victories were so complete they'd become myth within the Academy's walls. First-years whispered about him with wide eyes. Second-years spoke his name with wary respect. Even third-years, some long since graduated from dueling, remembered the feel of his presence on the field—how it bent the air and silenced sound.

He wasn't someone you challenged lightly.

Cassiel hadn't clawed his way up the rankings—he'd been placed at the summit, and no one had ever reached high enough to force him down. Until now.

As the golden letters of his name pulsed with living light on the Monolith's surface, the air seemed to constrict around the arena. Conversations died mid-sentence. Movements stilled. All attention narrowed to one point, one truth—Riven Drakar had reached the summit.

And Cassiel Vaigne was waiting. The son of one of the great Paladins of the Solis Kingdom, heir to a bloodline steeped in holy magic, and the undisputed top of the second-year rankings since his first step onto the dueling grounds.

And now, he would face Riven.

The Elder didn't speak — he didn't need to.

The summoning circle lit the ring, but unlike before, it did not spark or flare. It opened like a gate—slow, radiant, sure of its own strength. Light bloomed from the glyphs in threads of white and gold, weaving the outline of a tall figure forged in brilliance.

Cassiel Vaigne stepped forward.

Golden hair tied neatly back, eyes like liquid honey. He didn't glow—but everything near him seemed brighter by proximity. His armor was ceremonial yet battle-scarred, marked with subtle sigils that pulsed with divine mana. At his side, a longsword etched with radiant script hung silent—its edge kissed by sunlight.

The arena, for a moment, seemed too small to contain them both.

Fire and divinity.

Shadow and sunlight.

Cassiel didn't draw his sword immediately. Instead, he stood still, golden hair catching the light like it had been spun from sunlight itself. His honey-colored eyes narrowed slightly—not with arrogance, but with something more difficult to place. Wariness. Curiosity. Calculation.

"I've been watching you, Riven," Cassiel said at last, his voice calm and steady—measured, yet sharp enough to cut through the charged silence hanging over the arena. "Not just today. For the past month. Whispers reached me of a student climbing too fast, drawing too much attention. At first, I thought it was just noise."

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly, the gold in them darkening like a storm behind sunlight.

"But then I saw it. That flame of yours… it doesn't behave like fire should. It doesn't blaze—it devours. And that unsettles me."

Riven didn't speak at first. His expression remained unreadable, though a faint shimmer of heat curled from his shoulders.

"You weren't the only one who took notice," Riven said quietly. "The king summoned me himself. He studied the flame—examined it firsthand. And in the end, he declared it nothing more than a dark-colored fire. An advanced affinity. Unusual, yes… but still within the bounds of what's understood."

Riven paused, then tilted his head slightly. The edge in his voice was cold now. Sharp.

"Are you saying he was wrong?"

Cassiel's eyes flared.

A flicker of indignation rippled through him, almost too fast to see—but Riven caught it. The tightening of his jaw. The slight shift of his stance. The subtle way his hand moved closer to his sword hilt.

"I serve the Crown," Cassiel said, each word heavier than the last. "I have trained to become a Paladin of the royal house—its shield and blade. I don't question the king."

Riven's response came like a breath before a storm. "Then you have nothing to fear."

He drew his blade.

The abyssal fire rose with it—not roaring, not wild, but deliberate. Patient. It curled along the edge of the weapon like a shadow made flame, as if remembering every duel that had brought him to this point.

Cassiel's fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his blade, the leather grip groaning under the pressure. Whatever restraint had held him in check moments before, whatever composure he wore like armor—it cracked. He didn't speak again. There was no need.

Silence fell between them, heavy and final.

The Elder raised his hand, eyes sharp, breath held like the rest of the arena. For a moment, time seemed to hesitate—then the hand fell, cutting the air like a blade.

"Begin!"

Cassiel advanced, his every movement composed, deliberate—like a statue carved from light had chosen to walk. Divine mana shimmered around him in slow waves, causing the air itself to bend. His sword hadn't even touched Riven yet, but the pressure of it was already there—radiant, resolute, inescapable.

Riven didn't falter.

He moved just as he had in the Created Training Space, his instincts sharpened, his mind running ahead by seconds. There was no time for long engagements. Not with someone like Cassiel. He had to finish this fast, overwhelm with precision, force a misstep—because if he allowed Cassiel to dictate the flow, he'd lose the tempo, and the match.

Crimson Mirage erupted.

Afterimages split and scattered, moving with chaotic rhythm. Riven darted forward from the left, but two illusions broke from the right and rear—flanking from all sides.

Cassiel didn't move.

Not yet.

Then—his sword lifted. It shimmered once and golden arcs erupted from its edge.

Blades of holy mana surged outward like lances of dawn, tearing through the mirages as if light itself rejected shadow. The afterimages burst apart in glowing trails of dissipating heat, revealing the real Riven barreling in from above.

Cassiel turned.

His sword rose just in time to catch Riven's strike—and the two clashed.

The sound was deafening. Not just metal on metal, but power on power. Divine radiance met abyssal fire in a blinding flash, gold and black grinding against each other in a storm of sparks.

Riven landed hard, his boots skidding against the arena stone. The resistance had been like striking a mountain wrapped in sunlight. Cassiel hadn't moved.

"You've trained well," Cassiel said, his voice calm even as his blade pulsed brighter. "But this is where your climb ends."

He stepped forward—and the ground beneath him cracked.

Radiant glyphs burst into being beneath his feet, expanding in a wide circle, their design intricate and sacred. The audience gasped as the divine array locked into place, threads of holy magic coiling like sunbeams caught in glass.

Cassiel raised his blade.

"Sanctum Unbound."

Light erupted from the circle, bathing the arena in a golden aura that swallowed shadows and compressed pressure into purity. Riven's flames hissed in protest. The abyss recoiled—not in fear, but in resistance. As if the arena itself now belonged to Cassiel and was rejecting anything born of darkness.

It felt like suffocation.

Riven's lungs drew breath, but it came heavy. His mana pulsed against the field like a heartbeat under siege.

But he didn't stop.

He moved through the pressure—every step calculated, every motion honed in the crucible of his own private hell. The Created Space had taught him how to fight in disadvantage. How to read and react under oppressive conditions. And this?

This was just another storm to walk through.

He launched forward again—this time not with finesse, but force.

His abyssal fire surged, coiling around his blade in jagged threads, then flaring outward in a black-edged arc meant to cleave through the golden veil.

Cassiel responded in kind.

His sword swept upward—light gathered to the edge, compressing, focused into a narrow blade of radiant destruction.

The attacks met midair.

For a breathless second, it was like time froze.

Then the explosion hit.

A wave of pure force rippled across the Training Grounds. Students threw up arms to shield themselves. Elders raised protective wards. Dust and mana burst upward in a cyclone of light and ash, obscuring the field.

Only two remained visible—two silhouettes in the eye of the storm.

Riven charged again, low and fast.

Cassiel moved to intercept—this time with a feint. He slid left, then twisted sharply, driving his shoulder forward as a pulse of divine energy exploded from his chest like a shockwave, forcing Riven to brace or be thrown.

But Riven didn't brace.

He absorbed it.

The abyss around his body hissed, coiling inward, swallowing the divine strike and bleeding it into black mist. He pivoted, reversed his grip—and slashed upward from the ground.

Cassiel blocked—but the force staggered him.

It was the first time his boots shifted on the stone.

The crowd noticed.

So did the Elders.

Archmage Elara leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed not on Riven—but on the black flame winding tighter and tighter along his spine. She felt it now—barely leashed. Something beyond flame. Something that shouldn't belong in this world. And yet here it was, moving like a predator with purpose.

Riven pressed the advantage.

He didn't give Cassiel space. No breath. No time.

Riven struck again—low, then high, then a sweeping arc meant to bait Cassiel's guard. The Paladin deflected two, but the third clipped his shoulder, forcing a grimace across his otherwise composed features.

The divine aura flickered—faint, but real.

Riven saw it.

And he pressed harder.

Every clash, every exchange, wasn't just a battle of strength—it was a siphoning. The Abyss, coiled around his blade like a waiting serpent, drinking from the golden mana with each strike. Not violently. Not fast. But enough. Enough to weaken.

To erode.

Cassiel's blows were still punishing—pure arcs of radiant mana designed to burn darkness away—but Riven didn't fight them head-on. He slid beneath them, redirected them, let their brilliance wash over him only for the Abyss to sink its fangs in and devour the edge.

Bit by bit, Cassiel's light dulled.

It was slow—agonizingly so—but Riven could feel it in the rhythm of the duel. The divine pressure pressing down on the arena began to lessen. The golden field dimmed. Cassiel's glyphs shimmered less brightly. And Riven's abyssal flame only grew darker.

Sharper.

Hungrier.

Cassiel staggered after a particularly brutal exchange, his blade grinding against Riven's as sparks scattered between them. The Paladin gritted his teeth, a golden sigil flaring at his wrist to reinforce his grip—but Riven leaned in, eyes blazing with cold fire.

"You feel it, don't you?" he whispered. "The tide turning."

Cassiel growled, shoving him back with a burst of raw mana.

"I am the light of the Crown," he snapped, stepping forward with righteous fury. "You will not extinguish me."

But Riven didn't answer.

He was already moving.

Abyssal fire licked the edge of his blade as he spun, feinted right, and then lunged from the left. His sword met Cassiel's with a scream of colliding forces—and this time, it slipped past. A shallow cut across the ribs. Nothing serious. But enough.

Cassiel winced.

Riven landed and pivoted smoothly, not letting up. Every time their blades met, the Abyss siphoned more. Divine mana bled from Cassiel's strikes like light bleeding from a cracked lantern. It dimmed. Again. And again.

Riven fought like he had in the Created Space—ruthless, clinical, without a single wasted movement. This was the culmination of every simulation, every shadow duel, every silent hour of pain and progress.

Cassiel lashed out with a burst of divine light—an orb of compressed radiance that detonated against Riven's chest.

But the Abyss swallowed it.

The shockwave tore through the field—but Riven didn't move. The black fire around him coiled tighter, laced with void-colored veins that shimmered like cracks in the world. The next swing came fast—faster than Cassiel could fully react.

Steel met steel.

But this time, Riven's blade slid down the divine edge—and stopped at Cassiel's neck.

The match froze.

The crowd didn't move.

Even the wind dared not speak.

Cassiel, breathing hard, didn't flinch—but his sword arm wavered. The divine glyphs circling him flickered, then faded.

His light was spent.

Riven stood still, his sword poised like judgment.

The Elder stepped forward, eyes wide but voice steady.

"Enough!"

The match ended.

And the Monolith behind them flared one final time—this time not in violet or gold, but in a strange union of both. Shadow and sunlight braided into a single pulse of light.

[Rank 1 Achieved – Riven Drakar]

The crowd remained silent.

Cassiel stepped back, lowering his blade with slow, measured control. He didn't bow. Didn't offer praise or bitterness. But his eyes lingered on Riven longer than before, searching his face as if trying to find something he couldn't quite name. The usual contempt was gone—replaced instead by a quiet wariness, a tension that hadn't been there at the start of the duel.

There was something in the way Riven moved, in the way his flame had twisted and consumed—not simply burned. And Cassiel had felt it, even if he didn't understand it. Not just raw power… but an echo of something older. A whisper clinging to the air even now.

He said nothing. But as he turned away, his expression was no longer that of a Paladin certain of the light.

It was a man who had seen a shadow—and recognized that it had depth.

Riven lowered his sword, breath controlled, though beneath that calm, a subtle tremor ran through his limbs. It wasn't pain that caused it—it was the strain. The cost of holding the Abyss so close for so long, letting it bleed through him like ink through cloth.

But it didn't matter.

The summit had been claimed.

The climb was over.

And now—

It was time to return home.