Chapter 100 — Blades Against the Wind
Most magic in this world bent toward the elements—fire, water, ice, earth, wind, and lightning. Spatial magic was far rarer, practiced only by the most gifted archmages. Reyn, however, had long since stepped beyond such boundaries. Rather than devote himself to a single element, he forged artifacts and devised spells inspired by heroes of stories from his old world, creating powers no mage here had ever dreamed of.
The southwestern dukedom was unlike the rest of the Empire. Here, magic was not simply respected—it was worshiped. Entire noble families bound their lineages to a single element, feuding endlessly to prove their art supreme. Fire against lightning. Water against ice. Earth against wind. Rivalries as old as their bloodlines. Their loyalty to the royal family remained steadfast, but their reverence for the church had withered away. Over the years, faith was replaced by pride in spellcraft.
Their love for magic ran so deep that when Vice Count Magnum began selling Reyn's revolutionary magic-tech, no region rivaled their hunger for it. Treasuries were emptied for artifacts that bent spellcraft in ways once thought impossible. Every gear, rune, and circle was studied as if it were a holy scripture. Yet even the brightest among them struggled to grasp what they held. Reyn's designs were centuries ahead of their understanding; it would take decades, even lifetimes, for the dukedom to truly comprehend them. Magnum's craftsmen could only build those artifacts because Reyn's design book left nothing to chance—each rune, each circle, each part laid out step by step, like a map drawn by a genius.
It was into this land of magic-obsessed nobles that Garrett and his young pupil, Theo, now rode. Their arrival at the border city, domain of Count Aerondale Ventis—whose family commanded the winds—was anything but subtle.
The moment Fenrir roared down the cobblestone streets, the city stirred like a hive. The black wolf-shaped motorcycle snarled as if alive, its engine drinking mana directly from the air, runes along its frame pulsing faintly with each roar.
"What is that contraption?"
"It moves without a magic core!"
"Impossible!"
Shock quickly curdled into greed once it was discovered the riders were not mages but swordsmen.
"Then they don't deserve it."
"A machine like that belongs to a true mage."
"Buy it from them—or take it!"
The crowd swelled—apprentices, merchants, even jeweled nobles—every eye gleaming with covetous hunger. Fenrir, once only a steed for the road, had become the prize of the city.
A jagged blade of compressed air screamed toward them. Garrett yanked Fenrir sideways, tires shrieking sparks as the spell split the street where they'd stood. Theo swung his shrunken Buster Sword from the sidecar, steel ringing as he met a spiraling gust head-on. The impact rattled his arms to the bone.
"Hold tight, kid!" Garrett roared, grinning even as his coat whipped violently in the storm.
Dozens of mages surrounded them, forming a living cyclone. Whirlwinds crashed like hammers. Walls of slicing air erupted from the ground, boxing them in.
Garrett leaned into Fenrir. The motorcycle's runes flared, thrumming with the mana it drank from the air. Its roar was alive, almost mocking the spell-throwers. With a screech of tires, it tore through a wall of wind.
Theo vaulted from the sidecar mid-spin, Buster Sword blazing. Sparks flew as steel met staff. Twisting midair, he slammed the flat of his blade into a mage's chest, sending him sprawling unconscious.
Another mage summoned a spiraling vortex. The suction ripped Theo's feet from under him, dragging him toward the maw.
"Not today!" Garrett bellowed, wrenching Fenrir sideways. Its spinning rear wheel tore up cobblestone, launching gravel into the gale. The stones became bullets, pelting the mage and breaking his concentration.
The vortex shattered in a thunderclap, and Theo rolled free, breathless but unbroken.
They were outnumbered twenty to two. Yet in the chaos, Garrett and Theo became a storm of their own. Theo darted between slicing gusts, his blade flashing with every counterstrike. A crescent of compressed wind clipped his shoulder guard, sparks flying, but he pressed on—slamming the flat of his sword into a foe's chest with a crack of steel.
Garrett was a juggernaut. His Fusion Sword spun like a windmill, scattering gusts as if swatting gnats. He fought to subdue, not kill—every flat strike sent mages flying into fountains, crates, or haystacks.
"Come on! Is this the best wind's got?!" Garrett's laughter boomed louder than the storm.
Theo snarled, batting aside a wind scythe with the blunt edge. "Why do they ALL have to be wind mages?!"
"They're not used to anyone fighting back without magic," Garrett shot back, elbowing another attacker into the dirt.
The square was chaos—fruit stalls overturned, cobbles split, banners torn free by the wind. Garrett and Theo held their ground, but the tide pressed closer.
Then a voice boomed like a thunderclap.
"ENOUGH!"
A piercing whistle followed, and armored figures descended from the sky on currents of wind. The city guard—elite mages sworn to order. Their coordinated gusts scattered the mob like leaves, sending would-be thieves sprawling.
"Stand down, citizens!" the captain barked, his voice amplified by a spell. "This is no way to treat guests of the city!"
Grumbling and groaning, the mob dispersed under the guard's authority. In moments, silence returned to the battered plaza.
The captain, silver streaks running through his dark hair, turned toward Garrett and Theo. His eyes lingered on Fenrir, then on the Fusion Sword across Garrett's back.
"You two caused quite the storm," he said, half-amused. "But you held back—you fought only to protect yourselves. That speaks well of you. No one will touch your… artifact."
His gaze sharpened. "Tell me. Where did you obtain such relics?"
Garrett straightened, voice calm but edged with weight.
"Both were gifts—this machine and the sword on my back. Crafted by a good friend of mine. You may know him by the name spreading through taverns and markets: the Blacksmith of a Thousand Tales."
At that, Sir Caelum's gaze flicked between the weapon on Garrett's back and the strange construct parked behind him. Gasps and whispers rippled from the crowd.
> "The blade is incredible, yes—but that machine…"
"An artifact beyond classification. Not carriage, not golem—something entirely new."
"He doesn't just forge weapons… he forges wonders."
"No blacksmith could do this. A sage, surely. A Sage of a Thousand Tales!"
Sir Caelum exhaled slowly, his tone shifting from scrutiny to reverence.
"If your words are true… then your friend is no ordinary craftsman. He is a sage who walks among men."
He placed a hand to his chest in salute. "I am Sir Caelum Ventis, of his house guard. If it pleases you, I extend the Count's invitation. Tonight, if possible."
Before Garrett could answer, Theo tugged at his sleeve.
"Master, don't trust them," he whispered fiercely. "What if they just want Fenrir? What if they try to steal it?"
Garrett chuckled, ruffling the boy's hair. "Relax, kid. Nobles have been chasing me for jobs since before you could swing that sword. I've dealt with their kind plenty."
He leaned lower, voice steady with confidence.
"And if they try anything—we're more than strong enough to protect ourselves."
Theo frowned, still uneasy.
Garrett's grin widened. His stomach growled audibly.
"Not to mention," he said with a wolfish glint, "noble food. Whatever traps they lay, I'm not missing a free feast."
The guards exchanged glances at his boldness, but Sir Caelum only smiled faintly, as though amused. With a flourish, he gestured down the road.
"Then follow me. The Count awaits."
---
The count's estate rose like a marble beacon at the city's heart. Stable hands rushed forward in confusion as Garrett wheeled Fenrir toward the stables.
"Park her with the rest of the stallions," Garrett grinned, patting the handlebars. "She deserves the spot."
Theo hopped from the sidecar, arms crossed.
"I'll stay out here. Send me food when it's ready. Someone's gotta keep an eye on Fenrir."
Garrett raised a brow. "Kid, you're too tense. This is a noble's mansion, not a battlefield."
"You don't trust mages who spend half their lives scheming about power. I'll train while I wait." Theo drew his shortened Buster Sword and spun it in a practiced arc.
"Better than wasting time at some banquet," he muttered.
Garrett laughed, shaking his head. "Suit yourself. But you've gotta learn to relax one of these days. Training's good—but so's enjoying a hot meal that isn't cooked over a campfire."
Theo practiced under the fading sun, Fenrir gleaming beside him like a silent sentinel. Servants passed, trays in hand, stealing glances at the bike while performing their tasks. The boy's gaze never wavered, though each whisper and awe-filled stare reminded him that the world outside the battlefield could be just as unpredictable.
Finally, the mansion doors creaked open. Garrett stepped out, tugging at his collar, shoulders slumped, exhaustion in his eyes.
"Finally," he muttered. "If I had to nod politely one more time while some noble bragged about wind spells, I might've fallen asleep standing."
Theo sheathed his sword. "So? What did they want?"
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. "At first? They just gushed about Fenrir and their wind magic. Questions about the bike, endless talk about mana and engineering." He smirked. "Thought I'd be talking about this all night."
His expression darkened slightly. "But then… the topic shifted. Some of their best men went missing while investigating disappearances near the southwest border. They've already lost too many. Now they want us to find out what happened."
Theo's eyes widened. "So… we're being sent into danger?"
"Exactly," Garrett said, grin returning despite the tired lines on his face. "Sounds like the kind of problem only a couple of swordsmen can handle."
Theo frowned.
"Rest up, kid," Garrett added, patting Fenrir. "Tomorrow, we earn our feast… and hopefully survive the quest."