Corvin entered the Lightning Hall with the same calm purpose that now defined his presence at the Arcanum. Without hesitation, he approached the registrar's crystal console and selected the name currently ranked 70th on the Lightning leaderboard.
The challenge structure was simple: to enter the top 100, one had to first defeat the 100th ranked duelist. From there, each challenger could only ascend in increments of ten ranks per match. Corvin had already dispatched the 100th, 90th, and 80th-ranked duelists over the past two days. Now, he was aiming for 70th.
As his opponent was being summoned to the arena, Corvin leaned back against the observation tier and let his thoughts drift.
Back to the meeting.
Varyel Vaelion had put on a performance, diplomatic, formal, but lined with desperation. The chamber had been arranged with two neutral Magi mediating the discussion. Everything was phrased with care, calculated to preserve dignity on all sides.
The first offering was wealth: a substantial gift in gold and enchanted gems from House Vaelion's coffers.
The second was a formal and public apology written and sealed by Varyel himself, with declarations of humility before the Synod and the academy.
The third was more... archaic. A marriage alliance, one of the young maidens of the house, a cousin of Nareth, trained in courtly etiquette and low tier magic. A peace pact through blood.
The last offer was darker.
Nareth's life.
"If none of these satisfy you," Varyel had said, his tone as hollow as his pride, "we will deliver you Nareth's head."
Corvin had listened in silence. The mediators did their best to spin everything as gestures of honor and atonement, suggesting this be the final settlement to put the affair to rest.
He had only accepted the gold.
The apology, he ignored.
The bride, he rejected.
And as for Nareth, he didn't want the boy's head. That would be too quick.
Nareth was sentenced to six months of house arrest. A symbolic punishment dressed up as justice.
Corvin didn't care. It was never about the boy or revenge.
It was about setting a tone.
There would be no young master antics during his time at Umbraxis. No arrogance without consequence. No foolish bloodline pride getting in his way. No calling the elder of the clan, after that the secret elder, the top secret elder, the founder, the secret founder.. He really hates the cultivation vibes. In novels in his life on earth and reality here in Verthalis. Experiencing Nareth was enough to anger him.
And now, with the matter handled, he could return to the leaderboard.
His name was rising.
And the Arcanum was watching.
--
The next set of matches were a breeze for Corvin.
Neither the 70th nor the 60th ranked opponents had anything to offer. Their techniques were predictable, their casting pace sluggish by comparison, and their confidence inflated by the illusion of rank. Corvin dispatched them without effort, gaining no new insights, only a slowly building irritation and a twitch in his left eye.
Then came the 50th.
Another young noble.
This one stepped onto the dueling platform with the confidence of a peacock and the voice of a theater actor.
"You may have crushed those below me, commoner," he announced to the sparse audience, "but from here on, the ranks are built of heritage and discipline. Our noble blood does not kneel to base mercenaries."
Corvin didn't reply.
He raised both hands.
Twin arcs surged from his palms, white hot and immediate. The noble didn't even finish his dramatic stance. The first bolt broke his shield. The second sent him skidding across the platform, convulsing from the overload. Smoke curled from his chestplate.
The match was over in seconds.
Corvin didn't spare him a glance.
The 40th and 30th ranked students fared better, if only marginally. But even they couldn't handle the sustained pressure of his layered casting.
By the time his fifth challenge ended and the leaderboard registered his current placement, 30th his daily challenge limit was reached.
Around him, whispers swirled.
The incident with Nareth was spreading like wildfire. Students across all halls were retelling the events with growing exaggeration: how Corvin had walked into a confrontation, mind raped the heir of House Vaelion, and left a message of extinction on his tongue. Now, his rapid ascent on the Lightning leaderboard made him the subject of every whispered conversation.
Fear tinted the air. Respect clung to the silence that followed him.
Even so, he hadn't wasted the day. He had spent ten of his thirty daily spores on the 40th and 30th ranked duelists. And it was worth it.
Their lightning control was refined. More than brute casting, they had developed a technique of folding arcs, manipulating them mid flight in two or three bends. It altered the mana resonance. After the third fold, the arc transformed: its color shifted from purplish blue to bluish white, its width thickened, and its power increased dramatically.
What began as a bolt became a thunderclap.
And Corvin had seen it. Siphoned it.
Learned it.
The leaderboard wasn't just a ladder.
It was a workshop.
And he was starting to enjoy the craft.
--
When Corvin entered the Space Magic lecture hall the following day, silence rippled across the students like a falling curtain. Conversations halted mid sentence. No one met his gaze.
The fate of Nareth Vaelion was fresh in everyone's minds.
Corvin took his usual seat at the back, arms folded, eyes half lidded in silent observation. He didn't need to speak. His presence alone did enough.
When Magus Selharen entered, a smirk ghosted across his sharp features. He scanned the room with evident amusement.
"Told you so," he murmured, loud enough to be heard. "Let's hope there's no more foolishness."
A few students swallowed visibly. The atmosphere was cold, tense with unspoken fear.
Corvin activated the rest of his daily spores, sending them out to the students he hadn't siphoned last time. He was meticulous, precise. By the time Selharen began the lesson, Corvin's spores were already harvesting new insights and magical habits.
The lecture was informative, if unnecessary for Corvin. He had absorbed most of the principles already, but he still listened. Selharen spoke about directional anchoring, phase slipping, and high compression teleportation. A form of breaking down one's mass to slip through compressed space before reconstruction.
Corvin raised a question during the segment on long range jumping: "Is it more efficient to use a fixed ley beacon for multi phase jumps across distances, or does live adjusted anchoring scale better with power reserves?"
Selharen gave a thoughtful answer. The topic shifted. Another question. Another measured reply. To the rest of the class, it was educational. To Corvin, it was confirmation.
While he expanded his knowledge in the Arcanum, far to the west in Gilded Dominion, Duchess Yvanna stood at the center of a polished marble council chamber lit by enchanted lanterns. Her hands rested on the throne's curved arms, and her brow was furrowed.
Holy Verranate forces were pressing political pressure on her rule, accusing her of heretical ties, pushing for a reappointment of governance under divine arbitration. Some claimed her bloodline lacked purity, others whispered of shadowy dealings.
But Yvanna had her own plans.
"Send a missive to our contacts in Eldrithas," she said. "Invite Raven. Discreetly. Tell him I require his consultation. Make it sound delicate, noble and urgent."
She didn't say it aloud, but everyone in the room knew: she wanted him back. Not just to help solve her problem.
To bind him to her court.
Even if just for a little longer.
--
Archmagus Vaelorin sat alone in his chamber, the mage lights casting long shadows across the polished obsidian desk. He turned the report slowly in his hands, one page at a time. The incident with House Vaelion. The full recounting from Magus Selharen. The sudden withdrawal of Corvin Blackmoor from Magus Velkhar's classes. And, most telling of all, his meteoric rise through the leaderboard.
The Council of Six might act as a collective, but individual influence still mattered. If Vaelorin could bind Corvin to the Synod not just as a mercenary, but as a true agent of their doctrine, his standing would become unshakable.
He folded the report and knelt beside a small shrine tucked in the corner of his quarters. Pale silk draped the edges of a beautiful figurine. The scent of oils filled the air.
He bowed his head, whispering prayers to the Dark Mother Lloth, thoughts of ambition and binding swirling behind every reverent word.
Meanwhile, Corvin sat quietly on the outer balconies of the Aetherreach Spire, eyes half lidded as he waited for his spores to replenish.
He had used them earlier on his classmates. Now, the hall would be dormant for a few hours.
He stood, took a breath, and vanished.
Half a dozen teleportations later, he was already more than twenty kilometers from the Arcanum, deep within the shaded groves of Umbraveyn's forest.
Each jump carried him further, cleaner. The spell was more than instinct now, it was becoming a reflex.
But reflex wasn't enough.
He wanted more.
He aimed higher with each burst, pushing range, refining control. He anchored mid air between trees. He landed on narrow stones near streams. He folded his own mass tighter, faster. By the time dusk approached, he was already skimming the edges of twenty kilometers on each jump.
Space Magic was more than battlefield escape. It was inventory, mobility, freedom and control. It turned the world into a hunting ground with no hiding places.
But even that wasn't enough.
He paused atop a boulder, one leg drawn up beneath him, his gaze distant.
There were only two continents he hadn't yet stepped foot on.
He wondered idly where his fourth assignment would take him and how far he'd be able to teleport when it came.