It wasn't accurate to say that every extremist was evil.
Rowan Mercer had learned long ago that labels lied more often than they told the truth. The so-called fringe movement Marcus Hale had described reminded him of something he'd seen before, in stories and in life alike. Groups branded as monsters rarely consisted entirely of monsters. Among them were reckless idealists, stubborn individualists, and people who simply refused to kneel. Some were cruel. Some were principled in their own twisted way. Some were capable of loyalty and sacrifice that put so-called heroes to shame.
And the "legitimate" side wasn't spotless either.
Institutions bred power struggles the way stagnant water bred insects. Internal politics, quiet betrayals, rivalries dressed up as tradition. No matter how noble the banner, there were always people beneath it sharpening knives for their own benefit.
In that sense, the continued existence of the fringe made a certain kind of sense. As long as there was an external threat, the established groups had something to point at. A reason not to tear each other apart. Remove that pressure entirely, and the conflicts would simply turn inward.
Then there was the third force. The largest one by far.
The state.
According to Marcus, there was a government body dedicated entirely to people like them. Officially, it was a logistics and delivery corporation, one of the largest in the country. In practice, it was a specialized agency created to regulate enhanced individuals and keep the general public safe. Every operative within it possessed abilities of their own.
Iron Front.
Unlike Europe, where magical communities largely governed themselves, or the Americas, where private interests and powerful conglomerates dominated the enhanced world from behind closed doors, this country took a different approach. Here, the government held the reins openly. No group, no matter how old or influential, dared challenge Iron Front directly.
Even the extremists understood that line.
They might provoke established organizations, raid facilities, or clash with rivals in isolated areas, but they avoided civilian casualties whenever possible. Not out of morality, but survival. Crossing that boundary invited consequences no one wanted.
Iron Front's stated purpose wasn't domination. It was balance.
They intervened only when someone threatened to expose the hidden world on a large scale or destabilize it beyond repair. Good or bad didn't matter. Anyone who tipped the scales too far was dealt with swiftly and quietly.
As for internal disputes among enhanced individuals, Iron Front rarely interfered. Those matters were handled by a council composed of ten of the most influential figures from the established groups. Their authority wasn't written into law, but everyone recognized it.
Most of what Rowan pieced together hadn't come directly from Marcus. Marcus had given him the outline, then pointed him toward an online forum frequented by enhanced individuals. Rowan skimmed through countless posts, arguments, rumors, and half-truths, assembling a working model of how the system functioned.
It wasn't perfect. But it was close enough.
By the time the conversation slowed, Marcus looked at Rowan with open curiosity.
"Something I've been wondering," Marcus said. "Were you born with your abilities, or did you acquire them later?"
Rowan considered it.
"I'd say later," he replied.
Among enhanced individuals, that distinction mattered. Some manifested abilities naturally, without training or external triggers. Others required structured learning, tools, or catalysts to unlock what they could do.
Rowan understood the difference well. Some wizards were born with rare instincts, capable of advanced techniques without formal instruction. Others needed years of study before reaching the same results. Talent mattered, but effort mattered just as much.
In this body, Rowan's abilities clearly fell into the second category. Without education and discipline, he'd be powerless.
The truth, of course, was more complicated. His real self carried both innate abilities and learned techniques drawn from many worlds. But that wasn't information anyone here needed.
Marcus nodded, satisfied.
"I've never met anyone trained overseas before," he said. He hesitated, glancing at the bottle in his hand, clearly remembering how it had flown across the air earlier. "If you're willing, maybe we could spar a bit. Just a friendly test."
He raised a hand quickly. "If not, forget I said anything."
Rowan smiled.
"Why would I refuse?" he said. "I'm curious myself."
Marcus's interest in foreign methods was mirrored perfectly by Rowan's curiosity about domestic training. Especially from an institute with this reputation.
"All right," Marcus said, grinning. "Follow me. And no matter what happens, don't mention this to my supervisor."
He led Rowan through a series of narrow paths and service corridors, weaving past restricted signs until they reached a small wooded area behind the main grounds. The trees were dense, the ground packed flat from repeated use.
"This is where I usually train," Marcus said. "At this time of day, no one should bother us."
They took positions facing each other.
Marcus brought his hands together briefly, a simple, respectful gesture rather than ceremony.
"Our institute doesn't focus on tricks," he said. "Everything goes into conditioning the body and strengthening the mind. So stay sharp."
"Understood," Rowan replied, mirroring the gesture.
From their short time together, Rowan had already formed an impression. Marcus wasn't arrogant. He wasn't trying to show off. The warning was genuine concern, not bravado.
Against an ordinary foreign wizard, that explanation would've meant little. But Rowan understood exactly what Marcus implied.
This style emphasized physical resilience, speed, and internal reinforcement. No flashy techniques. No ranged theatrics. Just overwhelming close-quarters pressure.
The moment the sparring began, Marcus proved it.
Energy surged across his body, subtle but unmistakable, and he lunged forward with explosive speed. The distance between them vanished in a blink.
"Fast," Rowan murmured.
He raised his wand and cast a binding spell, testing the waters.
The invisible force shot forward.
Marcus twisted aside effortlessly, the spell tearing through empty air as he drove in with a palm strike aimed at Rowan's chest.
Rowan stepped back and conjured a slowing field. Marcus pushed through it, his movements dragging for a split second before adapting.
A second binding spell followed.
This time, the slowdown caught him off-guard. The magic wrapped around Marcus's limbs, locking him in place.
"Huh," Marcus said, impressed rather than alarmed.
With a sharp shout, he forced his body to move. Muscles strained. The energy reinforcing him flared, and with a violent jerk, he tore free of the spell.
Rowan's eyes gleamed.
"Strong resistance," he said quietly. "Let's see how that holds up."
The test had only just begun.