Black Magus

Magus Everandus 'Necro King' Cole.

***

Regrettably, I had to hold off on Jamettus’ suggestion for Amun’s artisans. Like Sir Corey before them, Lady Sinclare and Sir Giorno made what was already a short assessment even shorter. With magnificent displays of chain and severing magic, their opponent was dismembered and scattered across the arena before the crowd's excitement could even die down.

“Edward Pascal!”

“What say you, Ev?” Jamettus muttered to me as he subtly cast a mix of mana down to the floor. “Are you going to challenge this one or not?”

Withholding my words, I inwardly scanned the sea of souls swirling within me for a suitable opponent while I amiably observed the young craftsman go through the motions.

As it’d been at the Academy, Edward’s smoke magic was neither good nor bad in attack or defense. It was like the darkness, in a way. Formless, but immune to heat rather than cold. It could kill, though not through blunt force or pierced skin. Its power was infecting the body, weakening the mind in turn. It was an effective tool against the living but was ineffective against the undead and inanimate. With his awakening, however, his weaknesses seemed to have been all but covered. His second affinity, Torch Magic, according to his file, conjured a blue-white inferno that either vaporized or melted the three bullet spells and their caster on the spot, forcing Jamettus to once again reform the golem, only for Sir Pascal to crumble it to bits with his Force Magic shortly after, but not before the golem’s bullets were halted in place by the same force.

The last and most interesting affinity of all was the never-before-heard-of Tungsten Magic. A metal that appeared like steel at a glance, if not for its cracking in the face of a few bullet spells; regardless, it remained intact. And more, a small cube of the material served to rip the man-sized golem off its feet and send it hurtling into the wall as if it’d been shot by a ballista. At which time, I slipped back into the Fell without a word to subsequently become lost in nostalgia for a moment.

It was clear that a denizen of Betrarth wouldn’t make the cut for a worthy opponent. The next tier would have been those from beyond the White Wall, but I felt even those hardy souls would fail to give us the show we were after.

“You couldn’t have just trained them yourself, Ev?” I berated my past self.

With my reserve of Nonusian souls being remarkably low in comparison to the other realms, I quickly pulled out the first Ice-tier Imp I could grasp hold of and dipped my hand into the physical plane.

While feeding death mana out of my core, up to my throat, and into my voice, I ordered. “Bullet spells for thirty seconds, domain spells for one minute. After fighting in such a manner, you are free to do as you must to bring Edward Pascal under submission. Do not kill or mortally wound him. And do not leave this ring…” I continued on with the agreed-upon rules while the demon soul settled inside its new body; and like many times before, I retracted my hand into the umbral plane with a sour taste in my mouth.

Rather than return to my seat beside Jamettus, I stepped halfway into the private booth reserved for the Mages. Much like in every booth, the center, forward-most seats were reserved for the Grandmaster and her direct subordinates. The others were lined along the sides. Staring at the large windows displaying the perpetually meek young man standing before a sentient Necromental. It had to be said, however, that his meekness was a result of his innate character and that alone. Like all of Amun’s little faithful followers, Edward Pascal was unfazed and unconcerned with the overwhelming shadow of death looming over him.

Perhaps it was because they grew accustomed to the pervasive feeling over the years, or perhaps it was due to their master’s necromancy being far more potent than mine. All I knew was that this assessment wasn’t properly testing these initiates.

“I think this is why the Necro King was unwilling to help you, Madame,” I heard Master Mage Heydon say. "They are too experienced with death magic."

“You don't say?.” I scoffed into the dark realm. Then stepped out. “The reason this test is too easy is because of your persistence in establishing a handicap.”

While her subordinates leaped from their seats to turn about, Vilignin and Heydon remained focused on Edward, cheerfully sending bullets back at the necromental at twice the speed they came in at while he heated a large chunk of his tungsten floating above him.

“What are your suggestions for improvement, Sir?” The Grandmaster monotonously asked.

“Remove the rules and increase the power.” I amiably shrugged. “War requires unconventional methods, so we will make our methods unconventional."

“Edward is the last of the non-combatants.” I continued after a short pause. “Unfortunately, Lucia Pike has already assessed; though, if her performance is to tell us anything, it’s that this assessment is nothing more than a show and tell.”

As if to prove my point, Edward released a deafening shockwave, accelerating his scalding metal pillar into a white-hot blur that preceded a mind-shattering explosion. Though the boxes to our peripherals erupted into applause at once, sheer indifference could be seen in the face of every mage present.

“Very well.” Vilignin coldly nodded. “I’ll leave it in your hands, Sir.”

I returned to my seat just in time to see Toril O’Connell settling into place before the little golem. Having Fulgum blood in his veins, he’d long since been a powerful mage in the making. After assimilating his well with another one, however, he surpassed his entire family line and stepped into the Diamond tier of wells like the royals themselves.

Like before, my mind churned while I amiably watched him display remarkable accuracy with his lightning bolts, or stop and crumple the bullets and boulders in a crushing cloud of visible gas, and pin them down to the ground or blow them to dust in spectacular explosions. And when it was time, I slipped off into the shadows as before.

This time, however, I added the rough equivalent of Toril’s mana reserves into the golem before packing the soul of a diamond-grade Oni inside, imbuing my voice with death mana, and saying. “Debilitate Toril O’Connell. Do not kill him and do not destroy or leave the ring. Wait until he makes the first move to begin.”

Though it was still the same size as Toril, the necromental was blooming with more raw power than necromental energy, allowing the demon soul to make full use of the fiery affinities of the base unit it was provided. Finally giving the event some appeal, in my eyes.

Naturally, Jamettus noticed the change at once and gave all the wordless signs of his compliance. It was clear, at that moment, that he and I agreed upon the same things: that the Guild Association cared more for their innate affinities and magical prowess than their resilience, mental toughness, battle sense, or diligence- the true things that distinguished Guild Masters from their lesser peers. It was clear to us- to everyone, that Vilignin’s words were merely lip service, that this final phase of the assessment had been nothing but mammoth shit up until now.

Seeming to grow tired of waiting for the match to start, Toril proceeded with drawing his weapon and billowing out a powerful gust of wind as if he were taunting his opponent. In response, the demonic necromental let out a blood-curdling scream before spewing a stream of iron-chunked lava across the arena.

Without pause, Toril reinforced his body with lightning and darted out of the way fast enough to leave an afterimage; still, the necromental persisted with a steady arc of molten material. Splattering the arena with pockets of blisteringly hot material in the wake of Toril, zig-zagging around the arena with an ever-increasing speed and intensity until he reached the top of the dome. Where he descended atop a lightning bolt to bring the hammerhead of his axe down on the necromental’s head.

The glowing iron skull deformed into a flattened plate under the force of Toril’s attack; that force went on to distort the rest of its body until the ground was compressed beyond its limits and eventually broke into an intricate web of cracks. It was enough to heat the damned thing to such a degree that it was truly deserving of its namesake. Naught a second after the lightning dissipated, the entity sprang to its feet and reeled back for a punch; regardless, Toril’s reinforced body quickly sidestepped, spun, and swept the infused blade across its neck. Then reeled back and hit it again and again and again, spitting arcs of lightning every which way, building so much heat it began slowing the necromental’s movements, leaving it immobilized and unable to guard against Toril’s assault.

An act that only served to enrage the Oni soul within.

With a Cursed scream, the necromental gathered nearly half of its mana and poured out a dense, triple-layered domain at point-blank range. And without blinking, Toril countered by holding out his palm, combusting what I assumed was the gas he accumulated throughout the arena at the start of the match.

When the dust cleared, Toril was gone and the necromental’s shredded body remained screaming madly as it searched around the field of lava, charred tar, and molten heaps of iron it created. Sensing the sudden spike in mana above, the necromental then snapped its gaze above and pounced after the young knight with a feral scream. Toril, on the other hand, flicked a bullet spell at the beast and calmly observed its speed slow to a halt, reverse, and accelerate to breakneck speeds back to the ground to produce yet another voluminous crater. Then, Toril took flight, using gusts of air or sometimes small explosions to propel him whilst he delivered strike after lightning strike from the tip of his finger.

To everyone’s awe, including myself, Toril’s strikes hit their mark each and every time. I’d witnessed such a feat long ago, of course; but even after all those years, it remained an unbelievable sight to my ancient eyes. More so, the demonic necromental didn’t even stand a chance against Toril. Like all the others I and Amun trained, he fought smartly and held absolutely no mercy for his opponent. Aspects that served to make me grin wide in satisfaction.

After several dozen strikes, the iron and stone in the necromental’s flesh were glowing hot enough to prevent them from reforming, though the bullets and bolts of lava, iron, and tar still came in full force. Evidently serving as the cue for Toril to create a couple of domains of his own.

The first was a small, airless region that was distinguished only by snuffed-out flames and the potent wall of mana keeping the surrounding air at bay; just beyond that, lay a ring-shaped domain filled to the brim with thick, cloudy gas.

While the necromental screamed in protest, Toril cocked his axe and began pouring an immense portion of mana into it. Creating cascades of crackling lighting to streak across the arena at random. And once his weapon was fully charged, Toril hurled toward the golem with a triumphant roar.

The Storm Thief spun beautifully around Toril's frame as he landed before the necromental, performing a dance across and through the fiendish golem's body as the weapon followed its wielder to the ground, leaving a thunderous wake of lightning striking to ignite the dense cloud of gas and obliterate the sad excuse for a challenge completely.

The result of the young Knight’s efforts was an explosion that dwarfed all the others combined. Even I was forced to shield my eyes from the radiance. And mentally prepare myself for the shock.

Only, none came.

After forcing shadows into my eyes, the light dimmed to manageable levels, bringing Toril’s visage into view once again.

Still high in the air, his face was shriveled from concentration. His hands were faced together, shaking hard enough for his veins to bulge from his skin. Below him, on the ground, sat the very explosion he’d created, compressed. Contained and sustained within a small domain that encapsulated whatever remained of the necromental, now melted into a pool of slag.

Once his target had been disposed of, Toril calmly dissipated the contained explosion and expectantly held out his hand to summon his axe back to him. Then took a subtle nod to the booths to excuse himself from the arena.

“I knew Amun was powerful.” Jamettus chuckled in disbelief. “But, Toril O’Connell surely is as well. All of his vassals are.” He chuckled again.

“Toril learned none of that at my school.” I quietly assured him. “All of that was as a result of Amun’s teachings or their own diligence.”

“Hmm.” Jamettus calmly sighed. “I may have to get Roheisa to learn from him as well.”

‘Oh, dear friend.’ I shook my head inside. ‘You coddle her far too much. Amun has been independent since he was a boy. And look at him now. Although…’

“What makes you think Amun hasn’t given her a few lessons already?”

“HMM?!?!” Jamettus not so subtly turned to me with a crimson fire burning in his eyes.