Chapter 58: Outsmarting Black Mages

The morning sun spilled over the cobblestone streets of Redstone, casting a golden light that did little to chase away the lingering chill of early autumn. Alaric pulled his hood tighter over his head as he muttered the incantation under his breath, keeping his voice low and deliberate.

“Silent winds that veil the land,

Hide my steps at thy command.”

A faint shimmer of translucent energy rippled around him, like heat waves rising from a stone path. The “Veil of Silent Winds” spell wasn’t one he had mastered—it required careful enunciation and intense focus to remain active. Still, it was essential for the task at hand: shadowing Lukas Veyne, the Novice Martialist. For four days, Alaric had trailed Lukas, watching, waiting, and learning.

The spell muffled Alaric’s footsteps, dulled his magical aura, and rendered him a ghost in the bustling town of Redstone. The sights and sounds of the town felt muted under the spell’s influence, as though Alaric had stepped into a different realm. Merchants called out to passersby, selling fresh produce, baked goods, and trinkets, while children darted through the crowd, laughter echoing. None of it touched Lukas, whose presence was like a shadow amidst the lively streets.

Lukas’s day was painfully predictable, a monotony that mirrored the emptiness in his eyes. Alaric had memorized his routine: wake before dawn, leave his modest home, and march briskly to the town square where he worked as a guard. His uniform was clean but plain, and his demeanor matched—stoic, detached, and unapproachable.

Each morning, Lukas exchanged brief nods with his fellow guards, though none seemed eager to engage him. On rare occasions, a passing merchant or local would attempt small talk, only to be met with a curt nod or a one-word reply. Alaric, cloaked and unseen, watched the exchanges closely but found nothing unusual—just a man going through the motions of his life.

By midday, Lukas would settle on a worn bench beneath an old, twisted tree in the square to eat. His meal was always the same: a crust of bread, a slice of dried meat, and a flask of water. He never lingered or glanced up from his food, even as children played nearby or merchants haggled loudly over prices. His world seemed small, closed off, and impenetrable.

It wasn’t until the afternoons that Lukas showed any semblance of vitality. Each day, after his meal, he walked to the edge of town, where a small martial arts dojo stood. The dojo was simple, a sturdy building with worn mats and wooden training dummies. Inside, Lukas trained for two hours under the watchful eye of Master Gorak, a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a permanent scowl etched into his weathered face.

Alaric had taken to observing from the shadows of a neighboring alley, careful to remain undetected as he watched Lukas practice. Gorak’s voice often boomed over the rhythmic thuds of strikes and the swish of training swords slicing through the air.

“Focus, Lukas!” Gorak barked one afternoon as the young martialist executed a series of strikes against a wooden dummy. “Your form is good, but your strikes have no purpose. You’re fighting like you’re already defeated.”

Lukas paused mid-strike, his shoulders tensing. He turned to Gorak with a tight-lipped expression. “My form is enough.”

“It’s not,” Gorak shot back. “Martial arts aren’t just about technique. Without intent, your strikes are hollow. You’re wasting your time and mine.”

Lukas’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he resumed his practice, his movements sharper, faster, yet still devoid of passion. Alaric frowned as he watched, sensing the depth of Lukas’s inner struggle. Gorak was right—Lukas moved like a man going through the motions, as if his heart wasn’t in it. But beneath the emptiness, Alaric thought he caught flickers of something else: anger, frustration, and pain buried deep.

By evening, Lukas would return to the guardhouse for a second shift, patrolling the streets until long after the town had quieted for the night. His journey back home was equally uneventful, marked only by the steady rhythm of his boots on the cobblestones. Each night, Alaric followed at a distance, his “Veil of Silent Winds” keeping him concealed.

Four days of this routine had left Alaric restless. He had learned much about Lukas’s life—his solitude, his discipline, and the hollow way he carried himself—but none of it pointed directly to the Phantom Assembly. Was Lukas a target, or was this mission a dead end? The question gnawed at Alaric as he rose early on the fifth day, determined to see it through.

Lukas’s morning began as usual, with Alaric trailing him through the narrow streets of Redstone. The town was waking up, shopkeepers opening their shutters and sweeping their stoops, while the scent of freshly baked bread wafted from nearby bakeries. Lukas moved through it all like a ghost, his focus straight ahead, his face an unreadable mask.

The first half of the day unfolded as predictably as the last four. Lukas arrived at the guardhouse, exchanged a few curt words with his colleagues, and took his post in the town square. Alaric watched from the shade of a nearby awning, his eyes darting between Lukas and the crowds.

By midday, Lukas was back on his usual bench, eating his modest meal. Alaric perched on the edge of a fountain nearby, pretending to read a book as he kept an eye on Lukas. A merchant passing by paused to greet the young martialist.

“Morning, Lukas,” the man said cheerfully. “Weather’s fine today, isn’t it?”

Lukas looked up briefly, nodded, and returned to his meal. The merchant hesitated, then moved on, his cheer dampened by Lukas’s cold reception.

Alaric sighed inwardly. ’You’re not making this easy, are you?’

When Lukas headed to the dojo that afternoon, Alaric followed at a distance, slipping into the shadows of the alley next door to resume his vigil. Inside, Lukas began his training as usual, his strikes crisp but mechanical. Gorak stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression grim.

“You’re holding back again,” Gorak said, his voice sharp. “If you don’t give it your all, you’ll never improve.”

Lukas didn’t respond. He lunged at the dummy with a series of rapid strikes, each one landing with precision but lacking force.

“Enough!” Gorak barked. Lukas froze, his sword mid-swing. Gorak stepped closer, his tone softening. “Lukas, I’ve seen fighters like you before. Skilled, disciplined, but weighed down by something they refuse to face. Whatever it is, you need to confront it, or it will destroy you.”

Lukas’s grip on the sword tightened, but he didn’t look at Gorak. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“No,” Gorak said, turning away. “You need a purpose.”

The words hung in the air as Lukas resumed his training, his strikes faster now, as if trying to drown out Gorak’s voice. Alaric watched from his hiding spot, his mind racing. Purpose… Maybe that’s what the Phantom Assembly sees in him—a potential weapon waiting to be honed.

As Lukas finished his session and prepared to leave the dojo, Alaric tensed, ready to follow him again. But something shifted in the air—a faint ripple of magic, almost imperceptible, like a whisper on the wind. Alaric’s eyes narrowed, his senses sharpening. It wasn’t coming from Lukas, but it was close. Very close.

The air grew heavy, dense with an oppressive force that made the hairs on Alaric’s arms stand on end. It wasn’t the natural chill of an autumn evening—it was something darker, something alive. His instincts screamed at him to move, but before he could act, shimmering barriers of black energy erupted around him, forming a rune-etched cage that crackled with malevolent magic.

Alaric spun around, his breath caught in his throat as the trap sealed him in. He raised a hand to touch the barrier, but the energy pulsed with a sharp warning, making the skin on his palm tingle painfully.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, his mind racing. He scanned his surroundings, searching for the source of the attack, and that’s when he saw them.

Emerging from the shadows of the treeline were three figures, their flowing purple robes shimmering faintly with a metallic sheen under the low light. Arcane symbols adorned their garments, pulsing with an eerie glow that matched the dark energy trapping him. Their faces were partially obscured by hoods, but their auras were unmistakable—powerful, sinister, and suffocating. Phantom Assembly.

The leader stepped forward, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He was tall and lean, with sharp, angular features that gave him an almost predatory appearance. A cruel smirk played on his lips as his piercing eyes locked onto Alaric, dissecting him with unsettling ease.

“Well, what do we have here?” the man drawled, his voice smooth and mocking. “A curious little spy, stalking one of our prospects. Bold. Foolish, but bold.”

Alaric tensed, his fists clenching at his sides. “Who are you?” he demanded, though he already knew the answer.

The leader chuckled, a low, mocking sound. “You don’t need to know our names, little mage. What matters is that we know yours. Alaric Kael, Adept Mage, student at the Arcane Academy.” His smirk widened. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you, too.”

Alaric’s stomach dropped, but he masked his unease with a defiant glare. “Flattering. But if you think a fancy light show and some theatrics are going to intimidate me, you’re in for a surprise.”

The leader’s smirk didn’t waver. “Oh, I like him. Feisty.” He glanced at his two companions. “Don’t you think?”

The mage to his right, a woman with pale skin and eyes that glowed faintly red, tilted her head. “Feisty, yes. Suicidal, perhaps.”

The third figure, a stocky man with runes etched into his bare forearms, shrugged. “Does it matter? He’s outmatched either way.”

Alaric’s gaze darted between them, assessing his options. They were strong—stronger than him. Their auras radiated power far beyond his level, likely Expert Mages or higher. Running wasn’t an option, not with the barrier in place. Fighting head-on was equally unwise, but he wasn’t about to go down without trying.

“Outmatched?” Alaric said, forcing a cocky grin. “You sure about that?”

Without waiting for a response, he raised both hands and conjured a massive sphere of flame. The spell, Inferno Sphere, required no incantation at his level, and he unleashed it with blinding speed. The blazing orb shot forward, expanding rapidly as it hurtled toward the trio, engulfing the clearing in a wall of fire.

The leader raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Amateurs,” he muttered, flicking a hand toward his left. “Handle it.”

The pale-eyed woman stepped forward, her lips curling into a smirk. With a sharp motion, she chanted, “Tide of Aegis.” Water surged from her outstretched palms, forming a cascading torrent that collided with the fireball. Steam erupted in a violent hiss, shrouding the clearing in a dense fog.

“Fast casting,” the water mage remarked as the steam began to clear. Her tone was condescending, tinged with amusement. “Not bad for an Adept. But that’s about all you’ve got, isn’t it?”

“Don’t count me out just yet,” Alaric shot back, though his mind was racing.

The steam dissipated, revealing the trio unharmed and closing in. The leader crossed his arms, looking bored. “That’s it? I expected more. Maybe I gave you too much credit.”

Alaric smirked, his confidence forced but convincing. “Oh, I’ve got more. You’ll see.”

His hand slipped to a hidden compartment in his coat, retrieving a weathered scroll etched with ancient runes. The parchment glowed faintly as his fingers brushed over it, the magic within stirring to life.

The leader’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”

“This?” Alaric said, holding the scroll up with a grin. “Just a little insurance policy.”

Before they could react, he tossed the scroll into the air and infused it with his mana. The runes on the parchment flared brightly, and then the scroll ignited with a burst of light.

“Tempest Surge!” Alaric shouted, his voice cutting through the clearing like a blade.

Lightning erupted from the scroll in wild arcs, crackling through the air with deafening intensity. The ground lit up with jagged bolts, transforming the forest floor into a tempest of raw magical energy. The lightning struck indiscriminately, its fury targeting anything and everything in its path.

The three Phantom Assembly mages reacted instinctively, raising barriers of dark magic to shield themselves. But the sheer power of the spell overwhelmed their defenses.

The lightning tore through their barriers like paper, striking them with brutal force. They screamed as the energy coursed through their bodies, their movements jerky and spasmodic as the spell paralyzed them.

Alaric stood at the center of the chaos, untouched.

His shield, Earth Ward Mantle, had insulated him from the storm’s wrath. The protective layer of earthen magic clung to him like a second skin, crackling faintly with residual energy as he surveyed the scene.

The leader of the group was on his knees, his robe scorched and smoking. His face twisted in pain and fury, but he was powerless to move. His companions were in similar states, their auras flickering weakly.

Alaric approached, his steps slow and deliberate. In one hand, he held a small, unassuming blade that glinted faintly in the dim light. It wasn’t meant for combat—it was designed for precision.

He crouched beside the leader, his tone cold as ice. “You underestimated me. Big mistake.”

The leader glared up at him, his jaw clenched, but he said nothing. The defiance in his eyes was dampened by the pain coursing through his body.

“Let me guess,” Alaric continued, his voice casual. “You thought this would be easy. Three of you against one little Adept Mage. You didn’t even bother bringing backup. Overconfidence is a nasty habit, isn’t it?”

With a swift motion, Alaric pressed the blade to the leader’s chest, just above his heart. The strike was precise, surgical, severing the magical core without ending the man’s life. The leader gasped, his aura flickering violently before fading into nothingness.

Alaric moved to the next mage, repeating the process with methodical precision. The woman hissed in pain, her crimson eyes glaring daggers at him, but she too was rendered powerless. The stocky man groaned as Alaric approached him last, his runes dim and lifeless.

When it was done, Alaric stood over the trio, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. They were alive, but their magic was gone, their strength stripped away.