“You... who the devil are you?” Kambion demanded, his voice tight.

  Kambion served as the leader of this particular acomage circle. The Sanctus Sanctum possessed a limited membership; some years, they failed to discover even a single individual with a mageia affinity. Thus, the members within Sanctus numbered fewer than a hundred, excluding the hundreds of novices who possessed virtually no combat arts.

  Acomages constituted the most numerous echelon of magis within Sanctus, totaling nearly thirty individuals. Kambion’s group was the largest assembly of these acomages, bolstered by connections to various magis and Elite Magis. While not every magis hailed from a noble house, every member of the Kambion Group was a highborn descendant of the aristocracy.

  The Kambion Group did not possess significant martial strength; however, in matters of political power, they held the most influence. Although political reach rarely permeated the inner workings of Sanctus, their influence ensured other magis remained indifferent or looked away when they committed base acts.

  Regardless, Seraph no longer harbored any dread of them. The power of nobles and lords was a terror that existed only on the surface; in truth, they could not exert significant pressure upon Sanctus.

  This was especially true once an individual could ascend to the threshold of a Warlock. As magis attain higher mageia power, they increasingly resemble beings beyond the mundane. Even those who are not Rune architects often become sages whose vast knowledge encompasses nearly every discipline of science and art.

  Even kings must exercise deference and heed the warnings of an Elite Magis.

  Observing the restless agitation and mounting anxiety of his opponents, Seraph gradually lowered his hood. His silver hair caught the flicker of the torchlight as he lifted his gaze. His heterochromatic eyes—one azure, one amber—reflected the torch’s glow, shimmering like fireflies braving the vastness of the dark.

  “Weren’t you the ones so desperate for a meeting? I’ve been waiting an age,” Seraph mocked, his voice cold and steady. “Though I hadn’t quite expected you to bring so many friends. But then, I suppose it’s only natural for a pack of mangy curs to huddle together, isn’t it?”

  “You!” Mogar bellowed from within the throng. “Don’t you think for a second that skulking about in these woods will save you. Today, we’re going to teach you exactly what it means to show your betters some bloody respect!”

  Kambion stood at the vanguard of the group. He was a man of striking appearance, standing nearly as tall as Seraph, yet his frame was as slender as a woman’s. His long, deep-green hair made his skin and features appear as delicate as fine porcelain. He seemed as fragile as a lady, yet his cryptic green eyes, fixed upon Seraph, radiated a strangely unsettling sensation.

  “Seraph, oh Seraph...” Kambion began, his voice carrying that lofty, noble lilt that reduced all listeners to mere vermin. “How utterly piteous... a solitary child... a lowborn lineage. It quite breaks my heart to see you suffer such a destitute fate. Yet, as providence has seen fit to bind us as brothers beneath the roof of this Sanctum, I prefer to see these little... frictions... as nothing more than the inevitable spice of fraternity.”

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  “And I... with only the kindest of intentions... am more than willing to pardon your past transgressions from memory. You need only recognise your proper station. Kneel, Seraph. Confess your sins with true contrition from the very depths of your soul. Then—and only then—might I find the grace to welcome you into our circle with open arms. What say you?”

  Kambion tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with the hollow compassion of a self-appointed judge. The smile adorning his visage was so perfect it bordered on the suffocating; it was the smile of one who believed with absolute conviction that he stood above all creation, and that the world itself should prostrate at his feet.

  His voice was high-pitched and soft, akin to a woman’s, harmonizing with a complexion as smooth as an infant’s and silken hair cascading to his mid-back. Had one not known him, it would be impossible to avoid the mistake of perceiving him as a radiant maiden. However, the gaze concealed behind that smile remained void and frigid, chilling to the very marrow.

  Nonetheless, Kambion’s shrill tone radiated a palpable atmosphere of dread. Seraph’s fist twitched, nearly striking the other’s face had he not fought to maintain control. He found himself recoiling a step instinctively; the voice and eyes of the man before him stirred a profound and peculiar sense of peril.

  In the past, Mogar and Zurek had been the ringleaders who incited the other acomages to torment Seraph. While Kambion typically lingered in the background during these assaults, this porcelain-faced man never soiled his own hands. Instead, he manipulated the other members of the circle to escalate their violence against Seraph to even more brutal thresholds.

  Though Kambion never bullied him outside the dueling stages like the others, he was the puppeteer who observed the suffering with a twisted, psychopathic fixation. His features, as delicate and fragile as spun glass, were perpetually adorned with a warped smile, making it impossible to discern what malevolent schemes he was concocting.

  Among these scoundrels, Kambion was the only one against whom Seraph never lowered his guard. As for the other acomages, they were of little concern.

  “Transgressions? Your words reek of nothing but disdain,” Seraph declared, his mageia power erupting until he shimmered amidst the lightless forest. “To be blunt... I’ve disgusted and wanted to strike that face of yours since the day we met. I chose to endure it only because I wanted to avoid the conflict. But today, I’m done debasing myself. I’m done surrendering to your oppression.”

  The young man’s voice was deep and resonant. He did not shout, yet his words carried with such clarity that every soul present heard him perfectly.

  Instantly, their expressions twisted with fury. Having been born into noble houses, none had ever dared to insult them in such a manner—least of all a lowborn such as Seraph!

  Joining Kambion’s circle was not an open invitation; theirs was a closed group. It was a feat not easily achieved by anyone who desired entry; without an invitation from an internal member, joining was an absolute impossibility.

  Previously, they had never harbored the slightest thought of permitting a lowborn magis to enter their circle. Kambion’s offer was an extraordinary exception, a gesture without precedent; even a multitude of nobles yearned to join the Kambion Group, a queue that might stretch from the gates of the Sanctus Sanctum to the Royal Palace of Arkflame.

  Seraph’s blunt rejection was a catastrophic blow to their honor. Beyond the reputations of their lineages, they were nothing more than hollow shells.

  “You wretched brat!” Zurek snarled, his malice raw and crude. “If we don’t teach you a lesson now, you’ll never learn your place. I’ll give you the discipline your ignorant parents failed to!”

  Originally, he had been struck down before he could even weave an incantation, denied any chance to resist. He had displayed such pathetic weakness before an opponent who was once merely a frail victim of their collective torment for years.

  The loss of face was an agony he could no longer endure. His suppressed resentment boiled over, driving him to strike first without awaiting Kambion’s command—