"Kambion... there's something altogether wrong with that one," Seraph murmured, his voice a low, steady resonance that seemed to vibrate against the very atoms of the cool night air. "Let him run for now. A cornered rat is a dangerous thing, but a broken one is merely pathetic. This little lesson was severe enough to leave a permanent mark, I should think. If he has the lingering sense to stay out of my life, I'll seek no further reckoning against him."

  Seraph turned his chilling, obsidian gaze to survey the remaining nine members of the circle. Though many had begun to suffer grievous burns, their skin blistering under the residual heat, the young man harboured not a single, solitary shred of pity. He remembered too clearly the cold tiles of the Sanctus floors, the laughter that rang in his ears as he lay bruised and bleeding. The systemic, daily torments he had once suffered at their hands were a hundredfold more wretched and degrading than this brief, searing brush with the emerald flames.

  Suddenly, the young man extended a calm, authoritative palm forward. As if the rampant wildfire recognized its true sovereign and bowed to the mage's absolute command, one side of the towering inferno began to wither and peel back. It did not merely extinguish; it retreated, opening a clear, shimmering path through the death-trap. A peculiar, forceful wind surged forth from Seraph’s cloak, a gale of ventus that forcibly shoved the nine men, propelling them rolling through the newly formed breach like discarded sacks of rubbish.

  They lacked the mental fortitude to comprehend the arcane miracle that had just transpired; yet, catching sight of the sudden exit within the wall of flame, they lunged for it with animalistic desperation, clawing over one another to reach the cool dark. Several bellowed in a frenzy of absolute, pathetic relief, their voices cracking with a terror they would never truly outrun.

  The nine fled as fast as their trembling, soot-stained legs could carry them into the thickets, some seething with a bitter, frantic resentment that nature had not granted them more limbs for flight. All vanished into the lightless depths without a single backward glance, their pride left smouldering in the dirt. This night of the burning forest would remain a jagged, unhealing nightmare—a ghost that would haunt their souls and stifle their magic for eternity.

  Seraph watched their undignified retreat with eyes of pure, detached pity. Every one of the nine had sustained burns of varying, agonizing severity. Most were left with raw, scarlet lacerations where the flamus had kissed their skin with unbridled hunger, leaving behind the permanent scent of scorched flesh. Some were scorched until only their tattered, charcoal-dusted undergarments remained; others were so smothered by soot and ash that their visages were as black as the abyss. Fine, noble hair was shrivelled and warped by the searing heat, leaving them to flee with nothing but a trail of bitter tears through the shadow-choked woods.

  Yet, as long as no soul had actually perished, Seraph knew there was no cause for official concern or a murder inquiry. Mageia duels within the Sanctus frequently resulted in shattered bone and scorched blood; the Infirmary Hall was a revolving door that was never truly vacant for even a single day. It was an ordinary, if somewhat chaotic, occurrence for nine acomages to surge toward the healing hall at once, screaming for salvation. Provided they still drew breath, the healers and their potent, potions could restore them with haste—much like how Seraph himself had been snatched from the brink of death for years. Perhaps this was a golden opportunity for them to finally beseech Marina for the compassion they had so often denied others.

  Thereafter, Seraph exerted his focused will to suppress the remaining fires, quenching the embers until they withered into nothingness. Combined with the biting, high-altitude chill and the heavy forest dew that clung to the leaves like silver beads, the risk of a spreading conflagration was minimal.

  Before long, the flames were entirely extinguished, leaving only the sharp, suffocating scent of charred pine and ozone behind. The forest returned to its tranquil, predatory darkness once more. Only the warm, ghost-like trails of smoke rising from the blackened earth served as evidence that an inferno had once raged here. But Seraph knew the forest's way; soon, even those scorched remnants would be swallowed by the moss and the gloom.

  Seraph leaped down from the great tree with the predatory grace of a night-stalker. Simultaneously, he utilised a subtle ventus spell, the air currents weaving like invisible fingers to draw the nine coin purses into his waiting cloak. These were the heavy pouches belonging to the broken members of the Kambion Group—the spoils of a war they had started. The young man tossed the sacks in his hand, listening to the heavy, rhythmic thud of gold with grim good humour; other items, perhaps heirlooms or trinkets, lay discarded in the dirt, but he paid them no heed.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Think of this as a small... mandatory donation. A belated repayment for all those years of your 'hospitality' and 'training sessions,'" Seraph whispered into the wind, his voice as sharp as a razor’s edge. "As for this blood debt—well, the interest has been accruing for a long time. I find I'm feeling uncharacteristically merciful tonight. I'll let you keep your miserable lives, provided your shadows never darken my path again."

  [Clink, clink, clink... Hmm-hmm-hmmm~ ??]

  The rhythmic chime of the glittering gold coins made the harsh world seem like a much more cheerful, welcoming place. Inside the hidden pockets of his grey cloak, the sweet melody of gold knocking against gold resonated with every stride. He found himself nearly humming a tune, a low, dark melody accompanying the wonderful music of his newfound fortune.

  Within the nine pouches, only pure, stamped gold pieces were stored—not a single copper or silver bit to be found. Typically, the most commonly circulated currency across the lands of Laurasia was bronze coins, followed by the silver used by merchants. Gold coins were symbols of power, rarely held or spent by commoners due to their immense value and exceedingly low circulation rate. One did not simply walk into a bakery with a gold piece unless they intended to buy the whole street.

  Yet, these nine worthless highborns carried only gold—a stark, vulgar demonstration of the inherited wealth and unearned privilege the Kambion Group commanded. In the past, only he had been the helpless victim of their extortion; every copper of the monthly stipend he received from Sanctus had vanished instantly, plundered by this pack of entitled thugs.

  Thus, this marked the first time Seraph had ever held such a vast, concentrated quantity of gold. For ordinary denizens of Arkflame, a single gold coin could ensure a comfortable, toil-free existence for an entire decade—let alone this immense, glittering hoard. To Seraph, it wasn't just money; it was the fuel for his future, the ability to buy the rare materials he would need to truly ascend.

  Regarding the violent events within the forest, should any witness claim that a lone, weak acomage had dismantled the ten elite members of the Kambion Group, none would dare believe it. Seraph was certain that the ten would never broadcast such a humiliating, soul-crushing defeat to the public. To admit they were bested by the lowborn of the Sanctus would be social suicide. Thus, his ascended strength could remain a shrouded secret for a duration... until he could stand firmly upon his own unbreakable foundation.

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?

  In the following days, Seraph maintained a vigilant, silent watch over the shifting tides of gossip within the Stormcloud Citadel, waiting with bated breath to see if any major news would leak from the shadows of the infirmary.

  However, the reality stood in stark, ironic contrast to Seraph's cautious prognostications. It appeared that the incident of nine prominent acomages sustaining such grievous, near-lethal injuries that they required urgent care had sent the entire Sanctus Sanctum into a state of absolute, unprecedented panic. The high walls of the citadel, usually so stoic, seemed to hum with the electricity of a thousand questions.

  While it was true that injuries from mageia duels were an ordinary part of a magis's life, the only frequent, reliable guest of the Infirmary Hall in recent years had been Seraph himself. Ordinarily, there were never so many magis injured to the threshold of being bedridden at the exact same moment. Though the Kambion Group was notorious for their base, thuggish behaviour, the political and social influence they wielded within the Sanctus was by no means small. They were the sons of ministers and lords, and their broken bodies demanded answers.

  The incident sparked endless, circular debate and feverish speculation among the other students and masters as to what had truly transpired in the dark of the woods. Rumours began to spiral through the arched corridors of the Stormcloud Citadel like a malignant wildfire. Some whispered of an assassin from a rival kingdom; others spoke of an ancient, vengeful spirit awakened by the forest's mist.

  Despite several high-ranking Masters attempting to interrogate the nine victims, strangely, not a single soul among them would utter a word regarding the specific events of that night. Their silence was as heavy as lead. Even Kambion, the once-arrogant leader of the circle, had vanished from the Sanctus Sanctum entirely, his chambers left empty, his current whereabouts unknown to even his closest sycophants.

  Furthermore, dark whispers circulated that some of the victims suffered from persistent, soul-deep night terrors, waking the entire ward with screams of emerald flames that did not burn the wood, but the mind. Yet, as these reports remained unverified by official channels, the affair eventually transformed into nothing more than a cryptic, urban legend—a cautionary horror story whispered within the hallowed, shadow-drenched halls of the Sanctus Sanctum to frighten the unwary and the arrogant alike.

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?