Paragon of Destruction

"Pathetic!" Brightblade shouted. "That wouldn’t even kill a pigeon!"

Arran groaned in exhaustion, then began to form another Flamestrike with the sliver of Fire Essence that was left in his body.

As he struggled with the spell, a mass of Wind Essence shot from Brightblade’s hand and rammed into the Wind Shield that Snowcloud hurriedly formed to protect herself. The hasty defense merely weakened the attack, and Snowcloud was sent sprawling to the ground.

"Not good enough! My next attack will be stronger!" A grin on her face, Brightblade turned back to Arran. "Are you trying to wait me to death? Attack already!"

Arran let out another deep groan, then shot yet another Flamestrike at his teacher.

It was slightly better than his previous attempt, he thought. While it might not kill a pigeon, he was reasonably confident it could at least injure one.

Three months had passed since they arrived at the Patriarch’s estate, and during those months, all of Arran’s time had been divided between studying Master Zhao’s seal and practicing magic under Brightblade’s tutelage.

His progress on the seal was as rapid as it was infuriating. The better he understood the seal, the clearer it became just how difficult it would be to break the damn thing.

Before the Patriarch’s demonstrations, he had believed a few short months of dedicated study would be enough to accomplish the task. But now, he realized it would take him at least another year. That the process also greatly helped his understanding of seals in general was only a small comfort.

His magical studies, meanwhile, were even more infuriating. Even with near-perfect knowledge of what he was trying to do, he had quickly discovered that he lacked the skill and control to actually do it.

After three months of arduous study, he could now form a Flamestrike that struck with all the power of an angry toddler. And while Snowcloud said that was enough to qualify him to become a novice — if only barely — it would do him little good in combat.

When the day’s practice session had ended, Arran and Snowcloud left the training grounds, then headed back toward their small cottages on the Patriarch’s estate. As always, Arran would spend the evening studying the seal, while Snowcloud would continue her alchemical studies.

While they walked through the estate’s lavish gardens, Snowcloud gave Arran a studious look. "You’re improving," she said.

"Doesn’t feel like it," Arran replied. "It’s been months, and I can still only barely use Flamestrike."

She stared at him incredulously. "You’ve made more progress in months than most mages make in years, or even decades."

"I suppose you’re right," Arran conceded. "It just feels so slow. After the Patriarch’s help, it feels like I should be improving faster."

Snowcloud glanced at him, then sighed. "Your progress would be faster if you didn’t eat all that dragon meat."

She was right, of course. Arran had spent the past months eating a steady diet of dragon meat and little else, absorbing numerous Essence Crystals to compensate for the negative effect the Natural Essence had on his magic affinity.

The Essence Crystals helped, but even so, the sheer amount of Natural Essence he absorbed undeniably slowed his progress in magic. And although Arran thought the strength it brought him was worth it, Snowcloud clearly disagreed.

Arran was about to defend his choice once more when he saw a servant approach them. Dressed in a simple white robe, the man looked more like a priest than a mage, although Arran had little doubt that he would have at least an adept’s strength.

"Young master Ghostblade," the servant said with a small nod. "The Patriarch has requested your presence."

"The Patriarch? Now?" Arran frowned in surprise.

The Patriarch had emerged from the palace two weeks after the events there, but they had barely seen the man in the months that followed. From what little information passed the estate’s walls, all his attention had been focused on dealing with the traitors and putting the Valley back in order.

"Immediately," the white-robed servant confirmed. Evidently believing that no more information was needed, he turned around and left at a jog.

"I’ll see you tonight," Arran quickly said to Snowcloud before hurrying after the servant.

The estate was vast, but the Patriarch’s mansion wasn’t far from the training grounds, and it wasn’t long before they arrived at the large building. Built from wood in a simple but elegant style, it looked more like the summer house of a low-ranking noble than the mansion of a powerful mage.

The servant wasted no time in guiding Arran inside, with the guards wordlessly nodding them through.

They passed through several hallways until they arrived at a large, sober room that held a round wooden table, several chairs, and little more. At the table sat the Patriarch, a cup of tea and a bowl of soup in front of him.

"Lord Patriarch, I brought you young master Ghostblade," the servant said, then immediately left.

"Have a seat," the Patriarch said to Arran. "I hope you’ll excuse me for eating while we talk — after several decades without a meal, I have a lot of catching up to do."

Arran sat down, then looked at the Patriarch. The man no longer looked as withered as he had in the palace, but his appearance was still gaunt to the point of emaciation. And with his white hair and wrinkled face, he seemed worryingly frail to Arran’s eyes.

"It’s not as bad as it looks," the Patriarch said with a laugh. "A few more months, and I’ll be as strong as ever." He paused to eat a spoonful of soup, then continued, "Now, there are matters we have to discuss — matters involving your memories."

Arran immediately cringed. He had long known this moment would come, but he dreaded it all the same. Buried in his memories were secrets he didn’t wish to share with anyone — not even an ally.

"No need to look so worried," the Patriarch said, his expression friendly. "I have already seen your memories, and I have no need to question you. I called you here today to address your questions, not my own. Now, what do you wish to know?"

That was not at all what Arran had expected, and he briefly found himself speechless, desperately trying to recall the many things he wanted to know.

Finally, he asked, "How did you enter my mind and take control of my body?"

"When I created the formation to protect myself, I embedded a part of my consciousness within it," the Patriarch explained. "After you entered the formation, young and weak, entering your mind was a simple matter. But there’s little reason to worry about another doing the same thing — separating part of one’s consciousness is no simple matter, and it has... unpleasant consequences."

A frown crossed his face as he spoke those last words, and Arran understood it was a matter the man would not gladly discuss any further. Instead of trying to dig deeper, he asked, "With your power, how did they manage to poison you?"

The Patriarch smiled wryly. "Unlike you, I don’t have the Dragon’s Ruin within my blood. And the traitors poisoned me when I was severely injured, when my body was at its weakest."

"Injured? Who injured you?" With the Patriarch’s strength, Arran found it hard to believe that there were enemies powerful enough to gravely injure him. But evidently, there were, and Arran was eager to know about them — so he would know where not to travel.

The Patriarch took another spoonful of soup, then said, "It was at the end of the Eidaran civil war. Agents of Chaos had provided the warring factions with magics far beyond their control, and the idiots faced each other in a final desperate battle — though, with their empire already in ruins, I do not know what they hoped to gain in victory. The outcome... well, you’ve seen Uvar. When the city was beyond saving, I sealed it off."

"You created the formation around Uvar?" Arran’s eyes went wide with surprise.

The Patriarch nodded. "If I hadn’t, none within a hundred miles of the city would have survived. But to create the formation, I had to enter the city while the magic inside was still running rampant. I survived, but I came within a hair’s breadth of death. And when I returned to the Valley, my body still far from recovered, I was met with betrayal."

Arran nodded thoughtfully, the events finally beginning to make some sense to him. "You said that agents of Chaos were involved in the war?"

"There are few wars in which they aren’t involved. If you dig deep enough, doubtless you’d find agents of Chaos behind the Valley’s traitors, too. The Society has long been struggling against its enemies, and the power to resist our enemies is tempting to many."

"But why?" Arran asked. "These agents of Chaos, what do they gain from starting wars?"

"I’m afraid I cannot answer that question," the Patriarch replied. "The entire conflict between Chaos and Order has existed since long before the Society was formed, but to what end they fight each other, I do not know. All I can tell you is that both are our enemies."

"That’s it?" Arran couldn’t help but be disappointed at the answer. He had hoped to finally get the answers he sought, but it seemed the Patriarch knew little more than he did about the matter.

"There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know," the Patriarch confirmed. "The Academy forced us from the Empire countless thousands of years ago and seeks to control all magic within the Empire, while the forces of Chaos spread war and disorder wherever they go. But beyond that? Until I saw your memories, I didn’t even know about those supposed Gods of theirs."

Arran’s face fell when he understood that his most burning question would not be answered.

"But I believe there is someone who has more answers," the Patriarch continued. "Someone you’ve already met."

Naturally, Arran knew who the Patriarch was talking about. "Master Zhao? You know who he is?"

"I can’t be certain, but I can venture a guess." A small smile crossed the Patriarch’s lips. "From the seal he put on your Destruction Realm, I suspect he’s one of the Society’s Ancestors — the original followers of the Saint of Shadows. Most of them disappeared when the Academy defeated the Shadowflame Society, but ever since, there have been rumors that they have been working from the shadows to protect the Society."

Arran took a moment to process the words, then asked, "Does that mean he’s more powerful than you?"

The Patriarch laughed loudly. "If he is indeed one of the Ancestors, the difference between us will be like night and day. I am an Archmage — a real one, mind you, not like those Academy incompetents — while the Ancestors are Sages."

"Sages?" Arran had never heard the term before.

The Patriarch frowned. "I forgot that nobody ever properly taught you the ranks of mages. It’s time to remedy that."

As Arran waited anxiously, the Patriarch ate another quick spoonful of soup, then scraped his throat. Then, he began to speak.

"At the lowest level are common mages — initiates, novices, and adepts. These are simple titles that carry little meaning beyond tradition, and they vary widely between groups. What one order of mages calls a novice might be considered an adept in another.

"Above them stand Masters, Grandmasters, and Archmages. These titles do carry meaning, though not as much as you might think. Masters are those who have condensed the Essence within their bodies to the point where it resembles a liquid, greatly increasing the reserves of Essence they can draw upon. Grandmasters have condensed their Essence even further, turning it solid. Naturally, their Essence reserves are far beyond those of Masters.

"Archmages like myself are a step beyond that. We can draw upon the Essence of our Realms directly, giving us what is essentially an endless reserve. We are limited by our minds and bodies, but most of us can maintain simple spells like Shadowcloak indefinitely.

"But note what I didn’t mention: skill. None of these ranks necessarily require a mage to be skilled. In theory, it would be possible to become an Archmage without being able to cast even a single spell, with a body that cannot handle even a shred of Essence.

"That is why the Academy ranks mean so little — all but a few of their mages lack the strength and knowledge to control truly powerful spells, and only those deemed sufficiently loyal and talented are shown the path to true power. The others are like untrained swordsmen carrying giant swords, which they have neither the strength nor the skill to wield properly."

Arran frowned. "Then what about Sages?"

At this, a glint of fervor appeared in the Patriarch’s eyes. "Sages are different altogether. Their insights into magic have reached such a level that it’s almost as if their spells have a soul of their own."

"A soul?" Arran stared at the Patriarch in confusion. He had absolutely no idea what the old man was talking about.

"Take the seal on your Destruction Realm. Even if I created the exact same seal, it would be many times weaker, because my insight is lacking." The Patriarch let out a laugh, then continued, "In truth, I benefited greatly just from observing the seal while I was inside your mind. And you will see even larger benefits — with enough study, you might even gain part of the insights hidden within the seal. That’s why it’s a treasure beyond compare, far more valuable than your Destruction Realm."

Arran pondered the Patriarch’s words, but he knew that his knowledge of magic was too limited to truly comprehend what the man was talking about. After a moment, he asked, "So Master Zhao is a Sage?"

"Almost certainly," the Patriarch responded. "And if he isn’t, he’s only a hair away from becoming one. Either way, his knowledge of magic far exceeds my own."

"Is there a stage beyond Sages?" Arran asked, his curiosity not yet satisfied.

The Patriarch chuckled. "Beyond Sages are Saints — like the founder of our Society. All of them are figures of legend, but I do not know of any who remain alive today. Should you ever meet one, I don’t know if it would be a curse or a blessing."

Arran nodded, though he had a hard time imagining just how powerful a Saint would be. If the Patriarch had created the formation around Uvar and Sages were vastly more powerful than the Patriarch, then Saints would have to be utterly terrifying.

"But we have another matter to discuss," the Patriarch said, his expression turning serious. "One that concerns your future."

"My future?" Arran’s musings about Sages and Saints were instantly forgotten.