For Keller, everything that had just happened was the greatest turning point of his life and fate. In truth, though he had already hinted at his intentions to that young High-Ranked Swordsman during their negotiations and secured his agreement and support, the two had never signed any written contract—nor even reached a verbal agreement. Unlike Ophelia, Keller was unfamiliar with Blake's dangerous and eccentric nature, yet he still couldn't help but worry: would the man truly stand by his side, or did he have ulterior motives? Of course, allying with Keller would allow the young lord to gain his desired benefits in the shortest time possible, while Keller himself could ascend to power and inherit the clan. But these were merely assumptions based on a best-case scenario. Admittedly, Keller had considered binding the young lord to his cause through more restrictive means—but ultimately, he had been unable to do so. From the moment Blake had summoned him via his subordinates, Keller had completely and utterly lost all initiative in this matter. In terms of status, the other man was a legitimate noble lord with official recognition; Keller was merely a collateral descendant, with no qualifications to speak of. In terms of strength, Blake was a High-Ranked Swordsman, while Keller had never even held a sword—what threat could he possibly pose? Would the Zach Clan really risk alienating a promising young High-Ranked Swordsman over him? Moreover, if the nobles of the clan wanted to interfere, they would have a hard time finding grounds to do so.
Plagued by these worries, Keller had been in a constant state of anxiety—especially after his failed negotiations, when he'd noticed a squad of clan guards had vanished without a trace. This had made him even more nervous. He knew that after his own blunder, the Traditionalists would not be foolish enough to repeat the same mistake. So where had those men gone? What were they up to? These questions weighed heavily on his mind. In fact, when he'd received word that Blake was heading to the Zach Clan estate, his heart had been in his throat.
Had the young High-Ranked Swordsman finally made his decision? What choice had he made? Would he ultimately become his ally—or his enemy?
With these questions swirling in his mind, Keller's tension had reached its peak the moment Blake stepped into the hall. When he'd watched Blake release his hand and let that cursed brat run toward the Council Elder, a wave of utter despair had washed over him. For a moment, he'd thought fate had abandoned him. But when Blake had spoken those subsequent words, his despairing heart had surged with renewed hope—only for events to take another unexpected turn. By the grace of the Holy Grace, he'd never imagined that the Council Elder of the Zach Clan, that old man on the verge of the grave, was actually a mage!
Unlike swordsmen, who focused solely on martial prowess, mages held a status comparable to swordsmen yet were far more valued. Swordsmen were, after all, warriors—barring congenital disabilities or a complete lack of combat instinct like Ophelia, anyone could reach a certain level of skill with enough training. However, among this vast number of practitioners, very few could ever ascend to the High-Ranked realm, let alone become knights.
Of course, in this regard, mages seemed to be at a disadvantage. On this continent, only those with innate talent could sense the power of Mana and become its wielders. Compared to the massive "ordinary population," their numbers were relatively small. Yet, when compared to warriors—where only one in several thousand could become a High-Ranked professional—mages were relatively more common, with one in a hundred able to attain the rank of High-Ranked Mage. Naturally, due to mages' inherently smaller population, even with this higher ratio, the total number of High-Ranked Mages over the years had only slightly exceeded that of High-Ranked Swordsmen.
But unlike swordsmen, who could only fight one hundred enemies at a time after sensing soul power upon reaching the High-Ranked realm, mages far surpassed them in terms of large-scale attack power and destructive potential. Even Mid-Ranked Mages possessed considerable strength, capable of wiping out dozens of ordinary soldiers with a single gesture.
In terms of combat power, most people would conclude that mages were stronger than swordsmen. Even a Mid-Ranked Mage could hold their own against a High-Ranked Swordsman—but what if two High-Ranked professionals faced off against each other?
Keller, of course, had no way of judging the Council Elder's true magical prowess—he was no mage himself. But from that massive fireball alone, he'd felt an unprecedented sense of majesty and terror. In that instant, the hope that had just been rekindled in Keller's heart had been doused by a bucket of cold water, snuffed out once again.
But one could hardly blame Keller for this—events had unfolded far beyond his wildest imagination. It wasn't until Blake appeared before him and cut down one of the nobles beside him with a single backhand strike that Keller finally snapped out of his stunned daze.
He glanced instinctively in the direction Blake had come from, only to see a row of neatly arranged corpses. The nobles who should have been scrambling to avoid the elder's fireball now lay cold and lifeless on the floor. A thin, straight streak of blood stained the pristine white wall—and no matter how hard Keller tried to imagine it, he couldn't fathom how such a feat had been accomplished.
"Well then, Mr. Keller," Blake's voice rang out beside his ear. "I'm sure our cooperation will be a most pleasant one, wouldn't you agree?"
"Huh?"
Before Keller could even process the question, he felt a powerful force slam into his back, sending him flying through the air. He crashed to the ground, and when he scrambled back to his feet, he found himself standing behind that young woman, Ophelia.
What on earth is going on?
Keller had no time to dwell on this question, for before his eyes, a fierce battle unlike any he'd ever seen was unfolding.
The old Council Elder shielded the boy beside him with one hand, while the other raised his cane high—judging by the blazing red light emanating from the gem atop it, it would be more accurate to call it a magic wand now.
Streaks of burning flame shot forth from it, chasing Blake's figure relentlessly. The elder had focused all his attention on this dangerous and terrifying man, not sparing even a glance for Ophelia. After all, nearly all mages knew that the Phantom affinity was their natural enemy. In the face of this fearsome magical power, all spells they cast were rendered utterly useless. The earlier fireball had proven this point—what should have been a devastating spell capable of incinerating everyone in the room had dissolved into nothing more than a gentle breeze before the young woman.
Magic, by its very nature, was the manifestation and condensation of Mana. The Phantom affinity, however, could decompose this manifestation back into its original Mana energy—truly, calling it a natural enemy was no exaggeration.
In truth, at the very beginning, the old elder had been somewhat wary. Despite his formidable strength, he was still a mage—if that young woman had launched an attack against him, it would have spelled disaster. But he'd soon observed that she was merely standing there, showing no inclination to intervene whatsoever. What's more, she looked as if she had no idea how to fight at all.
With that settled, the elder had no intention of wasting any more time on Ophelia. He'd shifted his focus entirely, concentrating his mind on dealing with the young man before him.
In the elder's estimation, taking on a High-Ranked Swordsman with his own strength should not have been too arduous a task. What's more, the boy was still young—he had plenty of tricks up his sleeve. But it didn't take long for him to revise his opinion.
Magic was a wondrous art, and a terrifying killing technique—but at this moment, in the face of this young man, it seemed woefully inadequate. Those erupting, jetting fire arrows hadn't even managed to graze the hem of Blake's cloak. And what terrified the elder most was not this—if the boy had been relying on sheer speed to evade his spells, it would have been understandable. After all, to reach the rank of High-Ranked Swordsman was to have mastered the power of one's soul. Each person's soul attribute was different; if this young man's soul attribute was speed, he could have accepted such a result.
But in reality, facing the elder's attacks, Blake had merely tilted his body casually, dodging them at the very last moment. Even when the elder had unleashed a volley of fire arrows at once, it hadn't slowed him down in the slightest. What's more, Blake had even found the time to critique his combat skills.
"Your movements are too slow, your focus too lax," Blake muttered, hunching his shoulders slightly as a fire arrow whizzed past his ear. He still wore that same lazy, carefree smile. "Is this really the best mages have to offer? I must say, I'm thoroughly disappointed… In the glorious days of old, magic was never meant to be reduced to such a pathetic sideshow."
"Hmph!"
The elder knew full well the young man was trying to provoke him, but he refused to take the bait. He let out a cold snort, then raised his wand high. As he began to chant an incantation in a low voice, the air around him began to swirl violently, twisting and turning with a mind of its own. The floor cracked open, the solid walls trembled, and even the cold, lifeless bodies on the ground began to melt. But just as the elder was about to lock onto the man and unleash all the power he'd been gathering, he realized Blake had already darted out of the way, evading his "lock-on" completely. It was as if he'd seen the elder's every move coming and had been ready for it all along.
"Damn you!"
Though frustration boiled in his heart, the elder couldn't afford to hold back now. Magic, at its core, was merely a form of energy projection. Like archers, mages needed to first lock onto their target before they could unleash their power. But due to the immense destructive potential and charging time required for spells, they demanded a high level of judgment and mental acuity from the caster. Thus, if one failed to maintain focus on their intended target, it could lead to catastrophic consequences.
And this young man seemed to be intimately familiar with the way mages fought. He moved his body with exquisite precision, forcing the elder's mind to follow his every step, only to pause at the most delicate moment, wrenching the elder's attention away. It was like forcing someone to spin around suddenly, leaving them dizzy and disoriented. Though the elder, having been outmaneuvered, had wanted nothing more than to stop casting his spell, the power he'd already amassed was far too great—he had no way to contain it now. Clenching his teeth, he was forced to unleash the spell he'd been preparing.
With a deafening roar, the swirling currents of air and flame merged into a colossal tornado, howling as it tore through the ground and shattered the walls. It ripped a massive hole in the roof of the building before vanishing into the sky. Clouds of dust billowed outward, shrouding the entire room in a thick haze.
"The power is impressive enough, but your aim leaves much to be desired," Blake's lazy voice rang out once more, cutting through the dust almost immediately.
The elder turned to see Blake walking out of the haze, the black longsword he'd been wielding now sheathed at his waist. He rested one hand lightly on the hilt behind his back, brushing dust off his shoulders with the other.
"Truly, the world has gone to the dogs when someone like you can call yourself a mage… I finally understand how Laribaud managed to worm his way into the Royal Court Mages. The quality of mages these days is truly a cause for concern."
Blake lifted his head, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.
"Nothing more than this… Now then, it's my turn."
As soon as the words left his lips, the elder's vision blurred. He watched as the young man's figure transformed into a straight black streak, charging directly toward him.
This was one of the signature combat techniques of a High-Ranked Swordsman—Charge.
Perfect!
Instead of panicking at Blake's direct assault, the elder's lips curled into a cold sneer. The reason he'd been unable to harm Blake earlier was precisely due to the young man's bizarre evasive maneuvers. While distance was supposed to be a mage's greatest ally, that was only true for ordinary mages.
Now that he was charging head-on, there would be no need for precise aiming! What's more, he had his magical barrier to protect him—Blake would never be able to get past it!
With this thought in mind, the elder released the boy beside him for the first time, pressing both hands against the gem atop his wand. As he did so, a wave of scorching red heat erupted outward from his body in all directions. The sturdy wand trembled violently, on the verge of shattering under the immense pressure of his Mana.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl at that moment. The elder pressed his hands to his wand, staring intently at the young swordsman who'd already closed the distance between them. Just one hit—if his magical barrier could withstand a single strike, the raging flames would erupt forth without restraint, incinerating Blake where he stood. He watched as Blake's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword—and in the next instant, all he felt was a searing pain exploding from both his arms.
The elder looked down in horror, only to see that his arms had been cleanly severed at an angle. With that single strike, the magical power he'd been so carefully controlling had spiraled out of control in an instant.
"No…!!"
As Blake sheathed his sword and leaped backward, brilliant crimson flames—resembling blooming lotus flowers—erupted forth without warning, reducing the entire room to ashes in the blink of an eye.