It... did not make any sense.

  That was what Richter had been telling himself ever since the mysterious mage claiming to be Sael the Great disappeared with professor Carth.

  It did not make any sense at all.

  That he was the most powerful individual present was acceptable, that part followed basic logic. Someone had to occupy the highest position of strength at any given assembly. Statistical certainty.

  That he'd successfully nullified a spell Richter was certain would cause catastrophic damage and considerable loss of life was... impressive, undoubtedly, but hardly impossible. High-level practitioners existed.

  That he'd employed spatial magic to remove the man from the premises...

  Richter paused in his observation. He stood outside the Great Hall now, on the academy's main grounds where everyone had been evacuated. The personnel of the duchy, the Eryndor family members, professors, guards; all assembled in loose clusters across the courtyard, their voices rising in heated disputes about what had just transpired.

  Students had begun gathering at the edges of the commotion, drawn by the chaos like moths to flame. Their curious faces peered around corners, whispered questions passing between them as they tried to understand what had caused the evacuation of the Great Hall.

  "Move along!" one of the guards barked, waving them away. "This is official business. Return to your dormitories."

  "But what happened—"

  "Now!"

  The students scattered reluctantly, though Richter could see some lingering at a distance, still trying to catch glimpses of what was happening.

  Headmaster Koleen's voice rose above the general chaos, rough with exhaustion and no small amount of irritation. "Three days! I had three days left until retirement! Three days! And you people do this to me!"

  The headmaster was gesturing emphatically at the assembled crowd, his short frame practically vibrating with frustration. "Nobody moves yet! Do you hear me? Nobody goes anywhere until we've established what just happened and whether there's still danger present!"

  Richter should go there, he told himself. Should help restore order, assist Koleen in managing the crowd, fulfill his duties as Duke and bring some semblance of calm to this situation.

  But he couldn't move. Not yet.

  His gaze had fixed on something else entirely, and his feet seemed rooted to the spot.

  Through the open doors of the Great Hall, visible even from this distance, one of the great stained glass windows caught the afternoon light. The colors blazed brilliant in the sun; blues, golds and deep crimsons that seemed to glow from within.

  The party of Pointbreak at Yrsult.

  Richter had seen this window a thousand times. Every Eryndor child had. It was practically a pilgrimage site within the family, the artistic representation of their greatest moment in history.

  Ten figures stood in a circle, backs to each other, surrounded by writhing darkness rendered in deep purples and blacks that seemed to pulse with malevolent energy even in static glass. Each hero was distinct in the artist's careful detail, but Riichter's eyes went directly to the center figure now.

  Sael the Great.

  There he stood in rendered glass, holding Eld. This and everything that happened today made Richter's breath go shallow.

  The Great Hall was still standing, though the tremors had shaken it violently enough that hairline cracks spiderwebbed across its foundation. Some windows had rattled in their frames. Stone dust still drifted down from the vaulted ceiling visible through the open doors.

  And that building had wards. Protective enchantments layered over centuries, designed specifically to dampen magical interference, to prevent exactly this sort of structural damage from internal conflicts or experimental accidents. The academy's most sacred space, reinforced by generations of mages until the protections were so thick they were practically visible to the naked eye.

  Headmaster Koleen—level 1000, one of the most powerful practitioners in the region—could not have caused those tremors. At least not through the wards and certainly not with that intensity. His emotions, powerful as they might be, would have been dampened to mere vibrations.

  Which meant the mage's anger had overwhelmed protections that should have been, by any reasonable metric, insurmountable.

  That level of power...

  A man with that capability would have no reason to masquerade as anyone. He could establish himself on power alone, make a name through demonstration rather than deception. The very act of pretending to be Sael the Great would be unnecessary, even counterproductive, when he could simply be himself and command equal respect.

  Unless he was Sael the Great.

  ...Perhaps, Richter surprised himself thinking, perhaps he truly is Sael the Great, provided one was willing to accept something that all conventional wisdom deemed impossible.

  He thought about it. All of these feats, for all of Richter's lack of formal magical education—and he was acutely conscious of that deficiency—even he understood were high circle applications. The sort one could not simply execute with such casual efficiency. Not without preparation, ritual frameworks, or at minimum some visible expenditure of effort.

  Even at level 1000.

  Which indicated this individual was not merely superior to Headmaster Koleen in capability, he operated on an entirely different scale.

  Richter had read the same journal as Ilsa during his youth. Bran the Brave's entries. Every Eryndor child did, eventually. It was practically a dynastic obligation. Your progenitor saved the world, here is his personal account, attempt not to feel excessively inadequate in comparison.

  He'd harbored aspirations about their era. Taken considerable pride in descending from one of the foremost champions of the age. The Eryndors had been warriors, commanders, individuals who held position at the vanguard when evil manifested. That heritage carried weight.

  But for all of Bran's acknowledged greatness, Richter had always held particular admiration for a man Bran himself conceded was his superior.

  Sael. Sael the Great. The epithet rather said it all.

  As a boy, Richter had desperately wanted to possess a mana core. To be capable of spell work. Like Sael. He'd petitioned his tutors to examine him repeatedly, convinced they'd somehow overlooked it, that perhaps it was merely underdeveloped, that it might manifest with maturation.

  Alas.

  He was born without one. With aptitude for virtually everything else: bladework, tactical analysis, governance, administrative function, even that peculiar faculty for detecting deception. But the singular thing that captivated him most, the subject that fascinated him beyond all others?

  Magic.

  And he could not practice it.

  So he'd pursued alternative methodologies. On numerous occasions, he'd attempted to gain access to the academy archives, to examine texts that might provide insight on acquiring magical capability despite the absence of a core. He'd solicited every scholar within reach. He'd studied Bran's chronicles exhaustively, searching for some concealed understanding his ancestor might have acquired, regarding Sael, and how every decade, he would attend his wife's grave on Sael's Day in Gatsby.

  Richter recalled precisely when he'd encountered that passage. He'd been twelve. Possibly thirteen. Young enough to believe the world functioned like the adventure narratives, where determination and moral conviction could surmount any obstacle.

  So a thirteen-year-old Richter Eryndor had resolved to go to Gatsby.

  To the grave. At the time and location specified in the journal. To perhaps locate a man who was supposedly deceased for centuries, and petition him to grant, if such a thing were feasible, a mana core.

  He'd been naive. The way only children managed to be.

  Because he understood—understood—that regardless of human strength or capability, no one had ever survived beyond a hundred and fifty years. The historical record was unambiguous on this matter. Even the most formidable practitioners aged and expired. It was the singular immutable principle that magic could not circumvent.

  And there had never been any claim, in any record or legend, that Sael was anything but human. No elven lineage, no dwarven ancestry, no trace of any longer-lived blood. Just a man. Which made his continued existence, to any rational mind, an impossibility after almost four hundred years.

  Yet, young Richter had gone regardless.

  He'd departed the estate without authorization, traveled to Gatsby with a modest sum and considerable desperate optimism, and he'd maintained vigil by the grave on Sael's Day.

  And he'd been disappointed.

  Naturally.

  There was no indication of the archmage's presence. No mysterious figure materializing through magical means. No legendary champion waiting to fulfill the wishes of earnest youth.

  Simply a gravestone. Some flowers—starlight lilies, if he remembered correctly— probably deposited by other pilgrims. And Richter, sitting there experiencing escalating foolishness as the hours elapsed.

  What was a child to do?

  He was heir to Eryndor. Eventually, he would need to concentrate on what was achievable.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The experience had imparted a fundamental lesson: don't pursue impossibilities. Focus on what one could accomplish, and permit aspirations to remain aspirations.

  He'd adopted that philosophy. It had served him admirably in his governance. Be pragmatic. Be realistic. Work with available resources, not wished-for advantages.

  So imagine his considerable surprise to observe his daughter—his intelligent, practical, thoroughly un-naive daughter—pursue the same futile path he once had.

  To seek out the famous Sael.

  And return with this individual.

  The child, Ilsa, was not malicious. Certainly not inclined toward deception. But she also wasn't so credulous as to accept someone's claim, contrary to all reasonable judgment, that they were a deceased historical figure.

  Was she?

  Two hours prior, when Ilsa provided her story regarding her actions and whom she'd brought, his initial assessment had been that she'd been deceived.

  Richter had assumed some manner of charlatan. Someone exploiting Sael's reputation for credibility. It wouldn't be unprecedented. Every few years, some fraud claimed to be a reincarnated champion or a concealed survivor of the Corruption Wars. They were invariably exposed.

  Around him, Headmaster Koleen was still shouting about retirement and proper procedures. Students were being herded away by guards. The assembled professors and family members continued their disputes, voices rising and falling in waves of confusion and anger and fear.

  I should intervene, he told himself again, but he couldn't move.

  He could only stare at that window, at the figure holding Eld, rendered in blue and silver glass that blazed in the afternoon sun.

  If his daughter spoke truly...

  If the man who'd just casually stopped what Koleen confirmed to have been a ninth circle spell and then teleported away with a Corrupted professor was who Ilsa claimed...

  Then standing somewhere—perhaps miles away now, dealing with Carth, or perhaps about to reappear at any moment—was a man who'd known his ancestor. Who'd fought beside Bran the Brave. Who'd saved the world and then simply...

  "Your Grace!"

  One of the guards was approaching, his expression urgent. Behind him, Richter could see Headmaster Koleen waving, clearly needing the Duke's assistance in managing the crowd.

  But said crowd was fragmenting.

  Several members of the Eryndor extended family were moving toward the courtyard gates. Professor Wellis had already taken three steps in that direction before a guard moved to intercept. Two visiting dignitaries from the duchy's outer territories were in heated discussion, their body language suggesting imminent departure.

  "I said nobody moves!" Koleen's voice cracked with the strain. "Are you all deaf? We don't know the extent of the Corruption! Anyone who had contact with Carth could be—"

  "This is ridiculous," someone muttered. Richter couldn't identify the speaker.

  He inhaled slowly, then he stepped forward.

  The murmurs didn't stop immediately, but heads turned. Conversations faltered. Within moments, the attention of the assembled crowd had shifted to him.

  Richter's voice carried across the courtyard. "Professor Carth has been found guilty of falling into Corruption."

  The murmurs intensified, but he continued over them.

  "Given what that implies—the nature of Corruption's spread, its insidious methodology—and given Professor Carth's extensive ties to this academy, his daily interactions with students, faculty, and visiting dignitaries alike, we cannot dismiss the possibility that others have been compromised."

  He let that settle for a moment before delivering the conclusion they'd already anticipated.

  "Therefore, no one leaves these premises until we've established the extent of the contamination."

  "You can't be serious."

  The voice came from the left. Richter's gaze snapped to the speaker: Professor Veric, a man of noble birth who'd chosen academic pursuit over administrative duty in his family's holdings. His face was flushed, whether from anger or something else, Richter couldn't immediately determine.

  "You're proposing to hold us here on mere suspicion?" Veric continued. "Without evidence? Without—"

  "Are you Corrupted, Professor Veric?"

  The question had to be asked.

  Veric's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, his expression shifting from outrage to something approaching shock. "I—what? No! How dare you—"

  "Then you should have no objection to remaining until we've verified that fact." Richter's tone remained level and reasonable. "Unless you have some reason to avoid such verification?"

  "His Grace is right." A new voice, firm and clear. Professor Aldric's secretary, Ophelia, stepped forward from the crowd. "If Corruption has truly returned, precaution is warranted. More than warranted. Required."

  A few heads nodded. Some of the Eryndor cousins shifted position, moving closer to Richter's side of the courtyard. Uncle Theron, Great-Aunt Lysara, several branch family members; they were repositioning, creating a visible divide.

  But others were doing the opposite.

  Movement to his right. Richter turned to find another figure stepping forward from the opposing side.

  Cousin Robb.

  Of course it would be Robb. The man had studied law at the northern universities, and had always possessed that particular talent for finding procedural objections to anything that didn't suit him.

  "Your Grace." Robb's tone was respectful and perfectly calibrated. "With all due respect, this approach is... problematic."

  "Elaborate."

  "You're proposing detention without formal charges. Without evidence of wrongdoing. Without so much as preliminary investigation to establish probable cause." Robb's hands moved in small gestures as he spoke, as if presenting to a courtroom. "These are members of noble houses. Respected academics. Visiting dignitaries with diplomatic protections. You cannot simply confine them on the basis of proximity to an accused individual."

  "I can when the accusation is Corruption," Richter countered. "The laws regarding Corruption are explicit, Robb. You know this. Suspected contamination supersedes standard procedural protections."

  "The Duke speaks true." Another voice—Professor Helmund, head of historical studies. He'd moved to stand with the growing cluster near Richter. "The last Corruption Crisis established clear precedent. When Corruption is suspected, containment protocols override individual rights."

  "Suspected based on what criteria?" Another professor from Robb's side called out. "We all interacted with Carth. Does that make us all suspects? Where's the threshold? Where's the evidentiary standard?"

  "The standard," Richter said, his voice hardening slightly, "is that Corruption has returned. That alone should be sufficient cause for caution."

  But the murmurs were growing louder now. More voices joining in from both sides. Not shouting, not yet, but the volume was rising, the tone shifting.

  The courtyard was dividing.

  On Richter's side: Uncle Theron and perhaps a dozen Eryndor family members. Marten and several other retainers. Professor Helmund, Professor Thelman, and a handful of other academics who'd worked closely with the family. Some of the older guards, the ones who'd served under Richter's father.

  On the other: Cousin Robb and nearly as many Eryndors. Professor Veric and a significant portion of the faculty. Several visiting nobles. Even some guards who'd been transferred from other holdings looked uncertain, their positions ambiguous.

  The split was almost even. Terrifyingly even.

  Richter felt something cold settle in his chest as he watched the factions solidify.

  He scanned the crowd, looking for more support, for someone to back his position. His gaze found Professor Thelman, who'd been a family friend for two decades. The man was looking away, refusing to meet his eyes.

  Lady Serris, who'd attended his wedding, was shaking her head in what looked like disapproval.

  Even some of the guards looked uncertain, their grips on their weapons loose, their stances betraying hesitation.

  How many?

  The thought arrived despite himself.

  How many of them are Corrupted?

  Because this wasn't normal resistance. This wasn't standard noble objection to authority or academic insistence on procedure. The voices rising in protest were too synchronized, the objections too uniform in their thrust.

  And the people objecting...

  People he'd known for years. People he'd trusted. People who should understand the gravity of the situation and instead were fighting to leave, to scatter, to avoid examination.

  His eyes found Headmaster Koleen. The old man's face had gone pale, his expression shifting from irritation to something approaching horror as he, too, seemed to realize what was happening.

  "Have you all gone mad?" Koleen's voice cracked. He'd moved to stand beside Richter, and his hands were beginning to glow with preparatory magic. "You're harboring ill feelings toward your Duke? On Eryndor lands? After what we just witnessed? After—"

  "We're harboring objections to unlawful detention!" Robb shot back, his respectful tone fraying at the edges. Several others behind him voiced agreement. "There's a difference between—"

  "There's no difference when Corruption is involved!" Uncle Theron's voice boomed across the courtyard. The old warrior had his hand on his sword hilt. "You're acting like fools! All of you!"

  "We're acting like citizens with rights!" someone from the opposing faction shouted back.

  "Rights don't matter when you're Corrupted!" Marten called out.

  "We're not Corrupted, you paranoid—"

  "Then prove it!"

  "Stand down!"

  Richter's voice cut through the rising din. His hand had moved to his sword. He didn't remember making the decision. The weapon simply appeared in his grip, the familiar weight of it grounding him as both factions' agitation continued to build.

  "I am Duke of Orlys. You are on my family's land, in my family's academy. And I am telling you, as your liege and your protector, to stand down and submit to examination."

  "Or what?" someone from the opposing faction called out. "You'll cut us down? All of us?"

  Both groups were shifting now. Not closing the distance, but repositioning. Those on Richter's side tightening their formation, hands moving to weapons or beginning to channel magic. Those opposite spreading out, creating space between clusters while maintaining their collective resistance.

  They were preparing for violence. Both sides.

  Richter was level 897. His peak. The highest he'd ever managed to climb despite the absence of magical capability, despite being forced to rely purely on physical cultivation and combat technique. He was confident—had always been confident—that he could face a mage of considerable caliber and emerge victorious.

  But this many?

  Even with Uncle Theron, with Koleen, with the others on his side, they were outnumbered. Not overwhelmingly, but enough. And if Corruption enhanced the opposing faction, made them stronger than their levels suggested...

  This could turn catastrophic very quickly.

  "Guards!" His voice cut through the rising noise. "Prepare for engagement. Someone get reinforcements from the barracks. Now."

  The guards on his side responded immediately, training overriding uncertainty. Weapons came up. Formations tightened. One of the younger guardsmen broke away at a sprint, heading for the main gates.

  But several other guards remained where they were, frozen between the two factions, clearly uncertain which side to join.

  "Ilsa."

  His daughter was standing not far from him, her friend Orion beside her. Her expression was caught somewhere between shock and determination, her hand already moving toward her own weapon.

  "Take Orion. Leave this place. Go to the—"

  "Father, I'm not leaving you to these people."

  "That wasn't a request." He didn't look at her as he couldn't afford to take his eyes off the opposing faction. "Go. Now. That's an order."

  "But—"

  "Ilsa!" The sharpness in his voice made her flinch. "I need you safe. I need Orion safe. I need someone outside this situation who can raise the alarm if this goes badly. Do you understand me?"

  A pause. Then, reluctantly: "Yes, Father."

  "Then go."

  He heard her footsteps retreating and Orion's confused questions and her short, terse responses. Then they were gone, and Richter could focus entirely on the factions before him.

  "How many do you estimate?" he asked Koleen quietly.

  "At least half of those opposing us. Possibly more." Koleen's voice was shaking. Whether from age or fury or fear, Richter couldn't tell. "This is my academy. These are my colleagues. And they're—"

  "Corrupted," Richter finished. "Yes."

  The opposing faction had stopped retreating. They stood now in loose formation about twenty paces away, those who'd been protesting most vocally at the front, others behind them in supporting positions.

  "Last warning," Richter called out. "Lay down your weapons. Submit to examination. This doesn't have to end in bloodshed."

  "We're not the ones who drew steel, Your Grace," Robb replied, and there was something wrong with his voice now. Something that hadn't been there before. An edge.

  Richter's grip tightened on his sword.

  The closest figure to him was Professor Veric. The man had moved forward, separated slightly from the main group. Close enough that a single lunge would bring Richter's blade within striking range.

  Was he Corrupted? Or just foolish? Or being used as a test, a probe to see how Richter would respond?

  It didn't matter.

  If violence started, it would start here.

  Richter's muscles tensed. He shifted his weight forward, preparing for the strike. One clean motion. Sever the neck before the man could react. Set the tone. Show them he was serious.

  His blade began to rise.

  And just then, the space between the two groups distorted.

  Without as little as a warning, the air simply twisted, reality folding in on itself with a sound like tearing silk, and then there was a void where there shouldn't be one, a gap in the world that didn't belong.

  And out of that void stepped a familiar figure.

  The mage.

  He emerged from nothing, one hand gripping the collar of Professor Carth, whom he dropped to the ground like discarded refuse. The professor hit the stones hard, not moving, unconscious or dead or simply broken.

  Every eye in the courtyard turned to the new arrival. Both factions. All the weapons. All the prepared magic.

  The tension didn't break. If anything, it intensified, the potential violence now suspended in the presence of something—someone—far more dangerous than anything either side had been prepared to face.

  Richter's sword remained raised, his strike incomplete, frozen in the moment before it would have fallen.

  And the mage stood there, his expression unreadable, surveying the assembled crowd.

  "Well," he said—no, Sael said—"This is unfortunate."

  Fun fact: When thirteen-year-old Richter sat by Erlys's grave waiting for Sael, he actually missed him by only a few minutes. Sael had already come and gone earlier that day. And those starlight lilies Richter noticed weren't left by pilgrims at all; they were Erlys's favorite flowers, placed there by Sael himself during his once-per-decade visit.