Aelira sat on the sand… defeated.

  The silver carapace around her had already faded, leaving her small frame slumped forward, hands limp against her knees. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, each one a reminder of what she'd poured into the duel.

  Everything felt like a blur to Notch.

  The crowd was chaotic mixture of cheering and jeering, voices blending into a single distant roar. The nobles watched with glittering eyes—assessing him the way one might assess a rare weapon at auction. Some leaned forward, hungry. Others whispered calculations behind gloved fingers.

  Malric only nodded once, expression unreadable. Not approval. Not disappointment. Just acknowledgment—like the result had simply aligned with what he already expected from the world.

  Roger, however, looked like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.

  He practically sprinted down from the noble podium, boots scattering sand as he crossed the arena. His grin was stretched too wide, too delighted—the kind of smile that meant danger for someone else.

  "I always knew you were hiding something special," Roger said, breathless with excitement. "But whether or not—"

  Notch didn't hear the rest.

  The world dimmed around the edges. The cheers warped into muffled underwater hum. His eyelids sagged, impossibly heavy, every drop of adrenaline draining at once. His knees buckled.

  He was about to hit the sand—but Roger caught him before his body even tilted fully forward. Perfectly timed. Almost casual.

  Roger's mouth moved again.

  But the voice that seeped into Notch's fading consciousness wasn't Roger's.

  It was layered. Old. Heavy. A whisper spoken through someone else's throat.

  *"Receiver of the divine wrath of silvery flames… another limit to your power has been removed."*

  Notch tried to lift his head—tried to see who or what was truly speaking—but the world slipped from his grasp.

  Darkness swallowed everything.

  ---

  Warmth. Light.

  The rays of afternoon sun tickled his eyelids, prying them open with slow insistence.

  A ceiling.

  That was the first thing Notch saw—carved beams, polished wood, faint trace of incense lingering. He blinked, disoriented, then forced his body upright. Pain pricked at every joint, but it wasn't unbearable.

  "Where am I?" The words rasped as they left his throat.

  A short brown-haired maid dusting the shelves gasped loudly. Her eyes widened, round with alarm.

  She dropped the cloth entirely.

  "He's awake! He's woken up!" Her voice was surprisingly mighty despite her naturally low pitch.

  Before Notch could fully sit up, footsteps thundered from the hallway.

  The door burst open.

  Suddenly the room was full.

  Roger, Svenn, Malric—each entering with different aura. And Aelira too, lingering near the back, arms crossed tightly, expression unreadable except for faint tension flickering around her eyes.

  Notch's stomach twisted.

  He had absolutely no idea what was about to happen next.

  "Do you feel any better?" Svenn stepped closer, fingers already checking Notch's pulse, tapping lightly along his wrist to judge circulation.

  "Yes… I think so." Notch was surprised by how steady his voice sounded. Strength had returned to his limbs—not fully, but enough that he felt alive rather than hollow.

  "So what happened to me?"

  Svenn shifted his weight, exhaling through his nose. "I really don't know. Even Vellora is puzzled. The only observable change is that your mana flow is much better than before—probably over twelve times better."

  He said it with a sigh, as if even speaking the number aloud felt absurd.

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  The room fell quiet.

  Notch swallowed. *Twelve times?*

  Another limiter removed. The Abyss had kept its word. But why now? Why during the duel?

  *"Receiver of the divine wrath of silvery flames."*

  The words echoed in his memory. Had the Abyss been watching? Testing him? Or had the duel itself triggered some condition he'd unknowingly met?

  "You really are a mystery, huh?" A new voice cut through his thoughts.

  Malric.

  He stood with arms loosely folded, posture relaxed but gaze sharpened with interest. "Roger told me all about you. I thought he was just desperate to increase his ranking, but… I guess he wasn't lying."

  As he spoke, he casually adjusted his silvery-gray hair—an unconscious, elegant motion. The contrast was almost insulting. He made even fidgeting look aristocratic. More refined than Roger. Notch didn't know that was even possible.

  "Wait—what ranking?" Notch asked.

  Roger burst into laughter, head thrown back. "You don't know what rankings are, but you know how to cast ultra-complex, multi-defensive barriers we've never even seen before." He scratched one eyebrow with bewildered smile. "You're something else."

  He settled against the wall, still grinning. "There are two types of rankings in the world today. The ranking of orders and mercenary groups… and the ranking of swordsmen and mages."

  Notch blinked.

  The game never had this mechanic.

  Or… was it similar to global PvP rankings? Something adjacent? His mind raced through fragmented memories, trying to find the parallel.

  "There are only one hundred slots for the ranking of any group," Svenn added helpfully. "And ninety-nine for any individual."

  He glanced toward Roger and Malric. "Of which both Lord Roger and young Master Malric are listed."

  Notch felt his jaw drop slightly.

  "That means they're in the top one hundred in the whole world?" His voice lifted with disbelief.

  "Lord Roger is ranked thirty-ninth today," Svenn said with quiet pride.

  "And young Master Malric," he continued with a glance toward the boy who moved like a blade in human form, "is ranked… thirtieth."

  Notch froze, mind scrambling to do the math. "So Malric, the younger brother… is stronger than Roger?"

  He looked toward Svenn for confirmation, half-expecting to be corrected.

  "The rankings aren't based on strength alone," Roger said with disappointed sigh—one that suggested he'd heard this exact comparison far too many times.

  "The military overseers consider potential and competency as well as fighting capabilities." He pushed off the wall, pacing slightly. "Combat effectiveness, strategic thinking, adaptability, growth trajectory—it all factors in."

  Notch mulled it over. "I understand the competency part… but how does Malric have more potential than you?"

  Roger licked his lips before answering, old irritation flickering behind his eyes. "I started fighting around Malric's age—sixteen—and my prowess climbed steadily. But Malric has barely seen a single war, and he's stronger than eighteen-year-old me was."

  He paused, and something almost like pride crept into his voice despite the irritation.

  "Plus, for a mage, he's a very talented swordsman."

  The information rang like church bells in Notch's head.

  *Malric was a mage?*

  But when Notch had seen him swing, his enhanced perception had barely been fast enough to follow it. And that wasn't even his specialty? He was a better magic user than he was a swordsman?

  "So why does he flaunt a sword?" Notch asked, admiration leaking through despite his best efforts to hide it.

  Malric's expression remained flat, but his eyes held amusement.

  "'Cause it's cool."

  The room went silent for a beat.

  Then Svenn coughed, poorly disguising a laugh. Roger's grin widened. Even Aelira's mouth twitched slightly—the first crack in her stoic mask since entering the room.

  Notch stared at Malric, trying to reconcile this casual teenager with the weapon-child he'd watched dance across the arena sand. Trying to square "it's cool" with thirtieth in the world.

  "That's it?" Notch said flatly. "That's your reason?"

  Malric shrugged, the motion lazy and unbothered. "Magic's efficient. Swords are fun. I'm good at both, so why choose?"

  He tilted his head, silvery-gray hair catching the light. "Besides, people underestimate you when you carry a weapon. They see the sword and forget about the fire until it's already burning them."

  The logic was sound. The delivery was so casual it felt like an insult to every serious warrior who'd ever lived.

  "You'll understand when you're older," Malric added, which was rich coming from someone who looked barely sixteen.

  Roger laughed again, this time with genuine warmth. "See? This is why he's ranked higher. I take everything too seriously. Malric treats the entire world like it's a game he's already won."

  "Not true," Malric said mildly. "I just know which battles matter."

  His gaze settled on Notch, suddenly sharp despite the casual posture.

  "And I think you might be one that matters. That trick you did at the end—consuming Aelira's spell instead of blocking it. Where did you learn that?"

  The room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Everyone was looking at Notch now. Waiting.

  "I didn't learn it," Notch said carefully, the same answer he'd given Roger. "I just… did it."

  "Instinct," Malric said, tasting the word. "Or something deeper. Something you don't understand yet."

  He straightened, movements fluid as water. "That's why I want to fight you."

  Notch's stomach dropped. "You want to what?"

  "Fight you," Malric repeated, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Not now—you're exhausted and your mana flow just changed. But soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Whenever you're ready."

  "I'm ranked thirtieth," he continued, smile finally appearing—small, genuine. "You're unranked. But that technique you used? I've only seen three people pull off something similar. One was ranked fifth. One was ranked second."

  He paused, letting that sink in.

  "And one was ranked first."

  The room went utterly silent.

  Even Roger looked surprised, eyebrows raised. "You think he's that level?"

  "Not yet," Malric said. "But the seed's there. Raw potential waiting to be refined. Or to explode." He looked directly at Notch. "I want to see which one happens."

  Notch felt multiple revelations crashing together in his head. The rankings. The Abyss's removed limiters. Malric's interest. Roger's calculating smile.

  He was being measured. Evaluated. Collected like one of Roger's dangerous things.

  "What if I don't want to fight you?" Notch asked quietly.

  Malric's smile widened slightly. "Then I'll respect that. I'm not Roger—I don't force entertainment." His eyes glittered. "But I think you *will* want to. Because you felt it during that duel, didn't you?"

  He stepped closer, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.

  "The moment where everything clicked. Where instinct and power merged into something greater than either alone. You'll want to feel that again. To push further. To see what else you can do."

  Notch wanted to deny it. Wanted to say he was content being mediocre, hidden, safe.

  But Malric was right.

  That moment—when he'd compressed the black flame into a point and watched Aelira's spell simply cease to exist—had felt *good*. Powerful. Right in a way nothing else in either of his lives had felt.

  "I'll think about it," Notch said finally.

  "That's all I ask." Malric straightened, casual demeanor returning. "For now, rest. Let your mana flow stabilize. Svenn will keep you here for observation."

  He moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Notch? Welcome to the rankings. Whether you want to be or not, you're on people's radar now. The moment you consumed that spell, you stopped being a curiosity and became a threat."

  He glanced back, silvery-gray hair framing a face far too young for the weight his words carried.

  "Learn to navigate that carefully. Or Roger's attention will be the least of your problems."

  He left. Roger followed, still grinning that unsettling grin. Svenn bowed slightly and moved to check on the maid who'd been frozen in the corner this entire time.

  Aelira remained.

  She stood near the door, arms still crossed, expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither spoke.

  Then she said, voice low and tight, "You made me look like a fool."

  "You made yourself look like one," Notch replied, too tired to be diplomatic. "You assumed I was weak because I was quiet. That was your mistake, not mine."

  Her jaw clenched. "I trained for years. *Years.* To be dismissed by someone who doesn't even understand proper magical theory—"

  "I won," Notch interrupted. "That's all that matters."

  "No." She stepped closer, fury bleeding through her composure. "What matters is that you're hiding something. That technique wasn't instinct. It was too precise. Too controlled."

  Her eyes narrowed. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You've done it before."

  Notch met her gaze, kept his expression neutral. "Believe whatever you want."

  "I will." She turned to leave, paused at the threshold. "But know this—next time we fight, I won't underestimate you. And there *will* be a next time."

  She left before he could respond.

  The room felt suddenly empty. Quiet except for distant sounds of the estate settling into evening.

  Notch lay back down, staring at the ceiling, Sly's absence a hollow ache. Svenn had probably taken her somewhere safe, but he wanted her weight on his shoulders. Wanted that grounding presence.

  *Twelve times better mana flow,* he thought. *Another limiter removed.*

  How many more were there? What conditions triggered their release? And what would happen when the final one came off?

  The Abyss had called him "Receiver of divine wrath."

  What did that mean?

  Outside, the sun was setting. Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Malric's eventual fight. More yscrutiny from Roger. The capital waiting with its specialized programs and heroes-or-monsters training.

  Notch closed his eyes and tried not to think about how badly he'd miscalculated.

  Hiding was no longer an option.

  Now he just had to survive being seen.