Chapter 20: The Mystic

The nobles of the royal capital had certainly heard plenty about the dazzling eldest daughter of the Blanche family.

It was said that ever since Ophelia arrived at the ceremony, the banquet was like a pond disturbed by a stone—ripples spreading outward from the center.

“That’s the Blanche family’s only daughter?”

“I heard she’s only seventeen, but she’s already at least a Fifth-Tier Mage…”

The whispers buzzed like mosquitoes, countless gazes cast over from under the magic lamps, from beside the champagne tower, from the edge of the dance floor.

With curiosity, with scrutiny… and with envy that could not be concealed.

Ophelia stood at her mother’s side, a flawless, standard smile on her face.

A smile that lingered only at the corners of her lips.

Annoying.

That nameless anger flared up again in her chest, burning her into irritation.

So Ophelia slipped out from the side of the garden.

A secluded spot in the Royal Garden.

From afar, the music of the banquet drifted faintly over, vague and ethereal. The light of the magic lamps was already thin here, leaving only the moonlight, cold and clear, laying across the ground.

Ophelia walked alone, holding half a glass of fruit wine. The wine rippled gently in her cup, reflecting the shattered moonlight above and her tightly knit brows.

“You bastard.” The girl muttered through gritted teeth, “You better not let me catch you. If I do, I’m going to slap you right across the face.”

Just thinking about what happened in the alley made her ears burn red and her fingertips tremble.

That guy… that scoundrel!

How dare he!

Ophelia threw her head back and took a swig of wine, the icy liquid sliding down her throat, but it did nothing to douse the fire in her heart.

The girl wished she could rip off that fellow’s mask right now, give him two hard slaps, and then bind him with the Chains of Holy Light, hanging him at the gates of Valgard for three days as a warning to all!

But.

The wineglass stopped at her lips, and Ophelia’s gaze became unfocused.

But that guy… that guy truly was the strongest peer she’d ever met in her life.

Not only was his magical prowess far beyond hers, but his physical abilities and the way he read the battlefield in combat were well above her as well.

Ophelia had seen countless so-called geniuses since she was young, but not a single one could give her this kind of all-encompassing, suffocating sense of pressure.

This realization only made her more frustrated.

“Who on earth are you?”

Ophelia puzzled endlessly over it, closing her eyes and trying hard to recall every detail of that night… the red scarf covering his face, the deep black eyes, that teasing tone, and… the sound of his voice when he spoke.

Hm?

The girl’s lashes trembled. She kept feeling like that figure, she had heard somewhere before.

Not a complete stranger, but with a certain vague familiarity, like something just beyond a veil, always out of reach.

But where was it, exactly?

“So annoying.”

Ophelia opened her eyes, and gave a sharp kick to a pebble on the ground, watching it clatter and roll into the grass.

The night breeze brushed past, carrying the distant noise of the banquet and a faint scent of roses.

Ophelia looked down at her own shadow, and suddenly, for no reason, felt a little lonely.

She kept walking, circling a clump of bushes, when suddenly a familiar voice sounded near her ear.

“…Ophelia?”

The girl raised her eyes, following the sound.

What entered her sight first was a cascade of silver hair, gleaming like moonlight, then a pair of ruby-like eyes, widened with concern.

It was Chloe.

She stood there, looking at her with cautious concern.

Ophelia froze as well, staring blankly at Chloe. For an instant, her nose stung, and she almost let her tears fall.

“Vivi…”

Her voice was hoarse, and Chloe stepped forward, reaching out to gently touch her face.

“What’s wrong?”

Ophelia bowed her head, letting Chloe take her hand and guide her to sit by her side.

At that moment, a faint rustling came from the nearby bushes.

She looked up and saw the person standing behind Chloe.

Wearing a well-tailored dark suit, standing tall, head slightly lowered, as if waiting for something.

Chloe noticed Ophelia’s gaze, turned her head gently, and said softly to the person behind her: “Loran, go and get some juice from up front. Both Ophelia and I would like some.”

Loran replied in a purposely lowered voice.

But just as he turned away, Ophelia’s eyes lit up.

She stared at Loran’s back, finding him more and more familiar the longer she looked.

The night breeze lifted the corners of the young man’s suit, outlining his slender frame.

—No, that’s impossible, isn’t it?

Ophelia pinched herself hard.

Impossible.

She remembered that earlier, while shaking hands, she’d quietly passed a thread of mana into him to test. The feedback she got was that at most, this guy was a Fourth-Tier Mage, and his body barely showed any sign of real training. Compared to that masked scoundrel from the other night… the most he shared was a superficial resemblance.

In this world, be it mages, warriors, or knights—in short, everyone’s abilities are ranked from Tier One to Tier Fifteen, divided into fifteen levels from lowest to highest.

Ordinary mages, after basic education and some experience, can usually secure a footing between Tier Four and Tier Five. A select few, outstanding and lucky, might reach the threshold of Tier Six.

Tier Seven and Tier Eight are considered the ultimate life goal for most people. At that level, one is enough to claim a place in the royal capital, even influence the fate of some minor families.

If someone steps over the threshold of Tier Nine, it’s a whole new world.

As for Tier Ten through Tier Fourteen… those are near-mythic realms, each name left there a legend.

And as for the highest, Tier Fifteen, so far it exists only in legends.

The rules for advancing in ranks are simple: one is judged by the number of spells and abilities mastered from the previous, current, and next tier. For example, a Fourth-Tier Mage wishing to advance to Fifth Tier must master at least fifty Third-Tier spells, thirty Fourth-Tier spells, and five spells from the next tier.

Of course, this standard isn’t absolute.

There are some with extraordinary gifts who disdain such rigid requirements. They seek unfettered freedom, the power to manipulate mana as they please, forging new paths outside the rules.

Ophelia recalled an afternoon many years ago, as fine snow fell.

The fireplace in the study was burning strong, her father and the Royal Mage sitting in red velvet armchairs. She herself clutched a heavy tome in the corner, pretending to study while actually eavesdropping.

“…So the path of an Arcanist and a conventional mage are fundamentally different.” The Royal Mage’s voice was old and slow. “They are born with a magical affinity others can never reach, a sense for mana…”

Young Ophelia secretly glanced up from behind her book.

Firelight danced across her father’s face, but the look in his eyes was icy.

“Because they can effortlessly perceive the hidden structure of spells—things that take ordinary mages years of study and countless failures to glimpse, for them… it’s as easy as pushing open a half-closed door.”

The old mage continued, unconsciously rubbing the rim of his cup.

“Unlike other mages, who control the elements, Arcanists manipulate secret energies—Arcana. Arcana is drawn from the source of magic, and magic… comes from the world’s very root.”

“Because their talent brings them one step away from that power… it’s almost impossible to stop them from probing the mysteries.”

Her father was silent for a long time, eyes complicated, before finally speaking again.

“So, that’s why the title of Arcanist stands for the most dangerous, most infamous among all mages?”

“Yes. Every major calamity in the histories has traces of Arcanist activity behind it. That’s why we must unite the Mage Council, the Holy Church, any force we can gather, to wipe out these dangerous elements completely—to strangle any hint of them in the cradle.”

“…For Rodland.”

“For Rodland!”