While many of the demon kind could wield the elements of fire, true light was never their ally. To stand defiantly beneath such a brilliant luster was an act no demon would willingly perform. The young man's conduct and authoritative speech acted as a catalyst, jolting the soldiers of Balyon back to their senses.
Slowly, the stranger pulled back his hood. Silver hair cascaded to his shoulders, shimmering under the full moon. Beneath it, a youthful face was marked by eyes of two different hues—a gaze that felt ancient, inscrutable. He stood with a frigid, absolute composure, as if the world itself bowed to his whim. His sheer confidence stripped the guards of theirs, making them feel small. A shroud of mystery clung to him, radiating the aura of a highborn lord.
The sigil of Sanctus embroidered upon his cloak caught the light. In that instant, the realization of their blunder hit them like a physical blow.
"My lord! Noble Magis!" the captain of the guard stammered, his voice cracking with dread. "Are you... truly from Sanctus?"
"I am," Seraph declared, his voice cold. "Behold my Sanctus Scroll. Verify it at once!"
The young magis strode forward, extending the mission scroll for the gate captain's inspection.
The captain of the Balyon guard accepted the parchment with trembling hands. Within the mission scroll lay the magis's name and the harrowing specifics of his mandate. Yet, a single detail eclipsed all others: the extermination of the undead within Desden Cave.
As he unfurled the scroll, his gaze locked onto two words written with absolute finality: 'Mission Complete.'
It had been a solo mission. The record was clear—this young magis, acting entirely alone, had slaughtered three undead alphas.
An Hyghul was a nightmare incarnate, a demon with the raw strength to tear through Arkflame soldiers like wet parchment. These were the same monsters that had nearly brought Balyon to its knees in the past. In a century of war, only a handful of soldiers could claim to have even wounded an alpha, let alone felled one.
Though the soldiers of Balyon had slain countless demons over the last century, only a rare few could boast of ever felling a demonic alpha.
The Desden massacre was an open wound for the city. Those three monsters had butchered hundreds of Balyon's finest and thousands of villagers from the outskirts.
Throughout that bloodbath, the local sentries had failed to leave even a solitary scratch upon the hides of those three demonic horrors.
The memory of that demonic cruelty was etched into the very marrow of their subconscious. Yet, the young magis standing before them in his grey cloak appeared not even twenty years of age. The sons of many soldiers present looked older than he, yet this youth had single-handedly annihilated a swarm of undead and their three Hyghul. The captain could only stare, his eyes wide with a staggering disbelief.
When the other sentries saw their commander frozen in a trance-like state, gazing at the young magis, they crowded behind him to steal a glimpse of the scroll's contents. As they read the harrowing details, they were seized by the same paralyzing shock that had claimed their captain.
"Sigh... verification complete?" Seraph exhaled, his voice laced with a weary, razor-sharp edge. "I'm here to deliver a message, nothing more. Go tell the Lord Governor the blight in Desden Cave is gone. Your people can get back to their dirt and their ore now. My part in this is finished."
He turned to leave, ready to put the night behind him, but his stride was suddenly halted. Someone had grabbed him.
"Wait! Noble Magis, please—don't leave yet!" the captain cried out.
In a moment of desperate panic, he had reached out and clutched the hem of Seraph's cloak, anchoring him in place. Seraph glanced back, his eyes narrowing. He couldn't wrap his head around why the man would dare lay a hand on him.
"Is there something else you need?" Seraph said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hum.
"F-forgive me, my lord!" the captain stammered, his fingers recoiling as if he'd touched white-hot iron. "But if you leave now... Lord Horolf will have my head. Please, give the Governor a moment of your time. If you aren't in a rush, stay the night within our walls. We would welcome you with every honor Balyon can provide."
Seraph remained silent, the weight of his presence alone making the soldiers around him feel small, their spirits cowed by the raw mana radiating from him.
"Fine," Seraph finally relented, his tone making it clear he was doing them a massive favor. "I'll hear what your Governor has to say. Lead the way."
[Clang! Clang!]
As he walked through the gates, the strike of spears echoed through the street. It wasn't just a salute; it was a desperate, feverish show of respect. The common soldiers held their breath, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and reverence, their spirits cowed in silent awe of the power radiating from the young magis in the grey cloak.
Such was the unyielding law of the realm: the masses surrendered their very human souls to the commanders of the elements. This sincere veneration was the near-universal posture held toward those who walked the path of the magis.
The young man boarded the carriage arranged by the captain of the guard for the journey to the Governor's estate. Through their conversation, he learned that the officer was named Durmark.
Durmark, the captain of Balyon's Eastern Gate—the very threshold where Seraph had arrived—possessed a gregarious nature. He shared numerous chronicles of the city, granting Seraph a deeper understanding of this bastion.
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
When the carriage passed through the manor gates, Horolf had already received word from a sentry sent ahead to herald their arrival. He hurried to the manor's entrance to personally honor the young magis with a formal welcome. Even while several paces remained between them, his greeting thundered, echoing through the surrounding estate.
"Lord Seraph! Welcome, welcome to my humble, dilapidated little shack!" Horolf bellowed, his voice ringing with boisterous vitality. "I've been most uncouth, I fear—failing to prepare a proper reception! I was under the distinct impression that the magis assigned to our trouble was still days away from Balyon's gates!"
Horolf was a man of vast stature and boisterous volume, crowned with hair the color of a flamus blaze. He was a man of smiles and boundless vitality, sporting golden spectacles perched upon the bridge of his nose. Clad in opulent attire, he bore the air of a merchant prince rather than a grim governor. His manor followed suit, adorned with countless treasures. Verdant gardens embraced the villa, featuring a central fountain and marble statues positioned with meticulous grace.
The estate of Horolf flaunted its luxury without restraint, yet it maintained a coherent elegance. The decorative theme of the manor was harmonious, woven with intricate floral motifs. The hues of the ornaments and upholstery favored a deep russet-brown, blending seamlessly with the fine woodwork of the furniture.
Seraph observed that the soldiers of Balyon and the manor staff were drilled with professional precision; such discipline was never the product of mere happenstance.