Muttering under his breath, Sadir unfurled the parchment. He'd already decided that if Seraph was lying, he'd rip him a new one. Even if he couldn't get the boy officially punished, he'd make sure the "shameless deceiver" never heard the end of it.
But as the scroll opened, the kill count and final synthesis manifested with absolute clarity. Mageia did not lie.
These scrolls weren't common parchment; they were high-tier artefacts forged by the Masters of the Mission Department and locked behind layers of mageia security to preclude any chance of corruption. Not even Sadir could touch the data if he wanted to. Every glyph and etched summary was the product of a mageia far beyond the reach of a standard magis to tamper with. The intelligence within was infallible.
"The Desden mission... it's actually done," Sadir stammered, his voice climbing as the shock set in. "You cleared the whole place in a matter of days?"
Even with the proof in his hands, his tone betrayed a lingering doubt.
"Fortune was on my side, and I ran into no complications. I saw no reason to linger," Seraph replied, his gaze igniting with the fires of ambition. "I'm here to turn this in and take a new task. To be blunt—I'm looking to climb the ranks. Give me something that suits my level."
"You? Trying to climb the ranks?" Sadir paused, squinting as he searched his memory. "Wait, if I remember right, you've been at the Sanctus for years. You've been an assistant curator for nearly a decade! Sure, rotting away in the Basilica of Tomes is a tedious grind, but ten years should've given you more than enough points to move up. You could've been a full Curator by now if the Basilica wasn't so tight-fisted. Why chase more missions? I heard Highmaster Serene herself was grooming you to take over, wasn't she?"
Highmaster Serene was the Sovereign Curator—the absolute authority over the archives. For years, Seraph had stayed in the shadows of the library, leading everyone to believe he was destined to be the next guardian of the tomes.
"My path has changed," Seraph declared, his voice heavy with resolve. "From here on, I'm taking the path of a Warlock. I need the extra subjugation points to qualify for the War Magis trials."
"A Warlock?!" Sadir blurted out, staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "Are you serious? Do you have any idea how lethal the front lines are? The survival rate is a joke. You couldn't even handle the Kambion Group—those bastards have been making your life hell for years and you never did a thing about it. How the hell do you expect to survive a legion of demons that actually want you dead?"
"I'm well aware of my weaknesses," Seraph replied, his tone steady. "That's why I'm going to make sure no one ever has the balls to look down on me again. But tell me—have you heard anything about the Kambion Group lately?"
He shifted gears so smoothly that Sadir didn't even blink.
"Now that you mention it..." Sadir leaned in, his expression lighting up with a sudden, malicious joy. "Those bastards have been pissing everyone off for years, even the Warlocks. But a few days ago? They got absolutely trashed. Someone beat them so badly they had to be hauled to the Healing Hall. If Marina hadn't worked her mageia on them, they'd be permanently crippled—if not dead. Since they got out, they've been acting like perfect little ladies. Even Kambion himself has vanished. Word is he's hiding in his manor, but it's a hell of a coincidence... he went missing the exact moment his lackeys were broken. You have to wonder if he met a similar fate, don't you?" Sadir whispered, clearly relishing the scandal.
The moment the topic turned to Kambion, Sadir's persona flipped. He wasn't a haughty official anymore; he was the premier gossip-monger of the Sanctus. It was clear that the fall of the Kambion circle was the juiciest story in the citadel.
"I wouldn't know anything about that," Seraph remarked with a chilling deadpan. "But if those animals finally learned some manners, the Sanctus will be a lot more livable. At least I won't have to deal with them anymore."
"Hmm... what happened to them is unnerving, to say the least. Lately, Arkflame's been crawling with dark rumors... I wonder if their fate is tied to something demonic? You'd better watch your back out there!" Sadir warned, a rare flicker of genuine concern crossing his face.
"Noted. But back to why you're so pissed off... has something gone wrong?" Seraph asked with pointed curiosity.
"Wrong? It's a gods-damned disaster, that's what! Rohtas—the man I assigned to the missing persons case—has vanished into thin air. For a magis to go on a rescue mission and end up needing a rescue himself is an absolute disgrace! If a Highmaster or Grandmaster gets wind of this, they'll have my head! How can I not be fuming?!" Sadir bellowed, his voice nearing a roar.
"Rohtas... the elite investigator? Gone?" Seraph found it hard to wrap his head around the news.
"Exactly! I can barely believe it myself! Usually, the man is a paragon of reliability, but his Mission Covenant was severed from the other side. A Covenant Spell doesn't lie! It signaled immediately that the idiot is in dire straits. I've been scrambling to find a magis who isn't already busy, but not a single soul will touch this job!" Sadir growled, tearing at his hair in a fit of pure agitation.
Sadir was completely unhinged; the stress had reached a point where he looked ready to scalp himself.
The Mission Covenant was a specialized contract, a staple for any magis organization. It served as a vital pulse, allowing the administration to monitor an operative's status with chilling accuracy—discerning whether they were still breathing or had succumbed to the void.
The Mission Covenant was forged from grim necessity. The reality was simple: Laurasia teemed with lethal peril. Not even a Grandmaster, sitting at the apex of the Sanctus hierarchy, could claim to be the undisputed master of this continent.
Consequently, every mission was a dance with demise. The mortality rate among magis had soared to harrowing heights, especially during the Century of Demon War, which had decimated the Sanctus ranks.
Historically, the Sanctum boasted over a thousand members; yet, over the last hundred years, that number had withered to fewer than a hundred. This precipitous decline in the magis population was nothing short of terrifying.
The Covenant Spell allowed the Mission Department to monitor an operative's vital spark. If the mageia dissolved or was torn away, it served as an immediate warning that the practitioner's life hung in the balance.
But survival wasn't the only concern—integrity was. The covenant ensured no magis abandoned their post or committed the heresy of proxy-labor—hiring outsiders to do their dirty work. These protocols were designed to stop nobles from wealthy houses from buying their way through the ranks using mercenaries.
Since high-tier missions were the only path to the Inner Council, these measures ensured that only those with genuine merit could ascend. Nevertheless, beneath the surface, the avenues for corruption remained manifold.