"Nothing's ever that simple, boy!" Eldra interjected, shattering his fleeting hopes with a sharp laugh. "You'll participate in the trials as dictated by law. However, your circumstances—and our current political climate—grow more complex by the day. You've delivered two living Piperclowns and several carcasses into our custody. While I'm well aware that live demons fetch a king's ransom on the black market, I propose an exchange: surrender them to the Sanctum now, and I'll grant your ascension immediately. It'll give me the leverage I need to silence the Council and bypass their inevitable, whining dissent."
"I accept," Seraph declared, without a heartbeat of hesitation.
To him, time was a currency far more precious than gold. He could always cull fresh demons from the dark, but he had no desire to squander his life on the redundant pageantry of the examinations.
"You wouldn't care to reconsider?" Eldra pressed, her eyes searching his. "The gold value of those demons is far from trivial, even for a magis."
"I've no love for indecision," Seraph stated dismissively. "Besides, delivering these specimens to you serves a higher purpose than bartering 'em to nameless outsiders, doesn't it?"
"Heh... I find I'm growing fond of you, Seraph. Though, according to the mission reports, you've grown quite intimate with the Lady of Balyon and several other charming damsels. I'm beginning to fear for Evelyn's prospects—" Eldra mused, her voice drifting away like smoke in a cold wind.
[boom!]
Before Eldra could finish her thought, yet another detonation erupted from behind the side door. The frequency of the blasts drew Seraph's gaze toward the portal once more, his curiosity piqued.
"Is she always this diligent in her spellcraft?" Seraph remarked, his admiration genuine. "Such dedication is truly commendable."
Eldra cast a sidelong glance toward the door, a sly, predatory smile playing on her lips.
"I suspect she feels the need to secure her claim on a certain heart," Eldra whispered, her smile deepening with a cryptic intent, "before she's outpaced by the competition—"
"What was that?" Seraph asked, his words lost to the fading echo of the blast.
"Naturally, I'll require the carcasses as well," Eldra continued, brushing past his confusion. "Do we have a deal?"
"Fine by me," Seraph answered, barely sparing a thought for the gold he was leaving on the table.
"I can't decide if you're truly magnanimous or just simple-minded," Eldra remarked, a light chuckle escaping her.
"I just have no desire to waste my time on trifles. I thought the life of a magis was a straight path—kill the quarry, head back to the Sanctum, and collect the bounty. I never expected this much bureaucracy just to manage the remains," Seraph complained.
"Many share your loathing for the aftermath. I'm no exception," Eldra said. "While plenty of merchants in the city trade in demonic viscera, I suggest you entrust your kills to us or the Arkflame Court. It'll lighten your load and serve the realm's interests."
"Understood," Seraph replied.
"But we aren't done with your trials just yet," Eldra stated, her tone shifting. "I can waive the magis exam, but I cannot let you evade the Great Hunt."
"What do you mean by that?" Seraph asked, his brow furrowing.
"Are you truly ignorant of the Bloody Hunting?" Eldra asked, her surprise genuine.
The people of Laurasia were born with a thirst for competition; they saw the duel as the ultimate test of courage and steel. To them, it was a forge for camaraderie, a bridge built between peoples. Such contests allowed martial prowess to advance at a fever pitch, exposing flaws a warrior might otherwise miss. The culture of the trial had woven itself into the very marrow of Laurasian life.
For a millennium, the trial has been the lifeblood of Laurasia—a tradition woven into the very foundations of the Sanctus Sanctum. They have fused their mageia with this ancient bloodsport, birthing the mageia duel, the demon cull, and myriad other tests of steel.
Within the Sanctum, these duels are frequent and celebrated; even the formal examinations utilize the arena as their primary crucible. Yet, such a format dictates that only the lone victor—the one who stands atop the ruin of their peers—is deemed a true conqueror. By decree, only that soul is granted ascension to the rank of magis.
This mandates a brutal reality: the Sanctum typically births but a single new magis each year. This protocol is far more draconian than any external guild or sorcerous academy—a safeguard designed to ensure no fledgling is cast into a hunt that exceeds their threshold.
It stands in stark contrast to the world beyond these walls, where a charlatan who can barely spark a candle may style themselves a magis. In truth, many acomages of Sanctus possess the prowess to form a cadre and slaughter demons with lethal efficiency. To remain an acomage here is no mark of weakness; the commoners and nobility of the outer realms recognise that even our lowest initiates outrank their self-proclaimed masters. Like Seraph, an acomage may still pursue missions, yet the Mission Hall forbids them from accepting contracts that outstrip their power—unless they hunt within a pack.
This is especially true of the Bloody Hunting—a trial where the mortality rate is so harrowing it borders on the obscene.
The Bloody Hunting was a trial forged in the fires of high-stakes demon culling—a chain-link slaughter. It stood as a premier event of Arkflame, a perennial gauntlet of blood and steel.
While certain hunts were sequestered for the magis or specialized demon hunters, the Bloody Hunting was an open arena where every discipline converged. Yet, the registry was exclusive; it beckoned only those of exceptional affinity and raw power. This was no mere festival; it was one of the most lethal culls in existence.
Every year, Sanctus was petitioned to dispatch its finest to the fray. Because the magis of the Sanctum typically eclipsed the strength of external warriors and magis, they were perpetually marked as the vanguard—the prime contenders under the scrutiny of all.
"I am well acquainted with the nature of the Bloody Hunting," Seraph stated, his tone respectful yet firm. "Is it your intent to send me into that mission?"
"Indeed. You'll be our challenger when the moon turns," Eldra explained. "Ordinarily, we deploy only the most prominent magis for this task. The Bloody Hunting is a meat-grinder; the mortality rate is harrowing. We cannot permit a frail acomage or a weak-willed magis to court such a demise."
In their fledgling winters, magis were at their most vulnerable—a stark contrast to warriors and demon hunters who often peaked in physical lethality during the same span.
Mageia was a profound and labyrinthine art; with their energia cores yet to reach full maturation, most magis were bound to the study of theory. They had to harmonize cerebral mastery with the brutality of the duel to bolster their intuition, their power, and the expansion of their mana.
With each passing winter, a magis sees their power swell in an eternal tide. Once they reach the zenith of their growth, their might becomes so profound that warriors and common hunters can do nothing but gaze upward in awe. Rune architects share a similar trajectory, though they are bound to their golems as both weapon and conduit. Should a magis endure the cull and continue to amass sorcerous discipline, they may begin as a frail initiate only to evolve, eventually, into a sovereign dragon reborn in full, breathtaking glory.
"Hah... it seems I am bereft of choice," Seraph remarked.
Having been granted the exceptional boon of immediate ascension, he now perfectly fit the criteria of a nascent magis.
'The Second Law of the Magis: for every gain, there is an equivalent tithe.'
"A hunt beyond our walls offers you everything to gain and a pittance to lose," Eldra cajoled. "Though you've tasted the steel of your peers within the Sanctum, do not be deceived. Even if the warriors and magis of the outer realms possess a lesser affinity, they harbor hearts that refuse to yield. In the clash against such varied souls, you harvest both experience and novel arts. Furthermore, you must learn the strength of the cadre."
She leaned forward, her emerald eyes locking onto his. "Though you play the lone wolf, the might of a singular man is rarely sufficient—for the demons themselves never grant you the luxury of a duel. I am told your bout with the Piperclown proved... troublesome. Such is the nature of the cruel world beyond. The Bloody Hunting is the threshold to your new odyssey—a grim introduction to the reality of the abyss."
"I understand," Seraph replied with cold composure.