"Who's that?" Jacob asked, puzzled.
"One of the great mages in recorded history—lived about three hundred years ago," Filip said, leaning back slightly in his chair. "He reached Rank 9 in wind magic, which is an extraordinary feat. But he's also known as the dumbest mage in history."
Jacob blinked. "Huh?"
"Truly. The man couldn't read complex glyphs properly, barely understood theory, and had no patience for books. But he was… well, a natural. A rare kind of genius born once in an age. He advanced purely through instinct and talent."
"Rank 9… in wind magic?" Jacob repeated, his curiosity piqued. He had barely scratched the surface of magic, but even he could tell that was impressive.
Filip nodded. "Indeed. It's rare even among royal court mages. But don't get your hopes up—most of us have to study the hard way."
"When it comes to magic," Filip began, "there are ten recognized ranks—Rank 1 through Rank 10. These ranks represent the degree of mastery over a specific magical attribute."
Jacob leaned in slightly, trying to follow.
"Ranks 1 and 2 are the basics," Filip continued. "At Rank 1, a mage learns to create and control small amounts of their attribute—like producing a fist-sized water orb in water magic. Rank 2 increases the scale. That same orb could be the size of a grown man's head—or larger—with better control."
"Okay…" Jacob nodded slowly.
"Rank 3 is where you can manipulate multiple instances of your magic at once—say, conjuring several water balls simultaneously. But Ranks 4 and 5 are when real manipulation begins. That's when a mage learns to shape their element: into chains, weapons, or even elemental constructs like animals."
"Those sound.... powerful."
"They are. And although both Ranks 4 and 5 allow shaping, the difference lies in the destructive power and finesse. Rank 5 brings more refined control and impact."
Filip's expression shifted slightly, becoming more serious.
"Rank 6 is when a mage enters an entirely new phase. At this level, they begin to *merge* with their element—magic becomes an extension of their being."
Jacob blinked. "Merge…?"
"Yes. And Rank 7? That's when a mage can form a domain—a space shaped by their will and attribute. Within that domain, their control and power are nearly absolute."
Filip let that sink in before continuing.
"Rank 8 allows large-scale magic—city-level destruction if one isn't careful. Rank 9 goes beyond that. At that point, a mage can affect the physical world without direct contact. Changing the weather, summoning rain, altering terrain."
Jacob's eyes widened.
Filip paused, then added with a more thoughtful tone, "It's important to understand—these ranks aren't just steps on a ladder. The power difference between them isn't always equal. Rank 1 and 2, for example, are fairly close—just a basic increase in output and control. But the gap between Rank 2 and Rank 3? That's massive. A Rank 3 mage can typically overpower two, maybe even three Rank 2s at once, depending on skill. The jump to Rank 4 and 5 is another huge leap—true shaping and combat versatility begin there, far surpassing Rank 3, though the difference between Rank 4 and 5 itself is narrower. But Rank 6? That's on an entirely different scale. The leap from 5 to 6 is immense—a Rank 6 could take on multiple Rank 5s alone, especially with superior mastery and technique. Then there's Rank 7 and 8. These are monsters compared to Rank 6. A Rank 7, capable of forming a domain, could overwhelm even two Rank 6 mages. And Rank 8... their spells affect entire cities. Rank 9? They're walking natural disasters. Just one of them can outmatch multiple Rank 8s if their technique and experience are refined. And while tactics, mastery, and battle strategy can shift the outcome, each of the higher ranks represent not just more power—but a fundamental transformation in how a mage interacts with their magic."
"And Rank 10?" Filip smiled faintly. "It's unknown to most. Some call it the realm of gods. Few even believe it exists. But if it does… it's beyond our comprehension."
Jacob sat quietly for a moment, stunned. "So… if someone has more than one attribute, can they use both at the same level?"
"No. That's a common misunderstanding," Filip said, shaking his head. "Each attribute must be trained and mastered separately. If someone has both water and fire attributes, for example, reaching Rank 7 in water doesn't mean they can use fire at the same level. Each element requires its own study, understanding, and experience."
Jacob felt his head grow heavy with all the information. It was his first time hearing anything like this.
"I guess mages really are more powerful than knights," he muttered.
"Not exactly," Filip replied calmly.
Jacob looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Well, every living being has mana in them," Filip began. "It's just that not everyone can manipulate it the way mages can. Have you heard of Anton Agrunour—the Great Mage who helped bring an end to the Fourth Era of War? He was the son of Augustus Agrunour, another renowned mage before him. Anton once gave a metaphor for mana that's still widely taught today."
"I've heard the name," Jacob said.
"Before Anton disappeared, he gave a metaphor that's become famous in magical circles," Filip continued. "He described mana as a liquid inside a glass orb, located deep within every living being. Mages are those whose orb is at least half full—or more. They can expand it, refine it, and generate more mana to store inside. That's called mana capacity."
Jacob nodded slowly.
"But," Filip said, raising a finger, "non-mages still have that orb. And during the Fourth Era, knights discovered a way to make use of it."
Jacob blinked. "Really?"
"They trained their bodies to the limit. At a certain point, even the tiny amount of mana in their core would heat up—boil, almost—generating what they called *mana steam*. It was this steam that created an inner pulse. They learned to use that pulse to reinforce their bodies, their movements, and their weapons."
Filip leaned forward slightly.
"They called it Corepulse. A martial technique that made knights something else entirely—warriors who could clash with mages on equal ground."
It's been more than a thousand years since Corepulse was first developed, and over time, some have even improved upon it.
"The ducal households of Vaelthorne and Drakemont—both known for their lineage of warriors and knights, not mages—have developed their own unique ways of using Corepulse in battle."
"Do the Ravengard knights have someone like that?" Jacob asked.
"Yes," Filip replied. "Captain Ezra uses it. He's one of the youngest to awaken Corepulse—most who manage it are over thirty." He continued, "Mages don't use Corepulse. They channel mana through their core to cast spells. It's mentally taxing, especially at higher Ranks, so constant training is required to build resistance to the strain."
He glanced at Jacob. "Your attribute is Lightning, which is rare. We don't have anyone with the same affinity, so you'll need to rely on yourself. But there are books on lightning magic—you'll need to study them thoroughly. Focus on your physical training in the afternoons. You'll become a magic knight—rare among knights, but valuable."
Jacob looked hesitant, worry in his eyes, but Filip offered a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. We'll make you into a fine magic knight."
.....
In a dark and suffocating underground dungeon, the air was thick with the stench of mold, blood, and rusted metal. The stone walls—cracked and damp—were streaked with long-dried blood and layers of dust. A dim lantern hanging by a rusted hook flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced like phantoms across the grim space.
Behind a black iron-barred gate, one of the many cells carved into this wretched place, sat a prisoner slumped against the wall. His legs were bound in heavy chains bolted to the stone. His clothes were torn, caked in blood and filth, and his frame had grown frail with time.
It was Ferno.
The once-proud smuggler, now barely recognizable, stirred as the gate creaked open. Two knights in crimson-red armor stepped inside. Without a word, they unlocked his chains and dragged him out by the arms. His feet scraped against the cold stone as they pulled him through the hallway and up a spiral staircase made of aged stone bricks. At the top, they came to an iron door.
It groaned open. The sudden flood of sunlight pierced Ferno's eyes like blades, drawing a groan from his cracked lips. He squinted, tears forming from the brightness after so long in darkness.
They dragged him out into a wide, open training yard behind the estate—a stark contrast to the dungeon's gloom. The ground was hard-packed earth, surrounded by stone walls and watched over by rows of armored knights. The scent of metal, sweat, and scorched earth hung in the air. Several training dummies stood broken and charred near the sides, and practice weapons lay scattered across the grounds.
At the center of it all stood Duke Luthbrecht.
He was motionless, like a statue of fire and wrath. His flowing crimson cloak shimmered in the sunlight, and the molten glow in his eyes was brighter than ever. His very presence seemed to bend the air—an oppressive force that silenced even the wind.
Ferno collapsed to his knees before him as the knights released the chains.
Luthbrecht didn't look at him. His eyes were locked somewhere distant—lost in thought, or perhaps already deciding Ferno's fate.
Then, without warning, he spoke. "You will find the one named Merlin. You will retrieve my stones. And you will bring me answers."
Ferno flinched. "B-but I am just a smuggler. I-I don't have the means—"
Luthbrecht's gaze snapped down to him, his molten eyes narrowing.
"Then I will lend you some of mine," he said coldly. "Three men—handpicked. They will watch you, and if you stray, they will gut you where you stand."
Ferno's mouth opened, but no words came out.
"You have until the end of the Crown Prince's ceremony next month," Luthbrecht continued, his voice low and deadly. "If you return empty-handed..."
He paused, just long enough to let the silence turn suffocating.
"...I will make sure your screams echo through the dungeon for days—long before you're allowed to die."
Ferno, shivering, nodded with every ounce of his strength. "I… I will not fail you, my lord."
Luthbrecht turned away without another word.
To be continued.