Corvin’s second match of the day was announced shortly after, and his opponent entered the arena with a confident stride. She was another dark elven woman, short, busty, and wrapped in a sleek dueling uniform etched with thread thin mana weaves. Her silver hair was tied back in a combat knot, and the amulet on her neck crackled faintly with her active affinity.
She wasted no time. As soon as the duel began, she coated herself in a shell of lightning. Thin arcs dancing around her like a living cage. It was reactive, elegant, and dazzling to the eye. Sparks licked from her arms to her shoulders and then into the air, forming a shifting perimeter of light. At the same time, she lashed out with short range arcs, whip like bursts that struck fast and shallow.
A good setup, Corvin had to admit.
Lightning wasn’t just flash. It was speed. Power. Direction. In the wild, it didn’t warn. It struck.
She was more interested in form than function.
Even so, he cast his spores carefully. One to her wrist. Another to her collar. By the time she repositioned to bait him forward, she was already part of his archive.
His real objective wasn’t the duel. It was the refinement. The subtle tweaks to control, layering, and reflexes that might push his lightning affinity beyond its current plateau.
The moment she made the mistake of overcommitting a bolt, he responded.
He lifted both hands, fingers spread.
Lightning arced outward like twin river deltas, branching in layers upon layers. A first volley came in a horizontal wave. The second peeled off mid air, snapping downward at her legs. The third, more a storm than a bolt burst from above with explosive pressure.
She tried to shield, to redirect, to pivot and counter.
But there was too much.
A final surge struck her square in the chest, launching her backwards across the arena and crashing against the containment field with a resonant hum.
The official stepped forward immediately. "Match concluded. Corvin Blackmoor, victory."
He turned toward Corvin. "Would you like to rest before the next challenge?"
Corvin shook his head.
His third match was against a tall, broad shouldered dark elf whose stance radiated brute force. The moment the match began, his opponent launched into heavy arcs of lightning, more forceful than refined.
Rather than wasting his own mana, Corvin focused. With deft precision, he seized control of the mana within the oncoming arcs and redirected them. One. Two. Then a full storm sent rebounding.
The audience leaned in as the aggressor was suddenly forced onto the defensive by his own attacks. Each arc twisted in midair and snapped back toward him like a serpent returning to bite its master.
Within moments, the young elf was overwhelmed. A cluster of redirected bolts struck him hard in the chest and legs, knocking him to the ground.
The referee didn’t hesitate. "Victory to Corvin Blackmoor."
Corvin shook his head and turned away. There was nothing to be gained from that one. No new technique. No unique insight.
The duel was a waste.
He left the arena without a word and headed toward the Aetherreach Spire.
His next lesson was Space Magic.
And for once, he was hopeful he might actually learn something new.
Corvin arrived at the Aetherreach Spire and slipped into the classroom, choosing a seat at the back as usual. The room was circular, tiered with obsidian benches, and centered around a levitating chalkstone tablet that hovered above a glowing rune platform.
Students began to trickle in. Some were dressed in finely tailored robes bearing family crests and silver threading, their postures stiff with ingrained superiority. These were the nobles of Dark Elven society. Descendants of the High Burrows, ancient underground cities sealed from the surface, where bloodlines and caste dictated everything from marriage rights to magical instruction.
Others bore the simpler garb of the nomadic clans. Their clothes were functional, woven from layered leathers and spider silk wraps. These were the front facing side of the Synod, the ones living aboveground to manage trade, security, and expansion. Their manners were looser, their expressions more curious than condescending.
Corvin watched in silence, cataloging each one.
Then the door opened with more force than necessary.
A young dark elf stepped in, flanked by two silent followers who kept exactly two paces behind him. His hair was tightly braided, his robes sharp, and his eyes swept the room with proprietary expectation, until they locked on Corvin.
Corvin noticed him the moment he stepped through the threshold.
And when their gazes met, the boy didn’t blink. He stared.
Corvin tilted his head slightly.
Let’s hope this won’t turn into some Asian cliché, he thought. The last thing he needed was a dark elven version of a young master trying to show off.
"I am Nareth Vaelion of House Vaelion," the young elf announced, his voice smooth and just loud enough to carry across the entire classroom.
Nareth’s lips curled. "Hmph. These hillborn nomads really are bumpkins. Dragging down the standards of the Arcanum."
Corvin slowly raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Before another word could be exchanged, the space magic instructor entered. He was a tall, wiry figure with deep violet eyes and a commanding presence. His robes shimmered faintly with spatial glyphs, and his voice had the tone of someone who tolerated no wasted time.
"That one there," he said without hesitation, pointing directly at Corvin, "is Corvin Blackmoor. Perhaps you’ve heard the moniker. The Raven. He is here by direct order of Archmagus Vaelorin."
A stir moved through the benches. Several students turned to Corvin in open curiosity, others with thinly veiled suspicion. One of them even muttered the name under his breath, as if testing its weight.
"He is not a student in the traditional sense," the instructor continued. "He is a mercenary. Effective and lethal. He operates on his own terms with the council. And if you think you can measure yourself against him, I suggest you remember that Archmagus Vaelorin did not place him here to make friends. This warning is to protect you from making uneducated decisions and creating enmity with someone you should not mess with. So take heed."
Corvin caught a few flickers of recognition now. Some winced, others leaned away slightly. The quiet realization moved through the room like a shifting wind.
Nareth pursed his lips. He hadn’t heard of Corvin before today, and he’d faced other so called mercenaries before. How dangerous could this one really be?
Still, something about the way the instructor had said it... unsettled him.
"I am Magus Selharen Ys’varis," the instructor said, turning back to the room. "This is a space magic class. You are here to study the manipulation of mass, dimensional shift theory, and void anchoring. Not to compete with your egos. If you can’t manage that, there’s the door."
He turned sharply and moved to the front.
This time, it wasn’t polite.
As the lesson began, Magus Selharen moved to the hovering chalkstone and activated it with a tap of his mana. Diagrams of planetary rings and anchor runes floated into the air.
"Space Magic," he began, "is not merely about teleportation. That is merely its most recognizable feature. The manipulation of mass, the creation of isolated or stabilized subspaces, the anchoring of objects against force, and the restructuring of localized physics are all within its domain."
Several students leaned forward with interest.
"However," Selharen continued, "there are restrictions. The Council of Arbiters placed detection nets across all the continents. These nets are weaved through ley lines and calibrated to detect any spatial intrusion across continental borders. No teleportation can occur into or out of a continent without triggering the network or getting permission from the Arbiters." He scoffed t his last sentence to show how likely it was in reality.
Corvin raised a hand.
"What about teleportation within the continent itself and what if one doesn’t teleport into the continent directly," he said, "but near its borders or shores, perhaps? Would the detection net still trigger?"
Selharen narrowed his eyes in thought. "For the former it is not monitored, for the latter It is possible. The nets are calibrated for continental thresholds, not maritime boundaries. Such a maneuver would not trigger the primary net. However, the mana cost would be absurd. Only a Planarch or someone with equivalent magical stamina could attempt it without combusting."
"Thank you, Magus," Corvin replied calmly, lowering his hand.
Several students turned to stare.
Nareth frowned, clearly displeased with how casually Corvin had asked the question as if it were routine.
Corvin’s mind, however, was already at work. He possessed the reserves of not one Planarch, but many. He has siphoned thousands up to this point, his mana reserve was absurd.
As Selharen continued the lecture, Corvin allowed his spores to drift into motion. One attached to the instructor. Then another.
By the time he reached the midpoint of the session, Corvin had located and siphoned the students with highest ranking affinity in the room. One specialized in dimensional slicing. Another in null anchoring for battlefield deployment. A third had developed a personal subspace chamber used for rapid deployment of tools, similar to his inventory.
By the time his thirty spores had been spent, Corvin’s Space affinity had shifted. The A- had finally broken.
He leaned back in his seat, eyes slightly closed, lips curled in silent satisfaction. Now he was able to use teleportation thanks to the experiences of Selharen.
It had been a good class.
And an even better harvest.