Laith was having a grand old time, even if those around him weren’t. His axe cleaved through the skull of a hobgoblin, quickly followed by another. His Aura of Vigor empowered his muscles, making each strike stronger than the last.

  Their cohort of Silver-ranks had already lost half a dozen members. Though their deaths hadn’t been in vain. The hobgoblins had paid a butcher's toll for each life they took, more than fifty of them lying dead across the battlefield.

  Lets get those numbers up, Laith thought, a wide grin splitting his face, the thrill of battle coursing through his veins.

  His gaze flickered to the side where a massive [Blizzard] collided with an equally large [Dust Storm], the roar of magic drowning out the clashing of steel against steel.

  It was so easy to get lost in the small victories. To forget about the grander forces at play. But while their skirmish was certainly important, it paled in comparison to the battle’s being fought elsewhere.

  Their mages were fighting back against the shamans admirably, yet that wouldn’t hold for long. He knew it in his bones.

  Nine against fifteen. That’s too big of a difference.

  Another hobgoblin rushed at him, an ugly snarl on its scarred face, its sword shining with a familiar red glow. Laith deflected the strike with the shaft of his axe, the hardened ironwood easily taking the blow.

  He kicked the monster in the chest, disturbing it’s footing before finishing it off with a slash to the neck. Slicing its head clean off.

  There was a reason Laith hadn’t become a mage, even if he had the ability.

  His arms may have been tired, and his muscles may have been sore, but while he still drew breath, Laith would be able to fight. He could push through the exhaustion, the bone-deep weariness that came from taking his body to the limit.

  But a mage? A mage was like a child once his mana ran out. Unable to do anything besides watch Morrigan as she drew them into her embrace.

  An image came unbidden to his mind. A woman, broader than he was now, standing in front of him with a massive greatsword in her hands. Laith remembered little from that day, but the sight of a full flight of drakes being torn from the sky by a single sword swing was something he’d never forget.

  The paths to power were myriad, and just because a mage seemed stronger than a warrior at the start didn’t mean that pattern held.

  His gaze wandered over towards the center of the warcamp where Guildmistress Quinea and that curious young man fought against their opponents. Hoping that either one of them finished their battle soon.

  “Sir!” a voice called out from behind, his mind refocusing on the present. “The Iron-ranks are getting overwhelmed!”

  Glancing back, Laith saw a tide of goblins rushing at the adventurers tasked with holding their flanks, his expression hardening with resolve.

  “I’m on it,” he said firmly. “Ilios, Gurak, with me.”

  The hobgoblins were contained for now, they could afford to spread their forces.

  Laith saw a young woman slowly being overwhelmed, her daggers flashing as she used skill after skill, trying to hold off an onslaught of attacks.

  A warrior in silver plate was running towards her, but Laith knew he wouldn’t get there in time. Each one of his steps was getting halted by another opponent, slowing him down.

  Looking deep within himself, he churned the molten pool of energy inside his chest.

  Earth mana started moving through his channels.

  Just because Laith didn’t want to be a mage didn’t mean he would let a useful weapon languish by the wayside. He had it, and so, he would use it.

  The earth beneath his feet hardened with each step, throwing him forward, raising his speed. [Earthen Steps] was a Murmur-level spell, one of three he’d learned, but it was immensely useful.

  With a roar, Laith threw himself into the middle of the skirmish. His axe cleaving through the air, reaping goblin lives with each powerful swing.

  The young woman he’d just saved spoke words of gratitude, yet he didn’t have time to answer. She wasn’t the only one on the brink of death.

  Laith’s arms may have been tired, his muscles may have been sore, but he still drew breath. And that meant he would fight. There were opponents all around him, so he did the only thing he could.

  He got to work.

  .

  .

  .

  Crap, crap, crap! Rowan thought, his mana draining rapidly as Dust swirled around his shield, coiling around it like a snake circling its prey.

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  His reserves of Fire mana weren’t small. He had enough to cast [Fireball] a dozen times over. But out of all of his spells, [Fire Shield] was by far the most costly. Unlike all the others, it had to directly content with an opponent's Intent. And that wasn’t cheap.

  The apprentice tested his defense, pressing down and launching spikes where he perceived weakness. The cloud of dust covered him fully, and he knew something needed to change.

  Gritting his teeth, Rowan quickly came to a decision. He could most likely stand and take the spell, trading his mana for his opponents. But that wasn’t how he’d win this fight. Once the apprentice depleted his Dust mana, he would still have a full pool of Wind and Earth. And if that happened, Rowan would be in for a world of hurt.

  He had slightly more than half of his Wind mana left, along with just under three-quarters of his Fire mana—with the latter getting depleted much faster than he’d like.

  Move, he told himself.

  His opponent might have had more mana and the inherent strength that came with advancing his Core to Yellow, but Rowan wasn’t without his own advantages.

  Taking a deep breath, he started to overload his spell. Pushing a tremendous amount of mana into it.

  For most, doing this would lead to a soul-injury. The sheer amount of mana being pumped through his channels enough to strain even the hardiest of mages. But Rowan’s soul was different. It wasn’t just hardy, it was Immortal.

  His shield erupted around him in a fiery explosion, forcing back the cloud of dust that threatened to overwhelm him. Rowan didn’t waste any time. He bent his knees and launched himself away, pushing his body to its limit.

  The explosion did what he’d hoped it’d do, clearing a path for him to take. But while it dealt with most of the dust, it couldn’t deal with all of it.

  Shallow cuts appeared across his arms and legs as he raced across the hard earth, blood dripping from the wounds. Rowan suppressed a wince, trying to keep his mind clear and focused.

  The dust cloud tried to follow him, but his speed proved greater, his dexterity just barely high enough to keep ahead of it.

  Rowan's eyes locked onto the stone dome that still hid the apprentice from view.

  He felt his resolve steady, the fear and uncertainty giving way to a steadfast confidence, the sharp sting of his wounds fading into a dull ache. Pulling out a healing potion from the Vault mid stride, he gulped it down while running towards the goblin, knowing he’ll need it if he wanted to reach him alive.

  The closer he got the denser the cloud became. He dodged what spells he could, defended what he couldn’t with his shield—draining what little remained of his Fire mana—and took what was left, trusting in the potion to keep him alive.

  Every step he took resulted in a new wound, each one deeper than the last.

  Rowan split his focus, half of his mind on closing the distance while the other sat by that calm river, dealing with the rocks as they appeared.

  A tendril of dust snaked around his leg, threatening to end his charge. Rowan let out an ear splitting roar, pushing the last vestiges of his Fire mana to combat it, smothering the apprentice's Intent.

  He was still more than a dozen feet away.

  Too far, he thought, throwing himself to the side, turning his tumble into an awkward roll.

  A spike of earth flew over his head—nearly taking out his eye—yet the sight only emboldened him.

  He’s out, Rowan grinned, watching as the cloud of dust slowly started settling down, no longer under the goblin’s control.

  Digging deep, he forced his sore muscles to move. Uncaring of the blood that dripped down his body, his wounds slowly mending from the healing potion still coursing through his veins.

  He would have only one chance to get this right. His Fire mana was completely spent, leaving him with only half of his reserves of Wind. Once that was gone, Rowan would be at his opponents mercy.

  The training with Tremil had deepened his knowledge of Wind. His spells had grown more efficient and his Intent sharper. Yet what he needed now wasn’t efficiency, it wasn’t grace and precision. What Rowan needed was power.

  The dome of Stone was his target. Mana started circulating through his body, the circuit for [Gust] feeling as light as a feather, even in these dire circumstances.

  Rowan had discovered something significant while practicing that spell. Unlike [Firebolt], overfilling it with mana didn’t come with the risk of dying in a fiery explosion.

  It still required an immense amount of concentration, and channeling such a large amount of mana was dangerous for most mages. But Rowan wasn’t most mages. The worst that could happen was getting thrown back from the force of his spell.

  Not exactly a pleasant experience, and one that would lead to his death just the same if it happened right now. But the difference was it was possible to train it. Something Rowan had done for exactly this situation.

  A Yellow-core mages defense wasn’t something he should have been capable of getting through. Especially one with the Earth affinity.

  The strength behind the apprentices' defenses were two fold. Firstly, his inherently stronger Intent. And secondly, the abundance of Earth.

  But sometimes, brute force was all one needed.

  A staff appeared in his hand, quickly followed by a swirling ball of Wind at the tip that grew in intensity with each step he took. His lone skill worked at its limit, keeping his mind focused as he packed more and more mana into the spell.

  In the few seconds it took to finally reach his opponent, Rowan had packed half of what was left of his mana pool into it.

  The spell glowed an iridescent green, and what little mana managed to escape his grasp was enough to blow his hair back, kicking up the dust around them.

  The apprentice, noticing his presence retaliated. Rowan didn’t have time to dodge the spike that erupted from below him fully. He managed to move out of the way just enough to avoid it piercing his stomach, yet he couldn't prevent it from driving through his foot.

  A pained shout escaped his throat as the attack landed, tearing muscle and breaking bone. It was enough to shatter the fragile hold he had over the maelstrom in his hand, but he’d done what he needed to. He’d gotten close.

  [Gust] might have been just a Whisper-level spell, yet with the amount of mana Rowan had forced into it, it got the job done.

  The spell tore through the goblins' defenses, smothering the imbued Intent with sheer force. It was quantity over quality in the truest sense of the word.

  When it was done, Rowan stood face to face with his opponent for the first time since the fight started. His mana was completely gone, yet he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

  The apprentice’s eyes widened in confusion and fear, not expecting his spell to be overpowered this quickly. Instinctively, he took a hesitant step back, wanting to create distance between itself and the threat standing right in front of him.

  That hesitation was all the time Rowan needed. His grin widened, feeling a surge of confidence envelop him. He knew from the start that the moment he broke through would be the most dangerous part of the fight. A single spell would have been enough to end him.

  But that moment had passed. The apprentice had lost its chance to surprise and fear.

  With his magic spent, there was only one thing left to do.

  Rowan cocked his arm back and punched the little shit in the head.