Chapter 169: The Trial of Sparks and Shadows
The Weight of Mirrors
Alone in his chambers, Bennett paced like a caged wolf. Gurgle the Rat-Mage perched on a stack of grimoires, whiskers twitching. "They've boxed you in," the rodent sighed. "York Zog's move is… elegant."
Bennett glared at the moonlit window. Elegant? A dagger to the ribs, more like. The Guild Chairman's sudden insistence on a formal magic assessment—three days hence—was a masterstroke.
"Five blades in one strike," Gurgle counted on clawed fingers. "Expose your true power. Undermine Chen's faction. Reassert Guild dominance. Blackmail material. And—"
"—a public stage to break me," Bennett finished bitterly. His victory over the Green-robed Gandolf had painted him as a prodigy. Now that lie would strangle him.
The rat-mage's tail flicked. "Without your trinkets—the bow, the firepowder rings—what are you? A fifth-rate hedge-wizard with delusions of grandeur."
Bennett hurled a goblet. It shattered against Seymour's portrait, wine bleeding down the prophetess' serene smile.
The Guild's Gauntlet
Gurgle's briefing chilled the air.
First Trial: Mana Measurement.
"The Guild's ancient orbs don't lie. Your core burns like a sputtering candle next to true masters."
Second Trial: Spellcraft Endurance.
"They'll hurl firestorms in a sealed chamber. No trinkets, just raw control. You'll last as long as a snowflake in hell."
Third Trial: Incantation Precision.
"Speed. Clarity. Ruthless efficiency. Your butchering of the Galdr of Sundered Stars would make apprentices weep."
Final Crucible: Unarmed Duel.
"Two mages of the rank below your claim. For an 'eighth-tier genius'? Two seventh-tier wolves hungry for glory."
Bennett slumped. His greatest feats—the frozen river ambush, the sky-splitting Divine Ruin Arrow—relied on stolen relics and Seymour's whispers. Stripped bare? A lamb to slaughter.
Feathers in the Dark
The mirror shimmered.
"Tsk. Such melodrama."
The Divine Penguin emerged—not waddling, but gliding across polished oak. Its obsidian beak tilted in avian disdain. "Mortals and their… assessments."
Bennett didn't look up. "Unless you've hidden a dragon's hoard under those flippers, shut your beak."
A wing snapped. Ice crystals bloomed midair, forming intricate runes. "Observe."
Gurgle squeaked. "That's—that's the Third Paradigm of Frostveil! A ninth-tier ice mantra!"
The penguin yawned. "Child's scribbles. What if… your magic became… their problem?"
A Pact with Winter
Dawn approached as Bennett sat cross-legged, the Divine Penguin's wingtip pressed to his brow.
"Focus on the emptiness between breaths," it intoned, voice resonating like glacial winds. "Where their rules end… our game begins."
Memories surged—Seymour's ghostly fingers guiding his hand through forbidden sigils. The frozen moment when time itself had bent to his desperation.
Gurgle watched, fur standing on end. "You're channeling through him? But that's—"
"—what your 'Guild' fears most." The penguin's eyes glowed cerulean. "Not stolen power… but borrowed eyes."
Bennett gasped. His reflection split—one face his own, the other Seymour's smirking phantom.
The Mask Cracks
At high noon, York Zog's invitation arrived—gilded parchment sealed with a kraken sigil.
Honored Lord Bennett,
The Hall of Echoes eagerly awaits your demonstration. Let us dispel… uncertainties.
Bennett burned the letter, ash swirling into the shape of a grinning penguin.
"They want a show?" The bird preened. "We'll drown their stage in blizzards."
Chapter 170 (Part I): The Crucible of Stars and Skepticism
A Guild's Grand Theatre
The morning air hummed with anticipation. Magic Guild banners—a six-pointed star stitched in celestial thread—snapped like war standards above the plaza. For Bennett-Rudolf, Duke of Frostspire and the realm's most debated prodigy, the Guild had spared no spectacle.
Crowds pressed against barricades, necks craned. Commoners, nobles, even street hawkers paused to glimpse the boy who'd routed a false Gandolf beneath the sunlit spears of the Royal Plaza. Genius or fraud? The question hung thicker than midsummer pollen.
Bennett arrived alone.
No ducal carriage. No liveried guards. Just the black scholar's robe—threadbare at the cuffs—and a smile as unreadable as twilight. Sunlight haloed his untamed curls, lending him the air of a wandering sage rather than a lord.
Mage Clark, sweating beneath his ceremonial azure mantle, bowed stiffly. "Lord Bennett. The Chairman awaits."
The Guild's obsidian spire loomed. Its six-winged architecture—a hexagram of arrogance—cast jagged shadows over cobblestones. Bennett's entourage today? A gaggle of Guild acolytes, their sidelong whispers betraying awe and envy.
So they parade me like a prize stallion, he mused, noting the detour through the Grand Atrium. Apprentices gaped from balconies; senior mages paused mid-incantation. All to amplify the stakes. All to ensure his potential disgrace would echo across every ear in Yanjing.
The Tower's Teeth
At the spire's apex—Chairman York Zog's sanctum—the air tasted of lightning and old secrets.
Three figures awaited.
Archmage Eryk "The Mad"—stained robes reeking of fermented thunderbee honey, eyes glittering like cracked sapphires. His two disciples hovered nearby, one offering Bennett an encouraging nod.
Archmage Leonid the Gaunt—a wraith in white, skin translucent as vellum. His gaze, sharper than winter's first frost, dissected Bennett with clinical disdain.
Archmage Valens—the third judge. A man carved from noble marble: trimmed beard, immaculate robes, smile warm as a hearthfire. Yet his eyes…
Ah, Bennett noted. The most dangerous kind. A politician in mage's cloth.
"Welcome, young comet," York Zog purred, golden olive leaves gleaming at his collar. "Shall we measure your light against the Guild's constellations?"
First Trial: The Orb's Verdict
Leonid spoke first, voice rasping like coffin hinges. "Mana measurement. No tricks. No artifacts. Raw essence."
The orb—a relic older than the Guild itself—pulsed on an obsidian plinth. Its surface swirled with imprisoned auroras, hungry for a mage's touch.
Bennett approached. Murmurs rose.
Fool! Leonid's sneer said. Your parlor tricks die here.
But Bennett's hand hovered, remembering Seymour's whisper in the frozen wastes: "Power isn't what you hold. It's what you borrow."
He pressed palm to crystal.
The orb screamed.
Light erupted—not the steady glow of mastery, but a frenzied staccato. Crimson. Azure. Viridian. Colors no Guild record described.
Eryk cackled. Valens' smile faltered. Leonid's quill snapped mid-note.
"Impossible," the Gaunt hissed. "The orb's never—"
"—been touched by one who walks two paths," York Zog finished, pupils dilated.
Eyes in the Dark
As the orb's echoes faded, Bennett staggered. His reflection in the chamber's black glass showed twin phantoms: his own face, and Seymour's ghostly smirk.
Well played, the prophetess' voice slithered through his mind. Now bleed them drier.
Eryk leaned close, breath sweet and toxic. "What's your secret, boy? Demon pact? Stolen grimoire?"
Bennett met his madness grin for grin. "Why not ask the orb, Archmage?"
Valens stepped between them, diplomacy armor-clad. "Second trial awaits. Spellcraft endurance."
The chamber floor yawned open, revealing a pit where firestorms coiled like serpents.
York Zog's smile returned, edged with fresh malice. "Shall we test those… unconventional reserves?"
Chapter 170 (Part II): The Alchemist's Gambit
A Symphony of Deafening Whispers
The air in York Zog's sanctum thickened as Bennett locked eyes with the Guild Chairman. Behind them, Archmage Ilnes—Bennett's newly revealed "senior brother"—bellowed with ear-splitting joviality: "HA! YOU'RE BENNETT! DON'T WORRY, I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU!"
Bennett's left eyelid twitched. Gods, does he think I'm deaf too?
York Zog massaged his temples. "Master Ilnes' enthusiasm… stems from an unfortunate incident involving a misaligned transmutation circle and six barrels of dragon's breath powder. His hearing hasn't recovered since."
Ilnes leaned in, breath reeking of sulfurous tea. "YOU'RE BENNETT! I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU!"
Eryk "The Mad" snickered into his sleeve. Leonid the Gaunt scribbled furiously, quill tearing parchment like claws on slate.
The Chessboard of Ambition
Teacups clinked—a fragile counterpoint to the tension. York Zog's smile oozed poisoned honey. "Now, Lord Bennett. Shall we discuss your aspirations? White robes await those bold enough to claim eighth-tier glory."
Bennett sipped his tea—a bitter brew laced with truth-serum petals. Clever bastards. The Guild Chairman's ploy was transparent: force him into an unwinnable duel, then expose him as a fraud.
Eryk intervened, uncharacteristically earnest. "Boy, listen. Start with fifth-tier. Build your—"
"—reputation," York Zog cut in, golden eyes glinting. "Surely the slayer of the Green Phantom wouldn't settle for mediocrity?"
Ilnes thumped the table. "BENNETT! I'LL TAKE CARE—"
"WE KNOW!" Eryk and York Zog roared in unison.
The Unorthodox Checkmate
Bennett rose. Sunlight fractured through stained glass, painting him in martyr's hues.
"Honored masters," he began, voice trembling with exquisitely feigned humility. "Your faith humbles me. Yet Grandmaster Gandolf's final lesson burns bright: 'True mastery lies not in chasing ranks… but in forging paths unseen.'"
A beat of stunned silence.
Leonid's quill froze. "Explain."
Bennett spread his hands—a conjurer unveiling his greatest trick. "Today, I humbly petition to be examined not as a combat mage…"
York Zog's teacup cracked.
"…but as a Magic Alchemist."
Eryk's spit-take drenched Ilnes' beard. The deaf archmage bellowed undeterred: "HA! BENNETT! I'LL—"
"—SHUT YOUR RUSTED TRAP!" Eryk howled, magic circuits flaring crimson.
Chaos in Gilded Chains
York Zog's composure shattered like dropped porcelain. "Alchemist? You—you dare sidestep centuries of tradition?!"
Bennett bowed—the perfect courtier's angle. "Article XIV, Clause 9 of the Guild Charter: 'Any practitioner of arcane arts, irrespective of specialization, may petition for certification.'" He met the Chairman's glare. "Unless the esteemed York Zog wishes to revise the founding statutes?"
Leonid's parchment burst into flames. "The boy cites law to lawmakers?!"
Ilnes, blissfully oblivious, crushed Bennett in a bear hug. "ALCHEMY! GOOD! I'LL TEACH YOU!"
The Penguin's Whisper
As arguments crescendoed, Bennett glimpsed Seymour's specter in the smoke-stained mirror. Her lips curved in approval.
Well played, her echo purred. Now watch their "principles" strangle their own schemes.
York Zog's fist slammed the table. "Very well! Let history record this farce! Prepare the Alchemical Crucible!"
Bennett straightened his collar, Ilnes' booming laughter at his back. Thank you, old ghost, he thought toward Gandolf's memory. For teaching me to fight rules with better rules.
Chapter 171 (Part I): The Alchemist's Gambit
A Poisoned Chalice of Prestige
The chamber fell silent, thick with the irony of history repeating itself. Bennett stood at the center, his black scholar's robe stark against the Guild's gilded hypocrisy. Chairman York Zog's polished composure cracked like a dropped vial of dragon's bile.
"You… wish to pursue an alchemist's certification?" The Chairman's voice trembled between disbelief and fury.
Bennett's smile held the serenity of a storm's eye. "As per Guild Charter Article IX, Section 3: 'Any recognized branch of arcane study, however specialized, grants full membership rights upon certification.'" He let the words linger, savoring the way Leonid the Gaunt's parchment crinkled in his tightening grip.
Archmage Ilnes, blissfully deaf to the tension, boomed: "HA! BENNETT! I'LL TEACH YOU ALCHEMY! WE'LL BLOW UP TOWERS TOGETHER!"
The Art of Warped Mirrors
York Zog rallied, his golden circlet glinting like a crown slipping from a usurper's brow. "But Lord Bennett! Your reputation—"
"—is my own to define." Bennett cut him off, voice sharp as shattered glass. "Shall we reduce Gandolf's legacy to mere rank-chasing? My master walked paths unseen by lesser minds. Must I tread only where his shadow falls?"
Leonid rose, skeletal fingers splayed. "This is no philosophical quibble! As Gandolf's heir, your choices reflect upon the entire Guild! Would you have the world think our greatest master trained a… a potion-stirrer?"
Gasps hissed through the chamber. Even Eryk "The Mad" paused mid-rummage through his explosive satchel.
Bennett turned slowly, meeting each judge's gaze. "When a farmer mocks the soil that feeds him, do we call him wise? Alchemy births every spell you cast—from the fire in your braziers to the ink in your contracts. Yet you spit upon its masters. Tell me, Leonid… who here truly dishonors Gandolf's legacy?"
The Unranked Ascendant
Memories flickered—a sickbed reeking of crushed moonbloom petals, Seymour's spectral hands guiding his first tincture. Power lies not in what you wield, but what you redefine.
York Zog struck the table. "Enough sophistry! The alchemist's path grants no combat credentials! You'd discard—"
"—your carefully laid traps?" Bennett's laugh rang clear. "Oh Chairman, let us speak plainly. You fear my certification would render your 'tests' moot. That the world might see a Guild scrambling to cage what it cannot measure."
Ilnes, mistaking tension for camaraderie, bellowed: "HA! BENNETT'S SMART! LET'S BREW LIQUID LIGHTNING!"
Eryk cackled, lobbing a glowing mushroom into the chandelier. "The boy's got stones! Reminds me of Gandolf dodging the High Council in '68!"
A Crown of Smoke
Leonid's quill snapped. "You dare equate your… your herbal dabbling with true wizardry? The masses already question your duel with the Green Phantom! Should you—"
"—prove," Bennett interjected, "that victory needs no validation from petty bureaucrats?" He spread his hands, alchemist's scars glinting. "Let them whisper. Let them doubt. I'll be too busy reshaping their world to notice."
York Zog's circlet slid askew. "The people demand—"
"—a show." Bennett's whisper carried. "And oh, what a show we'll give them. Imagine—the Guild's golden hall hosting its first alchemical certification in a century. Crowds thronging to see if I'll explode a cauldron or unveil a miracle. Either way… you profit."
Silence.
Even Leonid paused, calculating the optics.
The Prophet's Whisper
As shadows lengthened, Bennett glimpsed Seymour in the warped reflection of a silver alembic. Her lips curved.
Clever little viper, her voice slithered through his mind. Now watch them choke on their own rules.
York Zog sagged, outmaneuvered. "Very well. Prepare the Alchemical Crucible."
Bennett bowed—too deep for respect, too shallow for mockery. "Your wisdom honors us all, Chairman."
As the council erupted into furious whispers, Ilnes clapped Bennett's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "HA! TONIGHT WE'LL MELT THE MOON!"
And in the chaos, none noticed the faint green vapor curling from Bennett's sleeve—nor the way it shaped, for an instant, into Gandolf's approving smile.