Paragon of Destruction

Arran hurried through the training fields, feeling some panic as he tried to find the group of novices he was supposed to train. The sun was already up and groups of students were gathering in the fields around him, but he had yet to find his own novices.

At random, he approached one of the groups’ teachers, a young woman he figured for an adept.

She glanced at him as he approached, but then, her eyes went wide. "You’re the one who defeated Doran!"

"I am," Arran confirmed hastily. "But right now, I’m looking for..." He paused, trying to recall the name. "The Dragon’s Claw, I think it was?"

"The Dragon’s Fist," she corrected him. "That’s Doran’s group. Figures they’d let you train the House’s most advanced novices. You’ll find them about a mile from here, near the western gate."

Arran quickly thanked her, then departed at a run.

Now that he knew where to go, he found the group in minutes. There were about three dozen novices, paired off and sparring against each other. Walking among them to offer instruction was a familiar face — the mage Arran had faced the previous day.

The adept still bore several large bruises on his face from their encounter, but when he saw Arran approaching, he greeted the newcomer with a friendly wave.

"Apologies for being late," Arran said. "I had some difficulty finding the right group."

"No matter," Doran replied. "A few minutes hardly makes a difference. Are you ready to begin?"

"I suppose," Arran said. In truth, he felt far from ready, but he knew that there was no escaping this fate.

"Everyone, gather up!" the adept called out loudly. He waited for the novices to gather, then said, "This is Initiate Ghostblade. Starting today, he will join me in instructing you."

The novices looked at Arran with some curiosity, but then, one of them spoke up. "Is this a joke? We are to be instructed by an initiate?"

The novice who spoke was a young man with short, dark hair and a clean-shaven face. His eyes held a hint of arrogance that caused Arran to feel an immediate dislike toward him.

"See this, Levo?" Doran pointed at the bruises covering his face. "He’s the one who did that. Initiate or not, his skill is well beyond yours. You would do well to learn from him."

Doran’s words caused most of the novices to go wide-eyed with surprise. Apparently, word of the previous day’s events hadn’t yet spread to everyone.

Yet although the novice named Levo shut his mouth, his expression remained skeptical — a few bruises clearly weren’t enough to convince him of Arran’s skill.

Ignoring the novice’s doubtful look, Doran turned to Arran. "Since this is your first time training these novices, I suggest we instruct them in a style of your choosing. They would benefit from seeing another Valley’s take on the styles they know."

Though Doran intended well, Arran paled at the suggestion.

He had trained in swordsmanship for several years already, but he had never seriously studied any single style, much less mastered one. Instead, he simply used the scattered techniques he had picked up over the years, relying on his instincts to combine them.

With a sigh, he decided that there was nothing for it but to tell the truth.

"I don’t know any complete styles," he admitted. "I’ve never focused on learning any single style — I’ve always just combined the techniques I know, using those best suited for the situation."

Doran frowned, but before he could say anything, Levo spoke up once more. This time, there was a hint of mockery in his voice.

"The initiate doesn’t even know any styles? And he’s supposed to teach us?" The young man turned to Doran. "He may have gotten lucky against you, but that doesn’t mean he’s qualified to teach us."

"Is that so?" Doran said the words calmly, but there was a subtle coldness to his voice as he spoke. "Anyone who believes Ghostblade isn’t qualified to teach this group, step forward."

Naturally, Levo wasted no time in doing just that. But a moment later, another novice followed, and then another. Before long, most of the novices had joined him.

There was a satisfied look on Levo’s face when he looked at the others around him. "Clearly, most of us agree that this initiate is unworthy," he said, a smug expression on his face.

"Indeed," Doran replied. "All of you who stepped forward, draw your swords. Now!"

Confused looks crossed the novices’ faces, but they did as the adept said. The tone of his voice brooked no argument.

When the novices had all drawn their swords, he continued, "All of you will face Ghostblade together. Anyone who refuses or objects is to leave and not return."

He turned to Arran, then said in a low voice, "Don’t hurt them too badly." After a quick glance at the novices, he added, "But don’t let them off easy, either."

Arran gave Doran a small nod, then faced the novices. A small grin appeared on his face as he stepped toward them. Teaching was something he had no confidence in, but fighting? By now, that came as natural as breathing.

There was some confusion in the novices’ eyes as Arran approached them, but their confidence did not waver. They quickly prepared for battle, forming a half-circle around their opponent.

Arran waited for them to finish, then attacked.

The group of novices would have been a deadly threat to him just a year earlier, but now, they posed no challenge whatsoever. In less than two minutes he defeated them all, leaving the novices bruised, battered, and bloodied.

None of their injuries were serious, but Arran had little doubt that they would be sore for the next few days.

The novices who had not stepped forward watched the fight with awe-filled eyes, and when Arran finally returned to Doran’s side, their expressions showed relief — along with an unmistakable satisfaction at their fellow students’ misfortune.

Doran waited until the last of the defeated novices had gotten back to his feet, then called out, "Did you dimwits truly believe that an initiate could defeat me through luck?!"

He paused for effect, then continued, "Ghostblade is a mage of the Fourth Valley. Unlike you useless morons, he has experience in actual battles — the kind where only one fighter walks away."

One of the novices spoke up, her voice trembling. "But Adept Doran, we didn’t know that—"

"You didn’t know?!" Doran seethed with anger. "I told you, you rock-brained cow." He shook his head in disgust. "If any of you ever set foot on a real battlefield, misjudging an enemy this badly will kill you as surely as cutting your own throat."

At this, a new layer of shock appeared in the novices’ eyes. Miserably losing a fight was one thing, but now they understood the true reason for Doran’s anger — in their pride, they had failed to recognize a dangerous opponent. And that despite repeated warnings from their teacher.

There was shame on the novices’ faces as they recognized the true extent of their failure, and Doran gave them a final contemptuous look. "Today’s lesson is over," he said. "Tomorrow, bring your wits, or don’t come at all."

Without further words, he turned and left, Arran departing alongside him.

Yet the moment they were out of the novices’ earshot, Doran let out a loud laugh. "Perfect! That went better than I could have hoped!"

Arran looked at him in confusion, a deep frown across his forehead. "You wanted this to happen?"

As far as Arran could tell, the whole thing had been a complete disaster — not only had he failed to teach the novices a single thing, he had even ended up fighting them. He could scarcely imagine how things could possibly have gone any worse.

"They just learned a lesson I have long tried — and failed — to teach them," Doran replied cheerfully. Seeing Arran’s puzzled expression, he explained, "They’re all among the most skilled novices in our House, but that has left them overconfident."

"So they needed to be defeated?"

Doran shook his head. "They face defeat whenever they spar against adepts, but there is no shame in being defeated by a stronger mage. What they needed was to fail, and today, they failed so miserably that they won’t soon forget it. If they take the lesson to heart, perhaps they will avoid making this mistake when it matters."

Arran nodded thoughtfully. In truth, it was an important reminder for himself as well — as his strength grew, so did his confidence. And that, he knew, could be both a strength and a weakness.

"Of course, Levo did have a point," the adept said. "If you’re going to be training novices, you should master at least a few of our styles." He briefly frowned, then continued, "We have another few hours to go before our own training starts. Want me to show you a few of our sword styles?"

"Sounds good," Arran replied, though he secretly wondered whether learning these styles could bring him any real benefits — his own techniques were already quite effective, and with his strength, few mages under the Master level posed a threat to him.

But then, the novices he’d defeated had probably had a similar thought.

"Follow me," Doran said. "There’s a secluded spot nearby where we can practice in peace."

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