A.N. Some of you already noticed that there was a discrepancy between Nick's stats and Arthur's. Here's why.
Tholm reached beneath his desk and pulled out a narrow bottle of dark glass, along with two mismatched ceramic cups, each enchanted to chill and decant any liquor to perfection.
He pulled the cork with his teeth, pouring a measure of amber liquid that smelled sharply of pine and smoke.
"I already have something lined up," Nick said, accepting the cup. "A duel with Grandmaster Xander. It was meant to be a test of my skills, but if I can stand my ground against him in a formal arena, the Council of Archmages might grant me the Errant title.”
Tholm paused, the bottle hovering over his cup. He let out a slow, raspy chuckle. "You pick the steepest cliffs to climb, Nicholas. Xander Wolfram has spent one hundred and fifty years refining the art of war and has gone beyond what many thought possible with the blade. But yes, if you survive his attention, the Archmages will give you your papers before the dust settles.”
He took a sip of his drink, narrowing his eyes as he studied his apprentice over the rim of his cup. "Tell me. When you breached the boundary and the System recognized your achievements... You must have noticed something.”
Nick ran a thumb over the rough ceramic of his cup. He wasn’t a fan of heavy liquor, but this was clearly several cuts above the stuff served in taverns. It even had a spark of mana, functioning as both a restorative potion and a mild relaxant.
Not that he allowed it to affect his mind, but it was still impressive.
“The power I gained was significant, yes, but now that I’ve regained full control of my mana, I can’t deny I expected a bit more. I’m far above mortals, that is true, but in terms of raw power, I don’t think I can contend with more experienced Prestiges.”
He still remembered the terrible power Ephor Ultimer had been able to wield, even when damaged beyond repair by Alexander’s Ritual.
If I’m honest with myself, even now, I don’t think I could match him. The spar with Arthur showed me that compatibility can go far, but if the old man had used every trick in his book and hadn’t been constrained by the rules, it would have gone much differently. That’s why I sought a duel with Xander.
“Yes, that is to be expected,” Tholm chuckled.
“As the System ceases to treat you as a participant," he continued. "It begins treating you as a fixture of reality. In the mortal realms, progression is a gentle slope. A clever swordsman at level forty can kill a sloppy mage at level fifty. The stats provide an edge, but are not absolute.”
Draining the last of his cup, he set it down and met Nick’s gaze. "Prestige shatters fairness. The slope becomes a staircase, and the steps are sheer cliffs. It varies from person to person, depending on the strength of their soul, their Feats, and their Class, but on average, every ten levels you achieve, the base multiplier for your attributes compounds. We call them the Decade Steps.”
That… I should have expected something like that. A much denser soul can sustain more of the System’s regard, and the Class is now a Truth of the Self rather than just a Template. That’s why even a Great Work wouldn’t be able to hide a Class as I did for Rose.
Nick leaned forward, the gears turning in his mind. "So the gap between one hundred and one hundred and ten…"
"Is vast," Tholm finished. "But the gap between one hundred and ten and one hundred and twenty is a canyon. A man at the bottom of a Decade Step can fight his betters with skill and artifacts. A man who has crossed a couple more thresholds will crush him simply by imposing his will on the World. You are still but a nascent storm, just coming into your own. You must learn to weather the pressure before you attempt to climb the next step.”
Nick took another drink. The liquid burned a hot trail down his throat, grounding his racing pulse. This kind of knowledge was almost never spoken aloud, only transmitted from Master to Apprentice when the time was right. That Tholm was doing so now just showed how valuable he’d become.
Still, he couldn’t help but ask for more. "And what of the step beyond? How can one become Ascended?”
Tholm went still. The light of the floating orbs dimmed, turning the chamber into an eerie place.
The Archmage raised his right hand, where he wore three plain bands of dark iron on his fingers. Slowly, he pressed his thumb against the ring on his index finger and slid it up, moving it barely a quarter of an inch toward his knuckle.
Nick’s breath stopped, and the spiritual shield he instinctively kept around his body shattered without a sound as pressure mounted on his shoulders. It did not feel like a spell but as if the gravity in the room had suddenly inverted, trying to crush him into the ground. He tasted blood at the back of his mouth. His pulse roared in his ears.
Rarely had he felt so helpless. Even during the Duel of Archmages, he’d been shielded. Only when facing Greater Demons and Gods had he sensed such power.
Tholm slid the ring back into place.
The pressure vanished, leaving Nick gasping for breath, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that the wood groaned.
"Prestige is the mastery of the World's rules, Nicholas," Tholm said quietly, almost somberly. "Ascension is writing your own. A soul no longer needs to draw power from other sources and becomes a font of its own. A self-sustaining star. When I reached for the Ascended tier, my soul nearly tore itself apart in the paradox of generating its own reality.”
He looked down, seemingly more tired than he’d ever seen him. "I was once a starving boy from a fishing village, Nicholas. I failed the entrance exam three times. I broke through the boundary through sheer, bloody-minded refusal to remain small. But power isolates you. It strips away the comforts of the World." Tholm looked up, his gaze piercing. "Be certain you want to walk this path. There is no turning back once Reality bends to you.”
"I am certain," Nick replied, his voice steady despite the lingering tremble in his chest. "The threats I must face will not wait for me to catch up.”
The meeting of the eyes with Circe, the overwhelming presence of the Greater Demons, and whatever was waiting for him in the Capital all raced through his mind.
Oh, he was well aware that reaching Ascension would be the labor of many years. Decades, if not centuries, given the pace at which he was growing now. It would probably be even worse when he started climbing the Decade Steps.
But he still yearned for it. Prestige had unshackled him, making him a free agent, unbound by mortal rules and concerns. Ascension would make him his own God in truth.
Tholm nodded slowly. “We’ll see if you have what it takes. It won’t be easy or fast, but you’ll learn a lot as you go.”
Abruptly, he clapped his hands, and the tension shattered. “Raphael and the others return the day after tomorrow. I expect you to be sociable before you face the Grandmaster. And do take time to attend some classes, or people will forget your face.”
———
For the next two days, Nick remained within the Tower. He secured a private training chamber on the forty-second floor, a room lined with dense wards and inscribed with self-repairing runes, powerful enough to contain even someone like him.
He spent the hours exploring the new architecture of his soul, looking for hints. The changes Tholm had described were subtly evident in the way his mana responded.
His spells no longer required rigid, drawn-out casting. He could weave concepts like Weight or Friction into a spell with a mere thought, completing the double-aspected spells he’d worked so hard on with barely any difficulty.
Mana and the ether flowed into him with eager speed. He also focused on suppression, layering mental vaults over his aura until he could walk the halls without making the apprentices flinch as he passed.
Only then, as the evening of the second day approached, did Nick descend.
The student lounge was full, and the central hearth was roaring with green flames. Spiced ale was served, and snacks and even meals popped up from thin air upon request, while a dozen minor spells were cast for amusement at any time.
Nick took it all in before stepping through the archway, his dark coat blending into the shadows. The room was crowded with apprentices blowing off steam, though he could also see small groups gathered around the younger Graduate Mages, who still had friends among the students.
That was another change. Once, once granted a rank, they would have stayed away, but it seemed the scars of the Incursion had forged more lasting bonds.
He spotted Eona seated at a corner table, engrossed in a booklet on what looked like foreign martial arts. She wore a well-made gray tunic, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe braid.
Sprawled across a velvet sofa opposite her was Bellamy, fast asleep with a half-empty tankard of ale precariously balanced on his chest, while a small, articulated golem of granite dutifully fanned his face with a piece of parchment.
Nick walked over, pulled out a chair, sat across from Eona, and drew her attention away from the book.
It took her a moment to process what she was seeing, but she jumped up and pulled him into a tight hug.
Surprised by the sudden affection from the usually stoic girl, Nick remained motionless for a moment before tentatively returning it.
Once she released him, he caught a faint flush on her cheeks, but she powered through the embarrassment as she studied the lines of his face and the sureness of his posture. She was a prodigy, trained to gauge an opponent's lethality in a heartbeat, so it wasn’t surprising when her eyes widened despite not a hint of his power leaking.
Nick gently shushed her. There was no need to let everyone know, since it would make for a much grander reveal during his upcoming duel.
Still, she seemed to be buzzing with questions, so he carefully layered his intent into their surroundings, creating a bubble of silence so subtle that even the other Mages didn’t notice.
“It happened in the North. I can’t say everything went exactly as planned, but as you can see, my little expedition had its benefits.”
Bellamy snorted in his sleep. The stone golem nudged the tankard to keep it from spilling, then resumed fanning.
"Show-off," Eona muttered, though there was no real venom in it. "The instructors have been insufferable since you left. Every practical exam comes with a comment about how 'Apprentice Crowley' would have solved it in half the time. It is thoroughly irritating.”
Nick chuckled. "I aim to please. Speaking of irritating instructions, my father gave me a letter for your brother. It seems Sir Leon also deserves congratulations for both his rank and his position among the forces of the Capital.”
“Yes, he is,” Eona replied, and he could sense the pride warring with her frustration at slipping even further from his shadow. “Last I heard, Leon commands a garrison in the first ring of the Capital, though from his letters, you’d think he is a glorified watchman for the merchant guilds.”
“Father said he has a deep understanding of the factions.”
Eona snorted, a sharp, cynical sound. "Leon knows when to keep his mouth shut and his sword sheathed. He is a pragmatist at heart, though he often acts like an idealist. He will complain about the politics, but he will help you.”
Before Nick could comment, he sensed several familiar presences approaching the lounge. He turned just in time to see Raphael walk in, his head held high.
Clearly, the mission had gone well. He’d also gained several levels since he’d last seen him and had become even more sensitive, as his eyes immediately snapped to Nick’s.