What did he want?
The question lingered in his mind and would brook no distraction. Nick looked out over Alluria's glittering expanse, the expanse of light stretching toward the dark horizon.
From the moment he drew his first breath in this world, shivering in the temple of a frontier town, his existence had been defined by both scarcity and excess. He needed more levels to survive the monsters, even as he grew stronger than ever. He needed better spells to face the fae, even as his repertoire was wider than that of any man of Earth.
He needed a power beyond what he could summon to save his father and their men, yet he had more than he had thought possible.
Every hour spent reading in Tholm’s archives, every drop of blood spilled in the Sunlands, every training session spent refining his mana in hopes of growing strong enough to face Ephor—it had all been a desperate, clawing race against the executioner’s blade.
He had sought power because it was the only shield against death.
But Raphael was right. The shield was forged. The immediate threats were dead, deterred, or buried. House Crowley was ascendant, wealthy, and as secure as possible.
Oh, he still faced dangers. The Royal Court would undoubtedly test him, and if Ogden was right, more war was coming. That was to say nothing of the true monsters that walked the land.
But none of it was urgent, and none of it even required his intervention if he didn’t want to participate.
The pursuit of knowledge, the sheer thrill of unraveling the universe's esoteric mysteries, had always fueled him, yet standing here at the peak of the mortal world, gazing out at a city he could break if he wanted to, the pursuit suddenly felt hollow without a destination.
"I spent my whole life running," Nick said softly, tasting the truth in his voice. "Running from monsters, from weakness, from myself. Every spell I learned was another wall between my family and the grave.”
He gripped the balustrade. The stone was rough and grounding under his palms.
“But yes, the walls are built," Nick continued, his voice steadying, gaining quiet confidence. "And now I find myself standing atop them, looking at the sky. You ask what I want, Raphael. I want to see how high I can reach. Not because a demon is chasing me. Not because the Kingdom demands it. Simply because I want to know what lies at the summit. I want to understand the truth of this World, and then I want to see if I can go beyond it.”
Raphael let out a slow breath and openly studied Nick, a mixture of respect and dry amusement in his gaze.
"Arrogance," Raphael mused. “It is nothing but pure, unadulterated arrogance to think you can reach beyond.”
“It is,” Nick admitted with a smile. But what was he, if not arrogant, for commanding the World to bend to his whims, facing creatures so far beyond him it wasn’t even funny, and still living to tell the tale? Pride was his sin, but it was a well-deserved one.
"Good." Raphael pushed himself off the railing. He clapped a hand on Nick’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. "If you are going to challenge the heavens, Crowley, you had best survive the Grandmaster first. We will be watching.”
“I expect you to cheer loudly when I win.”
Raphael chuckled, walking back into the warmth of the study as the glass doors clicked shut behind him. Nick stayed on the balcony a while longer, letting the chill settle into his bones, his purpose finally defined.
———
The next morning, Nick descended into the bowels of the Tower.
The polished marble and bright sunlight of the upper floors gave way to rough-hewn granite and the presence of the Genius Loci, which shielded the Tower from the void's ravages.
Hints of ancient and powerful magic remained here, for the lower levels were the domain of the battlemages, a place where they could test even the most destructive of their spells.
Nick navigated the winding corridors until he reached a familiar set of doors. He pushed them open and stepped into a sprawling training pit.
Master Lasazar Imperius stood at the center. The Master of Battle Magics looked exactly as Nick remembered: portly and corpulent, his wobbling double chin resting above the starched collar of a tweed suit, a fine bowler hat perched atop his head.
To a layman, Lasazar looked like a jovial man, though perhaps a bit like one who had wandered into these hallowed halls by mistake.
To Nick, he was a dormant volcano.
His power pressed against the confines of the room, a presence so mighty that only someone who had spent centuries fighting the abyss could produce.
Beneath the tweed and the fat lay substantial, well-trained muscle, forged in the fires of exorcisms and frontline combat.
The Master was berating a trio of exhausted third-year apprentices, gesturing wildly with a half-smoked cigar.
"You call that a shield?" Lasazar sighed, tipping his bowler hat back. "A stiff breeze would shatter it. A goblin with a rusty spoon could bypass it! Any path to victory is worth exploring, children, but standing still and hoping the enemy forgets to stab you is a poor strategy.”
Nick stepped farther into the room, letting a hint of his presence slip from his tight control.
Lasazar paused mid-rant. The jovial exasperation vanished from his face, replaced by a dangerous look as his own power rose to meet the challenge. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Nick.
The apprentices, sensing the sudden shift, scrambled backward, staring at their teacher in surprise.
Their eyes met, and Nick smiled, letting more mana rise to the surface, wafting off his form in great waves.
The cigar slipped from Lasazar’s fingers, though that was his only sign of shock, and he rallied quickly.
"Dismissed," he barked at the students, not breaking eye contact. The three fled the room without a word, the doors clanging shut behind them.
Once they were alone, Lasazar let out a boisterous laugh that shook his portly frame. He strode forward, extending a meaty hand.
Nick grasped it, though not before reinforcing his strength. Lasazar’s grip was like a vise, warm and calloused.
"Look at you," the older mage rumbled, clapping his free hand on Nick’s shoulder. "I leave you alone for half a year, and you go and exceed all expectations. Tholm told me you grew strong, but the old miser failed to mention just how much.”
"The north provided ample motivation, Master," Nick said, accepting the praise with a smile.
"I know it well," Lasazar replied, his expression sobering. "I spent months cracking dark dwarven skulls alongside an old comrade, though I was recalled before I could see it through. But you know all about that, hmm?”
Nick inclined his head. He had a suspicion about who the old comrade was, since there had been only one notable mage among the delegation in the First City, but now was not the time for that.
Lasazar walked over to a bench, picked up a fresh cigar, and lit it with a snap of his fingers. “But enough about that. You came down here for a reason, Nicholas. And judging by the fact that you aren't hiding your presence, it involves a fight.”
"I need some help," Nick admitted, walking over to join him. "I am challenging Grandmaster Wolfram to a formal duel, and I require the use of the Abyssal Arena so we can go at it without holding back.”
Lasazar stopped puffing on his cigar. He stared at Nick, the glowing cherry of his cigar illuminating the harsh lines hidden beneath his jovial fat.
"Xander Wolfram," he repeated, the words slow and deliberate. "You want to face the Grandmaster of the Sword.”
"It is the fastest way to prove my standing to the Archmages," Nick explained. "I intend to take the title of Mage Errant as soon as my Graduation Exams are finished.”
A slow, if feral, grin spread across the battlemage's face. "The sheer, unadulterated balls. I’ve always said that wielding Worldcraft requires a certain madness, Nicholas, and I see you have cultivated yours beautifully.”
He took a long drag of the cigar, exhaling a plume of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "I will sign the authorization. But you listen to me, and you listen well. Facing the old man won’t be like anything you’ve ever done.”
Nick nodded, but Lasazar wasn’t done. He pointed the glowing tip at Nick’s chest. "His strikes carry Conceptual Weight. When he cuts, he severs the intent behind the magic. Mana shields shatter the moment his blade touches them because he kills the idea of the shield before the physical impact even lands. If you try to block him with raw force, the duel won’t last long enough to prove much of anything.”
Blinking, Nick nonetheless nodded. He’d not intended to face Xander in a power struggle, after all. “It was not my plan, no.”
"See that you do not tarnish my good name," Lasazar grunted, turning toward his office to draft the paperwork. "And Nicholas? Give the old bastard a bloody nose for me.”
———
For the next four days, Nick vanished into the best isolation chambers the Tower offered. He secured a reinforced casting room in the deeper levels thanks to Lasazar’s help, stripping off his coat and rolling up his sleeves.
The transition to Prestige had fundamentally altered his relationship with magic. He no longer felt the need to coax mana into a specific shape or to struggle against the elements to bend them to his will.
Blending spiritual concepts with raw elemental force was no longer a grueling exercise, but as natural as breathing, and now it was time to take full advantage of it.
He stood in the center of the chamber, visualizing Xander’s movements from what he remembered from their spars and, more importantly, from seeing him fight in the Tower.
The Grandmaster thrived on momentum, accelerating and building power until he became unstoppable. To survive long enough to make this duel worth it, Nick needed to control the environment completely.
He reached out with his mind, mapping the chamber floor. Once satisfied he knew enough, he wove the spiritual concept of Friction into it, altering the room’s laws as if he’d cast [Territory].
Another thing I no longer need. Using the spell properly makes this faster, but it’s also much more noticeable. In the end, it was meant to replicate the power I know I wield naturally. I shouldn’t rely on it as a crutch.
The stone darkened, groaning under the conceptual shift. Any movement across that surface without Nick's express permission would feel like wading through water.
He repeated the process many times, summoning and enchanting constructs to observe how they reacted to the field effect.
Next, he turned his attention to his defenses.
Lasazar was right. A rigid wall of force would shatter under Xander’s conceptual strikes. Nick summoned the framework of [Gleipnir], the adaptive chains he had refined in the Green Ocean.
It was very useful against lesser opponents, but for Xander, he needed to do more.
He broke the spell down to its core components and rebuilt it. Instead of rigid restraints, he layered the kinetic ribbons into swirling fractals that would hang in the ether, materializing only at his command.
When struck, they would stretch, absorbing any impact and violently redirecting the force outward, turning the enemy's momentum against itself.
Finally, he focused on his primary shield.
[Crest of the Thunderbird] was perhaps the spell that had saved him most, whether from the Wyvern or from Alexander’s dark flames.
But it was still a crude imitation, a shell of lightning shaped like a bird. Nick closed his eyes, drawing deeply from his soul. He reached beyond the elemental electricity, tapping into the spiritual authority that came with being the [Eidolon of the Formless], which [Tempest’s Eidolon] enhanced even further.
He recalled the myth of the god of the storm, the divine beast that ruled the skies, delving deeper into it than he’d ever dared, too afraid of drawing the being’s notice.
Once his mind buzzed with static and he could almost hear the divine bird’s cry, he pushed his intent outward.