The Legendary Mage (Alavin)

Chapter 8

Every two years, Cobalt Strike would open its doors to recruit new Protégés. Thousands would gather at the foot of the mountains, eager to enroll their children to study the mystical energies and hone their magic. To advance from Apprentice to Novice Mage was a matter of great pride for any parent. Should one be fortunate enough to become an elite Protégé, or even a personal student of an Elder, it was as if their ancestors were blessed, with laughter billowing from their graves in joyful pride.

As Alavin carried the stone urn, his steps causing the stairway to tremble slightly, he was a sight to behold in the early morning of Cobalt Strike. Although many Protégés had grown accustomed to his presence, his appearances still drew attention.

He was a robust figure, standing tall at six feet, looking like he was around seventeen years old when, in fact, he was only fifteen. The grueling eight years at Cobalt Strike had matured him beyond his years, both in mind and body.

“Alavin, congratulations on advancing to Novice Mage.”

Protégés greeted him along the way, offering smiles filled with respect or sympathy.

“Good day, brother,” Alavin would reply to these friendly Protégés.

“Let’s spar sometime,” called out another from a distance.

“Right, I’ll hold you to that,” Alavin responded with a laugh.

Of course, while some admired Alavin, others couldn’t stand him. Many Protégés passed by, some sneering, some whispering, and still more simply ignoring him.

Alavin, list in hand and urn on the shoulder, steadily ascended the steep stone steps. He delivered goods from the foot of the mountain to the top, to courtyards, kitchens, and personal training

grounds, all the while collecting unused materials to be returned. He took his duties seriously, using the opportunity to strengthen his body.

He had delivered many items without incident, but upon reaching the summit and the Arena, he was met with harsh criticism.

“I asked for an iron staff, one weighing a hundred pounds. What’s the meaning of these two wooden sticks?”

A muscular man snapped the sturdy sticks with ease and flung them toward Alavin. The Arena fell silent, with many early risers turning to look.

Such large arenas, featuring specially crafted dueling platforms and various training equipment, were the central training grounds for Cobalt Strike’s Protégés. Here, one could practice, spar, and observe elite Protégés battle, learning from their experience and techniques. Each arena could accommodate up to a thousand people and was an essential place of cultivation within Cobalt Strike. There were fifteen similar arenas in total.

Alavin set down the urn and pulled out his list. “Arena ten, two wooden sticks.”

“Nonsense, I told Odell last night, clear as day, I wanted a hundred-pound iron staff. You’re Alavin, right? I heard you demonstrated the strength of a Novice Mage yesterday. Pah, as if that’s something to be proud of. Do you think you can get away with swapping materials? One word from me, and you could be locked in solitary for ten days.”

Mocking laughter rippled from the sidelines.

“Alright, I’ll go fetch the right one for you,” Alavin said, picking up the urn to leave.

“When? I need it urgently.”

“Next lifetime.”

“You’re asking for it,” the other Protégé spat angrily but was held back by his peers. “You’re twenty, why argue with a kid?”

Alavin ignored such nuisances, shouldering his urn and continuing his deliveries. Before long, he reached another tall peak, a place he had not delivered to before, as it was home to the female Protégées.

“Hey, isn’t that Alavin?”

“It looks like him. What’s he doing here?”

“I heard he managed to reach Novice Mage on his own. The lad’s got talent.”

“He’s not bad, really; just a bit too fiery and proud.”

“He was once a young lord, now fallen to this state. Quite the pity.”

The passing female Protégées were many, but none sought to trouble him.

Carrying the urn, Alavin reached the halfway point on the mountain, his designated delivery spot, only to find—what’s this? A hot spring area?

Scattered about were various secluded hot springs, said to be fed by warm waters rich in life essence from deep within the earth. This was a favored place for many Protégés to train.

“Who are you?” A female Protégée encountered Alavin, likely fresh from her own training. Her long, wet, hair was dangling, and she was dressed in little more than the bare essentials, hinting at the curves beneath. She glanced at the two-meter urn Alavin held aloft, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before recognition set in. "What brings you here?"

"I'm supposed to deliver thirty..." Alavin started, not realizing he had stumbled upon the hot springs. His mouth hung open as he checked his list, which bizarrely stated thirty wooden sticks.

"Thirty what?"

"Nothing, I've made a mistake," Alavin realized the truth—it had to be Odell's doing.

"Why's there a man here?" More people approached, pausing to stare, their damp hair and sheer garments leaving little to the imagination.

Alavin had no desire to stir up trouble. Holding the stone urn, he was ready to depart when a stern female Protégée scolded, "Men are not allowed on this mountain at dawn or dusk. Do you not know the rules?"

Another female Protégée spoke gently in his defense. "Let him be. He might have simply lost his way."

"Who knows? He might have ulterior motives," retorted another.

A girl giggled. "He's not old, but he sure looks sturdy."

Feeling frustrated, Alavin hastened away from the mountain and dumped all the goods listed for that location at the foot of the hill. "I've made the delivery, but they refused me entry. It's theirs to fetch now."

"This is a low trick," muttered Alavin, scrutinizing his delivery list for the next destinations. Among a few seemingly normal stops, he was surprised to find 'Ninth Mountain.'

Wasn't Ninth Mountain also known as Botanic Haven? Botanic Haven was a forbidden area of Cobalt Strike, a place where no Protégé was allowed to tread without permission, under threat of severe punishment.RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

Odell was playing a harsh game, sending Alavin to deliver goods to Botanic Haven. If he went, he might be chased off, or worse. If Alavin didn't go, Odell could use it as a pretext to report to the overseer, possibly earning Alavin a punishment.

Decisively, Alavin tossed away the list and decided to leave. Let them try to punish him; he wouldn't be serving their whims.

But after only a few steps, Alavin stopped in his tracks on the narrow path. His eyes flicked back and forth, and then he glanced over his shoulder at the discarded list.