The mana roiled and seethed. It came alive with tempestuous fury, screaming against my control. It asked for more—it wanted more. I could not let it have its way, however. Already, I was pushing the boundaries of what a rank C mage could handle. An incredible result in the field assessment would let me join the forward team; an impossible result would have people asking questions about why I had been ranked C all those months ago.
“Song of Destruction; 3rd Poem, 1st Stanza—Crimson Blast,” I terminated the abridged chant, and the spell—a nebulous mass of purplish flames—shot forward.
Even as I had seen it thousands of times, I looked fascinated as the twisting body of fire ignited the air and then crashed into the unprepared orc. Such was the heat its white fur turned to dust, and the thick greenish skin and muscles beneath melted. Its tendons and bones were next. The harder tissues resisted but a fraction of a second under the onslaught of the flaming mana; the firsts liquefied shortly after the softer parts; the seconds were scorched black by the heated tongues.
The creature fell; its charred ribcage and cranium were all that remained from its sternum up.
Mana swirled around the corpse; anathema followed close.
“Great job,” my field assessor, Alessandro Notari, complimented. “Do you want to give the next cave a try? I think you can manage.”
Meeting Alessandro’s eyes, I nodded, momentarily captured by the swarming darkness inhabiting them. They, like his skin and equipment, were a deep, ominous black, as if the dark of night had permeated them. Alessandro was one of those rare people who had experienced during their awakening some major physical changes; his skin and eyes, both sclera and iris, were an intense onyx; his stature was that of a giant, with him standing at over two and a half metres, and his muscles rippled like waves each time he moved. What stood out the most about him, however, was his silver hair. He kept them short, and yet their ethereal glow gave him an almost holy halo.
With his uncommon appearance and physical prowess, Alessandro was the most acclaimed Italian delver, and also one of the most powerful—he was one of the only twenty-three A-rankers our country counted.
Alessandro was also co-founder of the guild Torre—an association of delvers led by him and Giacomo Scacchi, another Italian A-ranker. Its headquarters were located in Rome, and as they were recruiting, I too applied for joining them. Since I was their most promising trainee, and also future prospect of their forward team, Alessandro had decided to supervise my field assessment.
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“Well then, let’s get moving.”
We walked in silence but for the crunch of boots on friable soil. The dungeon we were exploring was the propriety of a consortium of guilds headed by Alessandro and Giacomo’s Torre. It was classified as a subterranean lair-class dungeon. It was, in simpler terms, a system of connected caves inhabited by monsters, mostly orcs. What stood out about this particular dungeon was the rising difficulty of the first caves, which made it perfect for training and testing purposes.
I followed Alessandro out of one of the main caves in favor of stepping into the smaller confines of the passage that would lead us to the next in line. Luminous fungi lighted our way forward. They grew both on the ground and walls, glowing with spectral aquamarine light. We soon reached its end.
Alessandro let me go ahead.
Inside—huddled at the base of the sole tree dominating the subterranean environment—was a group of orcs. Contrary to those of the previous cave, these held crude wooden maces in their main hand and wooden shields in the other.
I was about to start casting a spell when an obsidian hand weighted on my shoulder. “You won’t always have the drop on your target,” Alessandro said. “I need to know how you react under pressure. Don’t worry, if anything goes awry, I will intervene.”
I turned to stare back at the orcs and heaved a sigh. Wordlessly, I marched forwards.
The orc who had its back to the tree was the first to notice me. Its eyes widened and its mouth stretched into a feral snarl. Soon, the rest of the group was looking at me.
I hadn’t noticed from the entrance, but weapons aside, the group of orcs also differed in numbers, with the one in this cave counting an extra member. The sixth orc was taller, and its skin, instead of being green, was an ash grey. From its mouth also stretched two curved fangs; they arched back, ending with their jagged ends just beneath its warm brown eyes.
It was a high orc—a high-class B rank monster.
The high orc grunted once and three members of its horde took off in a sprint. They were fast, and in less than a handful of seconds, they had covered half the distance separating us.
Pointing the right index to the closer of the three, I focused the mana inside me until I reached the limits of what a C-ranked mage could safely handle before unleashing my spell.
“Song of Destruction; 1st Poem, 4th Stanza—White Lightning.”
I felt the simple chant twist the mana I had gathered. It wove it into a net and then into a geometrical pattern so complex shape and form lost their meaning. A blast of magic under the guise of a beam of dense white lightning left my finger. It homed in on the orc I had targeted and blasted it apart, leaving only chunks of smoldering flesh.
Despite having lost one of their own, the other two didn’t slow down and before I could pick a second target with another spell they were upon me. The one on the right brought its club back, readying it for a downward swing that came immediately after. The monster’s bicep and pectoral strained, and the arm whipped down, bringing the wooden weapon to bear.
With a heave of will, I commandeered a stream of mana beneath the soles of my feet. The mace crushed down, pulverizing rocks and raising dust, but I was already gone, having ridden upon the invisible flow.
I reappeared behind the offending orc, finger at the ready. “Song—” I began, when the whistle of air being cleaved alerted me of my impending doom.