"Anne, look! It's the academy!"
"Yes, miss. I see it."
"Anne, over there, that's Lake Bluemirror."
"Indeed, miss. I have it in sight."
"It's incredible, Anne. Is this what flying feels like?"
"This is a ghost's idea of flying!" Murphy finally couldn't hold back, "For the record, I'm the only one flying here! The two of you are catching a free ride. And you, Miss Eschell, for heaven’s sake, stop fidgeting!"
Indeed, the party of four was airborne, adrift in the crimson-hued sky of sunset. Regrettably, out of the quartet, only one mastered the art of flight.
Murphy, veering from his usual ease, bore the weight of his apprentice Pepe on his back while gripping Anne and Eschell in each hand as they cruised towards the north.
"Terribly sorry, Mr. Murphy," Anne apologized with impeccable manners.
"No harm done. You're fine, it's Eschell who keeps wriggling." Murphy retorted, his patience thinning.
Eschell, hearing this, lowered her head. Being perhaps the world’s lowest level vampire, in addition to Murphy’s seal, meant learning to fly was a distant dream.
Murphy lamented internally. A demon lord such as himself reduced to running a taxi service? More like an airline. If not for character consistency, he’d have long since teleported away.
He made a mental note: once he ruled the world, he would turn the Arwins into vampires and exile them to the sun-drenched south.
Murphy's apparent discontent heralded a quieter trip. They progressed toward their destination in the northwest at a leisurely but steady pace.
---
Several hundred miles northwest of the capital, a siege was underway.
Though it seemed ages had passed, less than a day elapsed since Murphy had left the northwestern coalition's camp.
As dawn broke, the troops stirred early for a fire-lit breakfast. Upon satisfying their hunger, civilians and prisoners were roused, and the mighty army commenced its march toward another city, direction capital. Two dukes leading the charge radiated confidence, though none could say when they’d finally meet the royal forces head-on.
The army trekked from daybreak to dusk, stretching out with every soldier's fatigue as the terrain transitioned from open plains to rolling hills and knolls.
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At twilight, they arrived at their next target—Alma, a strategically placed city nestled between two mountains, ruled by an earl directly appointed by the king.
Frankly, as long as the kingdom's elite hadn't confronted the coalition, the city's name mattered little. No one cared for a city destined for destruction.
Halting a hundred paces from the city walls, the imposing army unnerved the defenders.
Raventa slapped old Arwin's back heartily, "Let me handle this one, can I?"
"Be my guest," Arwin responded, as stoic as ever.
So off went Duke Raventa with a whip in hand, riding toward the city gates as nonchalantly as a bandit on a raid.
Behind Arwin, the captain of the Guard, also his eldest son Eric, couldn't help but comment with a chuckle, "No wonder you call him a barbarian, father. It's an apt description."
Somehow, Raventa's antics became even more exaggerated as if he caught wind of the remarks, slipping into a state of undignified exuberance.
Twenty paces from the walls, Raventa began the customary plea for surrender.
Yes, even in such conflicts, offer of surrender was part of the noble etiquette—giving the defenders a chance, real or feigned.
The reason Arwin skipped this yesterday was the Baron of Fragments' proclivity for curses...
"People within! I am Duke Spencer Raventa of the Northern Territories. Behind me, an army of two hundred thousand stands ready. Open your gates and surrender, and spare us pointless casualties," Raventa called out, reciting his prepared speech with force.
A tremulous voice from atop the wall, belonging to a captain in tattered black armor, called back, "Understood, we’re surrendering! Please, just don't kill us."
"Good! Not surrendering, are you? That's the spirit of men! Northern mages, prepare to—wait, what did you say?!," Raventa, ready to relish his own performance, paused in shock.
Could it be? They surrendered? Just as he was about to showcase his might? Preposterous!
Scuffling atop the wall signaled disagreement among the defenders, followed by an outcry reaching Raventa's ears.
"Ouch, captain, stop hitting me, I got it wrong!"
"What’s wrong with you? When I say open the gate, you don't dilly-dally!"
"It’s not that I'm dallying, captain! The darned winch is rusted shut!"
"Out of my way! We don’t open up soon, they’ll breach!"
As Raventa digested this drama, he considered a brief display of his elite's prowess. Failure to do so might mean reports would only credit the western forces. Where would that leave him?
"So, no surrender? Damn it all. Line up, mages! Commence the assault!" Duke Raventa roared, ignoring the whispered drama on the walls.
"Damn, damn, they're really attacking!"
"Run for it, everyone!"
...
Raventa's command was met with discipline. At the coalition's forefront, a captain lifted his wand before swinging it forward.
An elite battalion of mages moved in formation, united and unrelenting—the Northern Line Mage Corps, individuals hardened by rigorous military and magical training, all clad in uniform, their eyes resolute.
The general view saw mages as an eccentric, solitary lot, arrogant in their interactions, dwelling in secluded towers with reputations of good and ill.
But Duke Spencer Raventa showcased what happens when mages receive proper direction: there are no scatterbrained wizards, only those desperately needing discipline.
----------
Publicly available intelligence (strictly confidential):
While most mages tend to neglect physical training in favor of their magical studies—hence the stereotype of fragile spellcasters excelling in ranged combat—there are exceptions.
A small cadre of mages pursued physical training alongside their magical endeavors. This commitment, however, meant they could only master certain spells due to divided focus.
As time passed, these mages specializing in body enhancement magic, weapon fortification, and close-quarters elemental spells emerged with a new vocational path.
Thus, a new profession was born—the Battle Mage (a second-tier profession).