Spencer Raventa, lord of the Northern Territory, was a touch rebellious (some would say barbaric), a stubborn noble scion with formidable combat skills and an under-the-radar (self-proclaimed) expert in magic research.
Gifted in the arcane arts, Spencer was convinced his personality didn't budge pre or post his magical awakening, deducing that any reclusive mage was either naturally aloof or affected an artsy persona for attention—which was not good, by any measure.
Upon ascending to his title in his thirties, Spencer issued a new decree in the North: a permanent tax cut of twenty percent for all his subjects, with scholarships to the capital's training center for children under fifteen who awoke to their magical gifts. Plus, the families of these magically endowed offspring received a sizeable reward.
The news sent waves of elation throughout the North. Despite its vastness, inhabitable land was scarce, with relentless snow blanketing a third of the territory. Resource-wise, aside from the icefields, it wasn't exactly lush. The fresh duke's policies of tax breaks and cash bonuses—albeit conditional—were pleasantly unthinkable to his constituents.
Thus, those rare children with awakened magical gifts were escorted to the capital by their proud parents. Post-talent screening, they became the esteemed youth soldiers of the North, and their families returned home under the duke's guard, pockets pleasantly lined.
Spencer had plans for these youngsters beyond mere training. Each autumn, a time of mellow weather and peak farming, he granted them leave to visit family—helping out with the harvest was encouraged. The only stipulation was absolute secrecy regarding their training.
The policy was a hit; parents rejoiced, and the trainees, having no reason for gloom. However, the Northern mages? Not so pleased.
"Spencer, you scoundrel! All the gifted kids are being poached by you, leaving us old-timers high and dry for obedient heirs!"
Many mages held little interest in offsprings, viewing the legacy of their scholarly achievements as more valuable than bloodline. But as the North's supreme ruler and a powerhouse Battle Mage, Spencer's retort boiled down to: "If you're grumbling, there's the door. Anyone up for a fight?"
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A fight? The displeased mages were mostly academics, effectively blank slates in combat. As for Spencer's prowess? Rumor had it he could sling a dozen wind blades in a second with his half-staff. How should they spar with that?
Thus the grumbling old-timers, with heavy hearts, packed up for territories anew. And as they prepared to leave, Spencer intervened: "Thinking of relocating? The North is mine; I dictate who stays or goes."
Those eager to flee the controversy hastily surrendered their life's work. The remnant, attached to their homeland, stayed only after signing inequitable treaties which traded their research insights for the privilege of remaining.
Spencer's wit and perseverance thus bestowed upon him the mantle of a magic research expert.
Over the next decade, he devoted himself to crafting the mage troop, his personal project. After years of rigorous training, these young men, all in their twenties, became competent mages. Even the few who didn't make the cut were dispatched as apprentices learned enough for the old guard scholars.
Why were they not Battle Mages like Spencer Raventa? Well, during his tenure at the prestigious Heracles Academy, Spencer chanced upon a fascinating tome detailing an experiment on the potential of combined spellcasting.
Magic was thought indivisible among mages. Even if two casters released a fireball at the same time, there would always be variations in size, heat, or brightness—never a perfect match.
This led to the adage, "Each mage is unique," parroted by elite academy-bred spellcasters without grasping its depth.
That obscure book presented Spencer with a revelation: when two mages of near-identical level, mana, and talent cast in unison with almost identical finesse, and directed their spells as one, these conjurations leaned towards a seamless fusion. The collective output of this merged spell edged above the sum of two separate casts—a case of one plus one equalling more than two.
Regrettably, the experiments ended prematurely, as finding mages to meet such exacting conditions proved daunting. Securing compatible twins was a rarity, let alone a trio or more.
The study haunted Spencer's academy days. Upon graduating, he purchased the volume and dissected its theories, harboring a dream: to witness a historical event where a hundred or more mages, in unison, conjure an unprecedented super fireball.
The obstacle was sourcing participants with the requisite compatibility—hardly an easy task.
But now, opportunity knocked!
These freshly awakened children were like pristine parchment, waiting for Spencer to dye them in uniform hue, crafting an unprecedented grand canvas.
After a decade of meticulous research and training, the once-naive kids had transformed into a steadfast, fiercely loyal ace squadron under Spencer. They received an official moniker—the Line Mage Corps of the North.