The Legendary Mage

Alavin leaned against the stone urn. His injuries were severe, and his breath sounded ragged. The scent of charred flesh wafted from his chest where the Inferno Serpent Strike had hit him, and his ribs felt as though they were splintered. Yet he did not cry out in pain or show weakness; instead, a mischievous smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. "Nysah, no need to shout so; you'll give the wrong impression."

"You madman! Bastard!" Nysah shrieked in embarrassment and fury. She attempted to launch another assault, but the motion aggravated the wound on her shoulder, turning her face pale with pain.

"If you can finish me, then do so without more talk; if not, be gone," Alavin spat out a mouthful of blood and drew a throwing knife from his belt. Gritting through the pain, he gathered his energy and took up a strange stance, channeling all his strength into his right hand.

This was his life-saving throwing knife technique, one he would not reveal lightly if Nysah's skill were not so vastly superior.

"He wields a knife?" Nysah couldn't hide her reproach toward Tyral. This skill with the blade was not something acquired in two or three years; it was exceptionally tricky and, coupled with his strength, formidable in power. It didn't seem like something he had picked up on his own, more like a set of Combat Magic. And yet, Cobalt Strike did not usually teach Combat Magic involving throwing knives.

"I truly did not know," Tyral said, his voice a blend of frustration and alarm. He, too, had noticed the unusual nature of the knife.

"Hey, Nysah, your undergarments are showing," Alavin whistled.

"Shameless!" Nysah hastily adjusted her skirt, and seizing the distraction, Alavin concentrated and flung the knife. But at that moment, a whooshing sound broke the air as a young man with an iron sword strapped to his back rushed toward them. The sword glowed with a golden aura. Its fierce energy and dazzling light were palpable even from afar.

"Roald the Goldgrace? Blast it, what is he doing here?" Nysah's face shifted with concern. She quickly tidied her tattered garments and dashed into the dense woods, casting an angry glance back at Alavin before she left.

Wait for me," Tyral recognized the newcomer as well and fled in a

as he pocketed

a rugged handsomeness. His features were sharply defined, and his gaze piercing and

his attire was the gleaming golden feathers embroidered on the collar of his black clothing—a special symbol denoting a noble status—the

organized into Ordinary Protégés,

Protégés were further categorized into Freshman Protégés, Intermediate

the Cobalt Strike, the vast majority of whom were Ordinary ones. There were only about six hundred Elite Protégés, and a mere thirty

one of those Golden Protégés, one of the five prodigies of the new generation, known as Roald

a talent beyond measure, having created many miracles for Cobalt Strike. His golden sword was a weapon personally forged by the

Ordinary Protégé, and among them, he was a Freshman, one who was being punished, and belonged to the lowest echelon. Compared to the man before him, he

on his way to Botanic Haven to collect some Elixir Herb when he heard the sounds of combat and had come to investigate. The scene was

intention of offering help, instead

of your concern. Sorry for causing you trouble," Alavin said, pressing down the pain and weakness as

"Halt!" Roald commanded coldly.