The Glitched Mage-Chapter 110: The Power Charts Part 5

The silence after Dareth's defeat lingered longer than usual, clinging to the Training Grounds like mist that refused to lift. Riven remained still, his hand resting against the hilt of his sword, the echo of consumed fire still whispering faintly across the scorched tiles.

But even that quiet was soon broken.

A subtle shift passed through the crowd—not in sound, but in presence. Robes rustled as figures arrived at the edge of the field, unnoticed at first, then acknowledged with widening eyes and bowed heads.

The Elders had come.

A procession of masters, each veiled in subtle auras of power, stepped up to the elevated viewing platform—drawn not by invitation, but by necessity. Among them stood Archmage Elara, her purple robes billowing softly as she surveyed the ring. Her expression was unreadable, though her eyes never left Riven.

She wasn't the only one watching now.

The Monolith pulsed once more. Riven stepped towards it, ignoring the weight of the stares. He pressed his palm to the obsidian again, feeling the familiar surge of mana curl up his arm like living smoke.

The glow brightened.

Then shifted.

Rank 19 – Kael Aren.

Another ripple passed through the crowd.

"Kael…? Isn't he—?"

"The Sea-Touched. A high-form water user. They say he trained with coastal mages from beyond the Academy's borders."

"I've never seen anyone pierce his defense. Ever."

A sharp inhale. "That's a terrible matchup. Fire against water?"

"Not his fire," someone whispered.

The summoning pedestal accepted the beast cores with a hum. The Elder didn't speak. He merely cast a glance towards the gathering Elders before turning to prepare the arena.

And then—the summoning glyph flared.

But it wasn't red this time.

It was blue.

A deep, oceanic hue that shimmered with depth and motion. Water spiraled upward from the circle, forming into the silhouette of a tall, dark-haired boy clad in robes stitched with azure runes. He moved like the tide—smooth, graceful, impossibly fluid.

Kael Aren.

His presence washed over the arena like the cold breath of the sea before a storm.

Riven stepped into the ring, the heat around him crackling faintly. The two elements met in the middle—water and fire, silence and smolder.

Kael's voice was calm but cold, like deep ocean currents—measured, powerful, unshaken. "I've faced flames before. Seen them roar with pride, only to vanish beneath the weight of the sea."

Riven didn't answer.

He simply raised his blade—black flame curling up the edge like smoke from a dying world.

A statement. A challenge. A promise.

The Elder raised his hand.

"Begin!"

Kael didn't wait.

The moment the Elder's hand dropped, a column of water erupted from beneath his feet, crashing forward in a tidal wall that split the arena like a monsoon given form. But it wasn't just water. Jagged ice crystalized along the wave's edge—razor-thin, glinting like blades as they surged forward within the crushing current.

Riven didn't blink.

His abyssal flame rose in answer, not in a flare—but in a spiral. Black heat twisted upward around him, coiling like a living tempest, silent and suffocating. The moment the two forces collided, the arena detonated in sound and fury.

A wall of steam exploded outward, blinding and thick. The platform beneath their feet groaned, cracked tile steaming under the raw elemental clash. The pressure wave slammed against the barrier walls, sending students staggering. Riven slid back a single space, boots grinding across wet stone as he absorbed the brunt of it.

But the water didn't stop.

Kael's mana surged again—sharp and intelligent, layered with control. Each thread of his magic wove together like the sea itself: relentless, fluid, patient. His water didn't crash—it corroded. His ice didn't pierce—it fractured.

Riven's flames hissed under the strain.

Kael lifted a hand with a snap.

The tide split, reshaping itself midair. Dozens of tendrils spiraled outward—ropes of water laced with freezing pressure, dancing like serpents through the mist. Every one sharpened with frozen tips, each one a spear drawn from the deep.

Riven moved.

Crimson Mirage ignited across the arena—heat-born reflections scattering in a flicker of red. The tendrils struck, slicing through steam and shadow, hitting afterimages with violent snaps that shattered into ice and boiling mist.

But Kael wasn't finished.

He stepped forward, both hands rising as the air twisted around them.

Then the arena changed.

A dome of water descended over the platform—a shimmering veil of suspended sea, warping space, weight, and sound. Mana coiled through it like an undertow, dense and heavy.

Riven's abyssal flame flickered. Dimmed. For the first time.

Gasps rippled from the crowd. Even Nyx leaned forward. And at the edge of the stands, where the faculty now stood—Archmage Elara's sharp gaze narrowed.

Still, Riven didn't move.

Didn't waver.

He raised his hand—and the abyss answered.

This time, the fire didn't rise in rage. It coalesced. Tightened. Not a roar, but a breath drawn from the depths of silence. His sword ignited in complete blackness, void-inked and rimmed with violet.

He didn't try to burn the water.

He let it come to him.

The abyssal fire spread slowly across the floor—low, deliberate—licking at the walls of the dome like a question.

And then the answer came.

It began at the edges.

Where the abyssal fire licked at the curved wall of suspended water, something subtle shifted. The ripple of the tide didn't recoil. It didn't hiss or boil or steam in protest.

It simply ceased to exist.

No sound. No smoke.

Just absence.

The water along the edge of the domain shivered—and disappeared. Not in heat. Not in light. But as if space itself refused to hold it any longer.

Like the sea was being forgotten.

The flames didn't spread outward in a blaze—they pulled inward, coiling into thin, ragged veins of black heat that reached into the heart of Kael's dome with slow, deliberate hunger. Where the fire touched, the tide lost cohesion. The mana inside the water cracked, unraveled. The pressure dropped.

Kael felt it instantly.

His eyes widened, then narrowed into sharp lines. His brows drew down in a sudden snap, sweat beading along his temples as he poured more mana into the collapsing weave.

But it didn't respond.

The dome was fraying—not from external force, but from rot within. A quiet, unnatural undoing that crawled beneath the surface and gnawed at the foundation of the spell.

Kael grit his teeth and raised both hands, trying to rebind the construct, to layer it with fresh mana, to repair the floodwall of his magic.

But the Abyss wasn't a force to match.

It was a force that refused to be matched.

Riven's fire wasn't devouring like a beast. It was rewriting the laws beneath the water—saying this doesn't belong here, and the world obeyed. One thread at a time, the sea was being unmade.

And Kael could do nothing but watch it vanish.

He poured more mana into the dome—strengthened the flow, froze the outer shell, summoned currents thick enough to drown a leviathan.

But it wasn't enough.

Riven launched forward, foot slamming into the stone.

The water parted—not willingly, but from pressure. From absence. From hunger.

His blade carved through Kael's tendrils, through his frost, through the pressure—through the very rules of the dome.

He was inside now.

Kael fought to keep up. Spirals of water erupted around him, trying to ensnare, to crush, to freeze. But every element bent midair, consumed by the devouring heat riding Riven's strikes.

Slash after slash—each one methodical, each one cutting deeper into the structure of Kael's spell.

The dome was cracking.

Kael roared.

His arms spread wide, drawing everything inward—the tide, the frost, the mist—and formed a single massive spear of condensed ocean. Runes spun around it, etched in frost and crashing waves.

His voice broke like thunder.

"Drown—!"

But Riven was already there.

He swung upward—not hard. Not fast.

Just absolute.

"Consume."

Black fire howled.

The spear shattered into mist.

The domain imploded, folding into itself with a whisper of broken pressure and rushing silence. Water spun into a vortex—and vanished.

When the light cleared, Kael was on one knee, soaked to the bone, chest rising in shallow, gasping breaths. His control was gone. His mana frayed. His sea silenced.

And Riven stood over him.

His blade dimmed now, the fire receding—but the heat remained. Still in the air. Still in the crowd.

The Elder stepped forward, his voice ringing clear across the shattered calm.

"Enough!"

The final word cracked like a bell, severing the remnants of the duel's energy from the air. The dome was gone. The water, gone. All that remained was the scent of scorched mist and stone—like the memory of a storm that had passed too quickly, too violently.

The barrier fell.

And the Monolith flared once more.

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[Rank 19 Achieved – Riven Drakar]

The crowd didn't erupt. It didn't cheer. No one moved.

Even the wind stayed still.

At the far edge of the stands, Archmage Elara's expression remained unreadable. Her hands, clasped before her, tightened just once. She had watched thousands of battles. This one, she knew, had not been ordinary. There was something deeper threaded through that flame. Something the world hadn't taught.

Something the world wasn't ready for.

As Kael staggered to his feet, supported by a healing aide rushing in from the sidelines, Riven turned and stepped out of the ring. The abyssal fire had fully faded from his blade, though faint threads of shadow still coiled faintly around his boots—unwilling to leave him just yet.

Nyx waited near the edge, her gaze sharp, her arms crossed.

For a moment, she said nothing. Then quietly, "That wasn't just your flame."

Riven exhaled, the sound slow, measured. "It wasn't."

Nyx stepped closer. "You channeled it."

"I had to," Riven said, voice low. "His Dome—it didn't bend to heat, it swallowed it. If I'd relied solely on my fire, I wouldn't have pierced it. It was built to erode, not break. The only way through was to feed it something it couldn't consume."

He paused.

"The Abyss doesn't burn like fire. It rewrites. I let it in—just a thread—so my flame could unmake his water, not fight it."

Her expression hardened. "And the cost?"

Riven didn't answer immediately. He drew in a deep breath, then released it, slower this time. Even that simple motion felt heavier than it should have.

"I'm fine," he said quietly—though the words sounded more like reassurance for himself than for Nyx.

Because the truth was… even channeling that small fragment of the Abyss had drained him. Not just mana. Something deeper. Like a piece of him had been carved away to make room.

Nyx's gaze flicked toward the Elders—their hushed voices, the way Archmage Elara still hadn't taken her eyes off him.

"You know you can't keep dipping into it," she murmured. "Not without consequences."

"I know." Riven's voice was steady, but quiet. "And I won't. Unless I have to."

Nyx stepped forward, her fingers brushing against his shoulder—not to steady him, but to anchor him.

"You're close," she said, voice softer now. "One more match."

Riven didn't reply.

He stared at the Monolith, its light pulsing slower now, deeper—like it, too, was holding its breath.

"I know," he murmured.

Then he stepped forward again, his shadow trailing long across the stone, ready to face the final name.

The one standing between him and returning home.