The Glitched Mage-Chapter 109: The Power Chart Part 4

The air had shifted.

Even the wind that once danced lazily across the Training Grounds now held still, waiting—watching.

Riven stood at the edge of the dueling ring, his body calm but coiled with that quiet, smoldering presence. The crowd barely whispered now. No chants. No open calls. Just a thick, anxious silence broken only by the sound of his footsteps as he approached the Monolith again.

The Monolith's glow pulsed gently beneath Riven's fingertips, its surface thrumming with living mana. He pressed his palm flat against the obsidian once more, letting his aura thread through the ancient stone like smoke curling into cracks. For a breathless moment, the air hung still—then the display shimmered to life.

Another heartbeat. Another name.

Rank 39 – Dareth Sirova.

The instant the name appeared, the tension in the crowd shifted. This wasn't confusion or curiosity this time—it was recognition. The murmurs that followed were quieter, heavier. Voices dropped to hushed tones, as if speaking too loudly might summon something dangerous.

"Dareth's a fire user," someone said, voice tight. "Top-ranked for a reason."

"His flame's not normal. It's high-compression. Refined. Focused into piercing strikes."

"Didn't he take out three opponents in a single day last term?"

Riven didn't so much as blink. His gaze remained steady, unwavering, as he stepped forward—each stride deliberate, his robes whispering across the stone with silent finality. The mana beast cores slipped from his hand onto the pedestal, landing with a soft clink that seemed to echo louder than it should have, like the striking of a match in a room full of dry kindling.

The Elder, seasoned and steady after overseeing countless duels, hesitated for the first time that day. His eyes flicked between the cores and Riven's face, searching for any hint of fatigue, any sign of restraint.

"You don't have to rush the next challenge, Riven," he said quietly, his voice low enough that only the nearest few could hear. "There's no shame in pacing yourself."

But Riven had already turned away, his boots carrying him toward the center of the ring without pause, his silence as final as a sealed verdict.

Behind him, the summoning glyph flared to life, igniting in a deep, molten red that spread across the arena floor like cracks in cooling lava. The glow painted Riven's shadow long and sharp across the tiles as the next opponent was called forth.

Dareth Sirova emerged from the sigil like he'd stepped out of a furnace.

He was tall, lean, wrapped in reinforced black dueling leather scorched from use, etched with glowing embers along his sleeves and collar. His dark reddish-brown hair was tied back, and a trail of fire drifted behind his every step like an afterimage of heat.

His eyes locked with Riven's.

"You're not like the others," Dareth said, voice low and rough, like a burning coal grinding against stone. "I've seen the way you fight. That flame of yours…"

He rolled one shoulder, fire coiling up his arm.

"I want to test mine against it."

The Elder raised his hand, voice firm.

"Begin!"

The heat exploded.

Dareth moved like a comet unleashed, vanishing in a streak of searing flame. His foot struck the dueling tile with such force that the stone beneath him melted into molten glass, trailing in a warped, glowing arc as he closed the distance. A lance of compressed fire roared from his outstretched fist—sharp, narrow, and blindingly hot—hurtling straight for Riven's chest with deadly precision.

But this time, Riven didn't shift to the side. He didn't avoid it.

He met it.

Black fire erupted from his body, not like a blast—but like a tide, crashing forward with slow inevitability. The two flames collided mid-air with a deafening roar, crimson heat colliding against endless darkness. The shockwave rippled through the arena, slamming into the barrier walls and shaking the platform underfoot. Heat cracked across the sky above them, distorted and wild.

For a heartbeat, the two forces held.

Fire against fire.

Mana against mana.

Then Riven pushed.

Updat𝒆d fr𝒐m freewebnσvel.cøm.

The abyss surged—silent, weightless, and unrelenting—and the crimson blaze was swallowed whole. Not extinguished. Not deflected. Devoured.

Dareth grunted and leapt backward, his boots skidding across the scorched tile, streaks of flame spiraling in his wake. He barely had time to draw breath before his hands flicked into motion, fingers forming sharp, angular runes in the air, traced with liquid heat.

"Pyroclast Surge!"

Three lances of fire burst into existence—one shot straight for Riven's core, another descended in a searing arc from above, while the third tunneled beneath the platform and erupted beneath his feet in a gout of flame.

Riven moved—just enough.

Crimson Mirage triggered in an instant, scattering burning silhouettes across the arena like sparks from a shattered forge.

But Dareth didn't hesitate.

"I knew you'd do that," he muttered, slamming his palms together.

The platform exploded.

A dome of fire bloomed outward, engulfing the ring in a violent eruption that obliterated the illusions in one sweeping blaze. The crowd cried out as the barrier shuddered from the force.

But the real Riven wasn't there.

He came in low, gliding beneath the burning arc like a shadow wrapped in flame. Abyssal fire coated his limbs, smoke coiling in his wake as he rose in a sharp, fluid motion, sword arcing up in a clean, vicious swing.

Dareth reacted fast, his own blade—forged in flame and runes—flashing to meet Riven's strike. The two weapons collided in a thunderous crash of heat and steel, sparks showering in all directions.

But something was wrong.

Dareth's fire sizzled.

Riven's devoured.

The crimson flames clinging to Dareth's blade recoiled as if in pain. Then, slowly, they began to peel away—unraveling like dying cloth, drawn toward the abyssal heat pulsing along Riven's sword like a hunger that refused to be denied.

Dareth's eyes widened. He twisted his body to retreat, his coat catching fire as he spun free. "What the hell is your flame?!"

Riven stepped forward, black embers curling along his shoulders, rising like ash from a dying world. "The end of yours."

They clashed again, harder this time. Sparks scattered across the ring, flame whirled like torn silk, and mana struck mana in wild bursts. Dareth fought with discipline—his movements crisp, trained, refined. Every strike was backed by years of dedication, a fire honed through pressure and repetition.

But Riven's wasn't honed.

It was forged in the Abyss.

Each time they crossed blades, Riven took more than he gave—stealing heat, eating away at the core of Dareth's fire, burning through it like it had no right to exist beside his own.

Dareth's movements began to slow.

Desperation flickered in his eyes.

And then he roared, summoning everything he had left in one final, blazing breath. His blade flared bright red, too bright, almost white-hot, as runes along the metal shimmered violently.

"Inferno Spiral!"

A cyclone of flame burst from the earth beneath Riven, spiraling upward like a tower of sunfire, aiming to incinerate anything caught within.

The crowd gasped.

For a moment, nothing could be seen but flame.

And then—something shifted.

The center of the cyclone twisted.

Not outward. But inward.

The fire didn't explode. It collapsed. Pulled in on itself like a dying star, folding under the pressure of something deeper, older—hungrier. The abyss yawned open in the center of the storm, and all that fire, all that rage, was swallowed whole.

The flame unraveled into dust.

Dareth staggered back, his limbs shaking. His blade was gone. His mana was fractured. And the heat—the familiar heat of his fire—was gone.

All that remained was cold ash and the pressure of something darker.

Riven stepped forward, slow and silent. His sword, still burning with black heat, trailed faint scorch marks along the floor. When he reached Dareth, he didn't hesitate. He raised the blade, its tip hovering a breath from the older student's throat.

No quip. No cruelty. Just control.

Finality.

The Elder raised his hand, voice cutting cleanly through the stunned silence.

"Enough!"

The barrier walls flickered and fell. The summoning glyph dimmed.

And behind them, the Monolith flared to life once more.

[Rank 39 Achieved – Riven Drakar]

Silence swallowed the arena.

Then a single ripple of sound—barely a breath—spread through the crowd like a tremor. Not awe. Not applause.

Unease.

The fire mages in the audience, once murmuring with pride or rivalry, stood rigid now. Quiet. Pale. Because they had seen the way fire was supposed to move—wild, radiant, triumphant.

But Riven's fire didn't shine.

It consumed.

It took and gave nothing back.

Nyx stood at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, her eyes fixed not on Riven—but on the blackened scorch marks he left behind.

"That one was strong," she said, voice low, contemplative.

Riven gave a single nod, his breathing calm. "He was."

And behind him, the Monolith pulsed—its surface etched with shifting light, alive with power that refused to settle.

It hadn't dimmed.

It hadn't cooled.

The obsidian stone radiated a low, steady warmth, like coals buried deep in the heart of a furnace. It wasn't just recording his victories.

It was demanding more.

Still warm.

Still pulsing.

Still hungry.