The Glitched Mage-Chapter 42: The First Challenge

Riven's gaze lingered on the Record of Power, the shifting names glowing faintly against the black monolith. His own name, etched at the very bottom—Riven Drakar, Rank 238—felt almost insulting.

He exhaled slowly, suppressing the grin threatening to spread across his face. The system here was simple, brutal, and exactly to his liking.

Strength dictated status.

And that meant there was only one thing to do—start climbing.

"Well," Ember said cheerfully, watching him closely. "Are you going to make your first move?"

Riven let his fingers trace over his talisman, the polished crystal humming faintly. "Not yet." His voice was calm, thoughtful. "I need to understand my competition first."

Ember arched an eyebrow. "Cautious, huh? I thought you'd want to crush someone immediately."

Riven chuckled. "I will. But I prefer not to waste my time on nobodies."

Ember snorted but didn't argue. "Alright then, let me introduce you to how it works." She gestured to the training grounds. "Most challenges happen here. If you defeat someone, you take their rank. But there's a catch—you can only challenge people within twenty ranks of you."

Riven's brow lifted slightly. "So I can't just go for the number one spot immediately?"

Ember shook her head. "Nope. You've got to climb your way up, one fight at a time."

He nodded. That was fine. He had patience.

His dark blue eyes flickered across the students training, sparring, pushing themselves to the limit. Most of them ignored him—except for a few who continued to throw cautious glances in his direction.

One student in particular caught his eye.

A tall, broad-shouldered young man stood near the dueling platforms, surrounded by a small group of admirers. He had short, slicked-back blonde hair and a smirk that practically radiated arrogance. His uniform was immaculate, his posture relaxed, as if he had never known the taste of failure.

And when his eyes met Riven's, the smirk only deepened.

Ember followed his gaze and winced. "Ah. You're looking at Doran Halves."

Riven tilted his head slightly. "Halves?"

"Yeah. His family is minor nobility, but they're powerful. He's ranked 218, so he's one of the closest people you can challenge right now."

Perfect.

As if sensing Riven's interest, Doran pushed off the railing he had been leaning on and approached, his entourage trailing behind.

"So, it's true," Doran mused as he stopped a few paces away. "The embarrassment of the Drakar family made it to the second year." His golden eyes raked over Riven's frame, lingering on his newly donned second-year robes. "Shame about your rank, though. I expected more from a Drakar."

Riven's smirk deepened as he gave a casual shrug. "Well, I did just enter the second year. That explains my rank." He tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with amusement. "Though, I can't help but notice—you seem very concerned about my standing for someone who hasn't even broken into the top two hundred."

Doran's expression stiffened for a fraction of a second before he let out a low chuckle. "Confident, aren't you?" He took a slow step forward, his presence exuding the kind of controlled aggression Riven had seen countless times before—bullies who were used to being on top, unchallenged. "If you think you're going to climb through the ranks easily, let me give you some advice."

Riven raised an eyebrow.

Doran's smirk sharpened. "Know your place."

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Then Riven chuckled softly.

"Tell you what," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Since you're so concerned, how about I start my climb with you?"

Doran's smirk faltered for the first time.

Around them, whispers erupted.

"He's challenging Doran already?"

"Does he even know what he's doing?"

"Doran's been a second year for over a year. He's not some weakling."

Doran narrowed his eyes, his fingers flexing at his sides. "You sure you want to do this, Drakar? You don't even know what I specialize in."

Riven's smirk widened. "Does it matter?"

Doran's lips curled into a snarl, and without another word, he turned on his heel, walking toward one of the dueling platforms.

"Fine," he called over his shoulder. "I'll make this quick."

Riven followed, the energy in the training grounds shifting as students began gathering around the platform. Even those in the middle of training stopped, sensing the anticipation in the air.

A first-year-turned-second-year, ranked at the very bottom, was about to challenge a seasoned second-year.

And if he lost?

His name would remain at the bottom.

Riven stepped onto the platform, rolling his shoulders. Across from him, Doran cracked his knuckles, his mana flaring subtly.

A senior instructor stepped forward to officiate, his gaze flicking between them. "Riven Drakar, challenger, rank 238. Doran Halves, ranked 218. This is an official challenge. Are you both in agreement?"

"Yes," Doran said confidently.

Riven simply nodded.

"Then, begin."

The moment the words left the instructor's mouth, Doran lunged.

His mana surged—wind-based, fast, controlled. He closed the distance between them in an instant, his fist aimed directly at Riven's ribs.

At the last second, Riven pivoted sharply, leaving Doran stumbling forward into empty space.

Shadows stirred beneath Riven's skin, writhing as if eager to lash out, but he forced them down. He couldn't reveal that power yet.

Not here. Not now.

Instead, he let fire bloom in his palm.

A small fireball flickered to life, hovering just above his fingertips.

Doran scoffed, unimpressed. "You really think you'll survive second year with a beginner's spell like that?" A shimmering magic circle flared into existence in front of him, its intricate runes pulsing with energy. "Let me show you what real power looks like."

With a flick of his wrist, several miniature tornadoes erupted from the circle, twisting violently as they tore across the arena. Wind roared, carrying the sharp sting of mana-infused gales that bit at Riven's skin.

Riven's eyes narrowed slightly.

Not bad.

"Doran's putting on a show again!" someone from the growing crowd called out.

"Come on, new guy, at least make it entertaining!" another shouted.

"As if he stands a chance!" someone scoffed.

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The amused glint in Riven's eyes sharpened as he abruptly aimed his fireball downward, launching it into the arena floor.

A controlled explosion sent him soaring into the air, his body twisting effortlessly over the approaching tornadoes.

Another fireball flared to life at his fingertips.

Doran's smirk barely had time to widen before Riven hurled the fireball straight at him.

Doran sighed, stepping aside with casual ease. "Didn't I say—"

He never finished.

The fireball curved mid-flight, slamming into his back in an explosion of heat and force.

A stunned silence swept over the arena as Doran was thrown forward, barely catching himself before he hit the ground.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Doran pushed himself up, his expression a shade paler, his glare sharp with disbelief.

Riven dusted off his sleeves, eyes gleaming as three new fireballs ignited around him, orbiting his form in lazy arcs.

"Rudimentary?" he echoed, tilting his head with a smirk. "I think you'll find my skills are anything but."

The arena remained eerily silent for a moment before hushed murmurs filled the air.

"Did he just—?"

"Doran got hit?"

"That wasn't a normal fireball…"

Doran clenched his fists as he stood, wisps of smoke still curling off his back where the fireball had struck. He exhaled sharply, brushing the embers off his shoulder before rolling his neck. His previous smirk was gone, replaced by a hard, focused expression.

"That was a neat trick," he admitted, voice tight with irritation. "But you think you've won just because you landed one lucky hit?"

Riven chuckled, letting the fireballs circling him drift lazily around his body. "Oh no," he mused, his dark blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "I just wanted to see if you could dodge."

Doran's jaw tightened. "Tch."

Without warning, his mana surged again, wind swirling violently around him. His hands moved through a practiced sequence, and another magic circle ignited at his palms, this time larger, more intricate.

"Try dodging this," Doran growled.

The wind howled as a cyclone erupted from the ground, swallowing the entire dueling platform in a vortex of mana-infused gales. The sheer force sent some spectators stumbling back, shielding their eyes from the debris being kicked up.

Riven's robes whipped violently around him, his hair tousled by the ferocity of the storm. But rather than looking concerned, his smirk only widened.

Fast.

Doran was faster than expected, his control over wind magic refined and aggressive.

But predictable.

Riven moved.

In an instant, his body blurred—a burst of flame propelling him sideways as he wove between the whirling tendrils of the cyclone. Another fireball flickered to life in his hand, but this time, he didn't throw it.

He absorbed it.

Heat coiled around his fingers, his mana shifting—twisting.

Then, a second later, he reappeared inside the cyclone.

Doran's eyes widened in shock as Riven materialized just inches away, flames licking at his fingertips.

"Your spell has too many gaps," Riven remarked.

And then he struck.

A fist, coated in concentrated fire, slammed into Doran's stomach. The impact sent him skidding backward across the platform, the force shattering his own cyclone apart. The gusts of wind dispersed instantly, leaving the arena dead silent once more.

Doran doubled over, coughing as the air was knocked from his lungs.

Riven straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. "You rely too much on your affinity," he said conversationally, as if he hadn't just sent Doran reeling. "Wind's useful for movement, but if you can't react fast enough, it's just wasted mana."

Doran lifted his head, eyes burning with frustration. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he hesitated.

Riven noticed.

He tilted his head. "Are you done already?"

Doran's jaw clenched. He wasn't done—his pride wouldn't allow it. But his body betrayed him. He was hesitating.

He'd lost momentum.

And worse—he knew it.

"That's enough!" the instructor suddenly called, stepping forward.

Doran flinched slightly at the interruption. He looked like he wanted to argue, but the instructor's stern gaze left no room for negotiation.

"The match is decided. Riven Drakar is the victor."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"He actually won…"

"Doran lost to a newcomer?"

"The Drakar family's youngest really is a monster."

Riven simply smiled.

The instructor turned to the monolith at the edge of the arena. A faint glow rippled across its surface as Riven's name flickered upward—his rank shifting.

Riven Drakar—Rank 218.

Doran's name, meanwhile, dropped.

His loss was officially recorded.

Doran's face twisted in frustration, but he held his tongue, taking a slow, steady breath before pushing himself to his feet.

Riven arched a brow. "Not going to whine about it?"

Doran exhaled through his nose, glaring at him. "I'll win it back," he said simply. "Enjoy your rank while it lasts."

Riven chuckled. "I intend to."

With that, Doran turned on his heel and walked off the stage, his entourage scrambling after him.

Riven turned his gaze back to the monolith. His name sat comfortably at 218—but his mind was already set on climbing higher.

A familiar presence stepped beside him. "You look pleased with yourself," Ember said, watching the rankings shift.

Riven grinned. "That was fun."

Ember snorted. "You just humiliated one of the loudest second-years on your first day. You've officially made enemies."

"Good," Riven said simply. "It'll make things more entertaining."

Ember shook her head, amused. "Well, if you really plan on climbing, you should prepare. Second-years don't take kindly to new challengers. Now that you've made a move, they'll start paying attention to you."

"I'm counting on it."

Ember studied him for a moment before exhaling. "Alright. Then let's get you up to speed with who you should look out for."

She gestured for him to follow, and together, they left the dueling grounds.

All around them, whispers followed.

The new second-year had won his first challenge.

And everyone knew—

This was only the beginning.