The Legendary Mage (Alavin)

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.

"Nysah! Wait for me," Tyral recognized the newcomer as well and fled in a panic, leaving Alavin behind.

Alavin's brow furrowed slightly as he pocketed his knife.

Soon, a young man dressed in black approached Alavin. He was strikingly good-looking, not with a delicate beauty but with a rugged handsomeness. His features were sharply defined, and his gaze piercing and profound, exuding an unintentional but unmistakable aura of intimidation.

The most striking feature of his attire was the gleaming golden feathers embroidered on the collar of his black clothing-a special symbol denoting a noble status-the mark of a Golden Protégé!

The ranks of Cobalt Strike were strictly organized into Ordinary Protégés, Elite Protégés, and Golden Protégés.

Ordinary Protégés were further categorized into Freshman Protégés, Intermediate Protégés, and Senior Protégés.

There were over eight thousand Protégés in the Cobalt Strike, the vast majority of whom were Ordinary ones. There were only about six hundred Elite Protégés, and a mere thirty Golden Protégés. In the teenage bracket, there were only five.

This man before Alavin was one of those Golden Protégés, one of the five prodigies of the new generation, known as Roald the Goldgrace.

He was a talent beyond measure, having created many miracles for Cobalt Strike. His golden sword was a weapon personally forged by the Commander of Cobalt Strike, naturally emanating a fierce energy. Alavin was an 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 was like a sparrow on the ground to an eagle soaring in the sky.

"What has happened here?" Roald asked with a detached tone. He had been 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 chaotic, with embers still glowing on the ground, clearly the aftermath of a recent struggle.

Alavin was seriously wounded, but Roald showed no intention of offering help, instead fixing Alavin with a disapproving look.

"Nothing of your concern. Sorry for causing you trouble," Alavin said, pressing down the pain and weakness as he turned to leave. "Halt!" Roald commanded coldly.

Alavin, holding his wounded chest, faced away from Roald. "Speak!"

"I've warned you more than once-the stronger you act, the more severe your punishment will be. You'll never escape from Cobalt Strike. You'd do well to serve obediently, to hold awe for everyone. Bow your head when you can, and bend your knee rather than stand tall. Only then might you earn forgiveness. If you wish to return to your Stormcast sooner, heed my words."

"Your advice is noted," Alavin replied without turning back, and he departed from the mountaintop.

"Foolish boy!"

"This is none of your affairs."

"Don't think that becoming a Novice Mage will grant you recognition. Your parents are criminals of Cobalt Strike, and their sins will be atoned by you for a lifetime. Without Combat Magic to guide your magic, do not dream of advancing further in the Novice Mage ranks. I decree you shall not progress beyond Novice Mage Stage VI," Roald snorted coldly. As a Golden Protégé revered and envied by all, he would not typically concern himself with a Freshman like Alavin, but there was a special link between them-Celesse!

Celesse was one of the five Golden Protégés of the new generation, with beauty that was memorizing. She was a talent recognized by organizations and factions far and wide, with an extraordinary composure akin to that of a celestial being. She was the goddess in the hearts of all Protégés of Cobalt Strike.

Roald was infatuated with Celesse and ardently pursued her, but Celesse's heart was not with him at all.

Alavin paid no heed to his adversary and dragged his weary and wounded body down from the mountain summit. A carefree smile graced his face, though it was the kind of smile that tugged at one's heartstrings. For eight long years, he had faced too many such skirmishes. He knew well that as his strength grew, so would the threats and traps set against him, but fear had no place in his heart, nor would he ever cower or grovel.