The Legendary Mage (Alavin) novel Chapter 8

Every two years, Cobalt Strike would open its doors to recruit new Protégés. Thousands would gather at the foot of the mountains, eager to enroll their children to study the mystical energies and hone their magic. To advance from Apprentice to Novice Mage was a matter of great pride for any parent. Should one be fortunate enough to become an elite Protégé, or even a personal student of an Elder, it was as if their ancestors were blessed, with laughter billowing from their graves in joyful pride.

As Alavin carried the stone urn, his steps causing the stairway to tremble slightly, he was a sight to behold in the early morning of Cobalt Strike. Although many Protégés had grown accustomed to his presence, his appearances still drew attention.

He was a robust figure, standing tall at six feet, looking like he was around seventeen years old when, in fact, he was only fifteen. The grueling eight years at Cobalt Strike had matured him beyond his years, both in mind and body.

“Alavin, congratulations on advancing to Novice Mage.”

Protégés greeted him along the way, offering smiles filled with respect or sympathy.

“Good day, brother,” Alavin would reply to these friendly Protégés.

“Let’s spar sometime,” called out another from a distance.

“Right, I’ll hold you to that,” Alavin responded with a laugh.

Of course, while some admired Alavin, others couldn’t stand him. Many Protégés passed by, some sneering, some whispering, and still more simply ignoring him.

Alavin, list in hand and urn on the shoulder, steadily ascended the steep stone steps. He delivered goods from the foot of the mountain to the top, to courtyards, kitchens, and personal training grounds, all the while collecting unused materials to be returned. He took his duties seriously, using the opportunity to strengthen his body.

He had delivered many items without incident, but upon reaching the summit and the Arena, he was met with harsh criticism.

“I asked for an iron staff, one weighing a hundred pounds. What’s the meaning of these two wooden sticks?”

A muscular man snapped the sturdy sticks with ease and flung them toward Alavin. The Arena fell silent, with many early risers turning to look.

Such large arenas, featuring specially crafted dueling platforms and various training equipment, were the central training grounds for Cobalt Strike’s Protégés. Here, one could practice, spar, and observe elite Protégés battle, learning from their experience and techniques. Each arena could accommodate up to a thousand people and was an essential place of cultivation within Cobalt Strike. There were fifteen similar arenas in total.

Alavin set down the urn and pulled out his list. “Arena ten, two wooden sticks.”

“Nonsense, I told Odell last night, clear as day, I wanted a hundred-pound iron staff. You’re Alavin, right? I heard you demonstrated the strength of a Novice Mage yesterday. Pah, as if that’s something to be proud of. Do you think you can get away with swapping materials? One word from me, and you could be locked in solitary for ten days.”

Mocking laughter rippled from the sidelines.

“Alright, I’ll go fetch the right one for you,” Alavin said, picking up the urn to leave.

“When? I need it urgently.”

“Next lifetime.”

“You’re asking for it,” the other Protégé spat angrily but was held back by his peers. “You’re twenty, why argue with a kid?”

Alavin ignored such nuisances, shouldering his urn and continuing his deliveries. Before long, he reached another tall peak, a place he had not delivered to before, as it was home to the female Protégées.