Captain Yansen had just been pulled from his questioning of Drienel, the guard, when one of his men called out to him about the commotion outside. He had seen enough brawls between locals to know when to ignore a disturbance, but this time was different—it was between two outside Lords. That caught his attention.
He rushed out of the mansion and found a large crowd gathered in a wide circle. Two men stood at the center, and one was walking up to the other, looking completely unprepared for the impending confrontation. Yansen knew better than to involve himself in noble affairs. Nobles fought their battles in their own way—dangerous ways, with little regard for the common law. He had no desire to get in the middle of their disputes. After all, if a noble killed another noble within his territory, the matter would be handled by the courts of their respective cities, and Yansen's only job would be to report what had happened.
As he scanned the crowd, Yansen's eyes locked on a familiar figure—Lord Brodie, a prominent Lord from Jorgen City. Yansen stepped toward him, offering a small bow as their gazes met.
"Greetings, Lord Brodie," Captain Yansen said, his voice polite but cautious.
"Captain Yansen," Lord Brodie acknowledged with a nod. "I saw your men earlier, but I didn't expect you to come here so quickly."
"I was already here to investigate the deaths of the two nobles," Yansen replied, his concern evident. "Is there any way to stop this fight? I'd rather not have another death on my report in the same day."
Lord Brodie let out a deep, miserable sigh, shaking his head slowly. "Unfortunately, my cousin has already dug his own grave and buried himself up to his neck."
"Your cousin?" Captain Yansen asked, puzzled.
"The one with the fireballs in his palms," Lord Brodie explained, gesturing with his chin toward the fight.
Just as Lord Brodie spoke, a sudden heatwave shot through the air, causing both men to step back instinctively. The rest of the crowd followed suit. Yansen could clearly see the heat radiating from the man Lord Brodie had pointed out. He was a powerful magic-user—how could someone like that be about to lose to an opponent who seemed unprepared for the fight? The situation was increasingly puzzling.
Before Yansen could even process the thought, the man with the fireballs pushed them forward, aiming them at his opponent. Yansen couldn't help but wonder why the other man hadn't moved yet. Did he give up? Was he willing to be hit?
Then, as if in slow motion, the fireballs shot out and immediately turned back on their caster. Yansen's eyes widened in shock as the man, supposed to be the one launching the attack, burst into flames.
Captain Yansen struggled to comprehend the sight, frozen in confusion. The burning man writhed in pain, but Yansen couldn't do anything to help him. What could anyone do against such intense fire? His mind raced, but before he could even react, the man's screams of agony filled the air, sending a chill down Yansen's spine. His mouth had gone dry in an instant, the heat from the flames sucking all the moisture away.
Within moments, the man who had been alive and full of fire just moments ago was reduced to nothing but ashes.
Yansen stood in stunned silence, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. His mind, racing to find an explanation, only found more questions.
"Are you wondering what to report to your superiors?" Lord Brodie's voice cut through Yansen's thoughts. The weight of the situation was clear in Brodie's tone, and his face had fallen into a deep sadness.
Yansen wanted to respond but couldn't. His mouth felt like it was full of dust. So, he simply nodded in acknowledgement.
"Alright. Tell them Lord Ollie of Xenotar City, first cousin to both Lord Brodie and the late Lady Elsie of Jorgen City, attacked Lord Canning, 'The Arcane Fox' of Alpane City," Lord Brodie said, his voice devoid of emotion. "They'll understand."
Lord Brodie let out another heavy sigh as he gazed at his cousin's ashes one final time. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like "Ollie, you fool," before turning away and walking off, leaving Captain Yansen to face the weight of his report.
***
8 years ago, the war between the Alibarnair Kingdom and the Kingdom of Brusthorn had been raging for months, spurred by the promise of gold-rich territories along their disputed borders. Young men and women from all over Alibarnair were recruited, eager to prove their worth and secure their legacies. Among them were the kingdom's most promising talents, assigned to various fronts based on their capabilities.
While the elite veterans and high-ranking mages engaged in devastating direct battles, the younger, less experienced forces were stationed in districts along the outskirts. Their primary roles were to maintain the defensive lines, hold the enemy at bay, and, when opportunity allowed, launch counterattacks. In this crucible of war, the youth of Alibarnair either burned bright or were extinguished altogether.
Elsie, at only 21 years old, was already a legend in the making. Stationed in the northern districts, she demonstrated a strategic brilliance and magical prowess far beyond her years. Her ability to coordinate troops with precision allowed her forces to repel wave after wave of Brusthorn assaults. Her leadership was so effective that her counterattacks were swift, decisive, and with as little as 30 recorded casualties—a feat unheard of in a conflict of this scale.
Meanwhile, Brodie, stationed in the eastern district of Villis, was not so fortunate. Unlike the orderly operations in the north, the eastern front was a chaotic battleground. The enemy forces in the district of Villis were led by an elite group of 100 mages, each wielding advanced magic capable of turning the tide of battle with a single spell. Against them stood Brodie's force of 300 mages—a larger number but far less skilled.
Casualties were mounting rapidly. Each day brought news of comrades lost to Brusthorn's relentless assaults. Morale was low, and discipline was crumbling under the weight of despair. Brodie himself, though a capable leader, struggled to inspire his troops in the face of such overwhelming odds.
However, not all areas where this capable of resisting the enemy's attacks.
Brodie was in one such region. The enemy was composed of 100 ridiculously strong mages who were causing casualties left and right for Brodie's side of 300 mages.
Just when he thought things could not get any worse, the Intelligence Unit reported seeing about 150 more enemy reinforcements teleporting continuously and heading towards their battlefield.
Orders were loud and clear: retreat and evacuate to an ambush site before relaunching an attack. However, if the enemy's reinforcements joined the battle too quickly, Brodie and all his comrades were to prepare to face a possible complete wipeout.
Morale sunk to its lowest point. The retreat begun but the numbers were not looking too good. Brodies men despite outnumbering the mages were being cut down like flies. Even when they reached the ambush point which was at the end of a small path between two mountains, they all thought their death was already set in stone. At any minute the enemy's reinforcements would arrive and the slaughter would begin. For their honor, they decided to give their all until their inevitable deaths.
Just when Brodie thought the situation couldn't deteriorate further, the Intelligence Unit delivered dire news: approximately 150 enemy reinforcements had been spotted teleporting continuously toward the battlefield. The implications were clear—a complete wipeout was due.
The orders were swift and unambiguous: retreat to the ambush site, regroup, and launch a counterattack. But morale among the troops plummeted to an all-time low. Many feared the reinforcements would close in before they could execute their plan. As the retreat began, the numbers looked grim. Brodie's forces, despite their numerical advantage, were being cut down with alarming ease. Every step toward the ambush site felt like a march toward certain doom.
The ambush site lay at the end of a narrow mountain pass, a chokepoint chosen for its strategic value. Yet even as the troops arrived, many believed their fates were already sealed. But then, the tide turned in an instant. Fiery boulders came hurtling down from the cliffs above, crashing into the pursuing enemy forces. The element of surprise threw the attackers into chaos, forcing them to focus on defending against the onslaught from above.
Brodie and his remaining men seized the moment, channeling every damaging spell they could muster. The narrow path worked in their favor, preventing the enemy from regrouping or retaliating effectively. Still, the specter of reinforcements loomed over them. If the enemy mages arrived mid-battle, the ambush would be for nothing, and the survivors would be overwhelmed.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. After 20 grueling minutes of combat, a faint glimmer of hope emerged—the reinforcements had yet to arrive. Over half of the enemy force had fallen under the combined weight of the ambush and the relentless assault from Brodie's troops. Another 10 minutes passed, and the remaining attackers were defeated. Yet, the reinforcements were still nowhere to be seen.
Out of the original 300 mages on Brodies team, only 97 remained standing. The ambush had saved them, but just barely. Without it, their survival would have been impossible. However, the cost of victory was written across the exhausted faces and wounded bodies of the survivors.
Despite their success, no one could afford to celebrate. The troops braced for the imminent arrival of the enemy reinforcements, each moment of silence stretching nerves to their breaking point. Ten more minutes crawled by, during which five more soldiers succumbed to their injuries. Slowly, hope began to take root. Perhaps the reinforcements weren't coming after all.
As the adrenaline wore off, the troops began tending to their wounds, the relief palpable but tentative. It was then that a messenger teleported into the camp. The sight of him froze everyone in place, a mix of dread and desperate hope gripping their hearts.
The news hit like a thunderclap: the orders were to return to their original position.
An uproar erupted among the remaining mages. Frustration, disbelief, and anger boiled over. How could the higher-ups demand such a reckless move? Did they truly intend to send what was left of the team to their deaths?
The grim reality was that the survivors were in no condition to fight again. Their numbers were whittled down to 92, most of whom bore injuries both physical and mental. The strength of their earlier opponents had been monstrous, and even a fraction of the reinforcements' power would be enough to annihilate them.
But orders were orders.
With weary resolve, the group began their cautious march back along the mountain pass, the shadows of their fallen comrades haunting every step. Each soldier knew they were heading toward uncertainty, and perhaps, toward their final battle.
Not knowing what to expect at that place was the perfect definition of mental torture. The group steeled their nerves as they approached the other end of the path. In just a few more steps, their view would not be obstructed by the walls of the mountain… and so would the enemy's view.
Brodie was near the front and exited just in time to see the last enemy reinforcement die.
The man had just finished conjuring 10 ice spears and motioned them forward towards a young man with bright red hair. The ice spears only traveled about a meter before turning and impaling the man who had cast them in one quick and fluid motion. An ice hill formed around the impaled man, freezing his surprised and horrified look in a huge ice crystal.
Three other young men were standing on the battlefield with the redhaired man, over 140 dead bodies lay on the ground.
Each of the young men wore a hooded robe in a unique color with a unique golden animal imprinted on the back: A Fox, A Tiger, A Wolf, and A Bear. Almost like a fashion statement, their robes were a perfect match for their hair, creating an effortless harmony between their attire and their appearance.
The tiger donned orange and black garments, reflecting its fierce and ruthless nature. The wolf wore grey, embodying a sharp, wise, and natural leader. He was rumoured to be a judge of some sort, his grey nature neither siding too much with good or with bad. The bear, clad in black, represented nothing, but had unimaginable raw strength paired with a laid-back demeanor.
The man with the fox print adorned himself in striking red garments, a fitting match for his reputation among comrades as intelligent yet cunning. Known for his perpetual jesting and inability to take any conversation seriously, he often masked his sharp mind behind a playful demeanor. However, whispers on the battlefield painted a different story—despite his seemingly carefree nature, he was rumored to have emerged unscathed, claiming one-third of the confirmed kills single-handedly.
This is where Brodie had first seen Canning and learned of his title, 'The Arcane Fox.'