Magic is measured by the difficulty of learning it, the amount of magic power, or mana, it takes to use, and the overall effect of the magic used. By measuring it this like this magic spells were divided into ten levels. Normally though, only elemental magic is available to all beings, with abstract magic and magic that can control natural laws being a privilege only nobility can indulge in.
The only other way to use it is by becoming a priest or knight who serves the empire, learning arcane arts that give access to extraordinary powers. This method is said to be left behind by the Gods in the first ages of men, helping those who wish to ascend to the same level of power as them.
Although only few in a millennia have ever reached that unattainable level of power - the celestial emperor realm. There is currently only one celestial emperor expert alive on the continent, but nobody knows who or where they are.
The arena was frozen in more ways than one.
Frasia stood at the center, breathless, her form trembling as the last of her magic flickered out. Her eyes, wide with exhaustion, watched in awe as the icy spectacle unfolded. She had given everything for that final spell—every ounce of power, every last reserve of energy. Her body ached with the effort, but the result was undeniable.
The vortex of ice shards still swirled in the sky above, a faint whirling echo of the storm's fury. The bolt of lightning that had struck it was the final trigger, a spark that sent a cascade of elemental destruction crashing down onto the platform with a deafening roar. The moment the beam of wind, ice, and lightning hit the surface, the entire arena seemed to freeze in time.
The platform, once a symbol of skill and strength, was now a frozen wasteland. The air was thick with the bitter chill that seemed to emanate from the ice itself, and the subtle hum of Frasia's magic still reverberated through the frozen layers, though it was now faint, as if even the elements themselves were in awe of what she had done.
The three combatants who had been fighting alongside her—their bodies now frozen in place, suspended in time and space—were not merely incapacitated. They were encased in the ice, their movements locked in mid-air or mid-strike, the cold penetrating so deeply that even the slightest disturbance could turn them into fragile statues.
Their faces were locked in expressions of shock or determination, but the deadly frost that surrounded them left no room for escape. Even their eyes were frozen in place, their breath now an echo trapped beneath the ice.
The crowd was still, every single person in the stands struck dumb by the sheer power and precision of Frasia's spell. The impossible had just happened before their eyes. Where there had once been a grand platform, there was now a frozen tomb, a monument to the overwhelming force of nature that Frasia had unleashed.
Frasia's chest heaved as she caught her breath, a sheen of sweat beading across her forehead despite the biting cold that now filled the air. She had done it. She had won.
But even as she stood there, feeling the weight of her triumph, a growing unease began to settle over her. The crowd had been silent for far too long. She could feel their eyes on her, watching with a mix of awe, fear, and uncertainty.
It was the overseer who finally broke the silence, her voice cutting through the thick tension like a blade.
"Impressive, Frasia," she said, her tone cool, but carrying an edge of admiration. "You have shown us a power beyond your years."
But there was something in the overseer's gaze that made Frasia hesitate. It was too calculating, too knowing. Frasia's breath came in short bursts as she fought the exhaustion threatening to overtake her.
The energy drain from casting such a complex spell was taking its toll, but she could feel her heart pounding, a quiet fear whispering at the back of her mind.
Had she done too much? Was there something else she hadn't accounted for?
"Let this be a lesson to all of you," the overseer continued, her voice firm and resolute. "While power is an important factor in any battle, it is not the only thing that matters. Control, precision, and the ability to manage the consequences of your actions are equally crucial. Frasia, you have succeeded in freezing the platform... but the true test lies in whether you can maintain that control."
Frasia's eyes flickered toward the frozen figures of her opponents. They were trapped, yes, but the ice was also an extremely volatile element. A strong enough impact, a shift in the air, or even the wrong combination of forces might trigger a cascade that would destabilize the whole thing.
The overseer's gaze softened just a fraction. "It is rare for one so young to demonstrate such power. But remember this—there is always a cost."
Frasia swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle deep within her chest. She had given it everything. But as the icy wind howled around her, she couldn't help but wonder—had she gone too far?
No, this was nothing more than a presentation for her God - nothing is too far when it comes to the divine - and soon the entire world will know the glory and power of the great God of corruption!
The woman overseeing the magic test steps forward, her voice clear and commanding as she announces the next group of combatants. The platform, elevated above the rest of the arena, looms in the center, surrounded by spectators eager to see the upcoming matches.
"Next up!" she calls, her gaze sweeping over the assembled participants. "To the platform, please—Lucia Winterhart, Tyrus Greymane, Vira Silverleaf..."
The crowd murmurs, but it's when the fourth name is called that a noticeable shift runs through the air.
"...and Arthur Leywin, of the Holy Steed Clan."
A hush falls over the arena. The name "Arthur Leywin" is one that carries weight, even for those who are not intimately familiar with the intricacies of magic and bloodlines. The Holy Steed Clan is famous not just for its prestigious lineage but for the unique, potent bloodline power that is passed down through generations—Holy Magic.
A rare and revered form of magic that blends both divine energy and powerful, physical combat, often manifesting in the form of radiant armor or ethereal steeds.
The crowd watches eagerly as Arthur steps onto the platform. His presence commands attention, and those who know of the Holy Steed Clan can't help but wonder: Will he reveal the true power of his bloodline today?
Arthur is a young man, his features still carrying the hint of youth but already displaying the discipline and strength of his heritage. His hair, the color of burnished gold, seems to catch the light, and his eyes—sharp and focused—speak of determination.
He wears simple but finely made armor, indicative of his clan's practical yet elegant style, though there's an air of restraint in his posture. Perhaps, like most of his kin, he knows that this is more than just a test of strength; it is a test of legacy.
As the others make their way to their positions, Arthur's gaze sweeps across the platform. He doesn't seem fazed by the challenge ahead, but there's a quiet intensity in his eyes. The air around him seems to shimmer slightly, as if his very presence invokes the magical potential of his bloodline.
"Let the battle begin!" the overseer declares, her voice ringing out, signaling the start of the match.
The crowd holds its breath, waiting to see what unfolds.
A murmur ripples through the crowd as Arthur Leywin speaks, his voice carrying with quiet authority. "There is no need for you all to make a move, for this battle is already over," he announces, his tone calm and composed, yet filled with an undeniable conviction.
The onlookers, those familiar with his name, shift uneasily in their seats. The Holy Steed Clan is known for its power, but no one had quite expected this.
The match hasn't even begun, and yet Arthur has already declared victory. Some of the other combatants look puzzled, others frustrated, but none of them make a move. They know better than to underestimate someone from such a prestigious clan.
Arthur raises one hand, his fingers curling into a fist, and the air around him seems to shimmer. For those who are attuned to magical energy, the shift is immediate—a surge of divine power emanating from him, bright and overwhelming. The platform itself seems to hum in resonance with the magic as his bloodline magic begins to manifest.
"God's Wrath," he intones softly.
A series of radiant light chains erupt from the ground, winding around the other competitors. The chains are long, ethereal, and seem to carry an inherent weight that binds them in place. The other combatants try to resist, their magic flaring in instinctual attempts to break free, but the light chains hold fast—almost as if they were forged by divine hands. The air grows heavy with a profound energy, as if the very heavens are bearing down upon the platform.
Before anyone can react, the next phase of the spell follows.
"Blessed Blades of Judgement."
A dozen shimmering swords, glowing with the brilliance of holy light, materialize in the air, their edges impossibly sharp. Each sword hovers over one of the bound competitors, perfectly poised above them. The blades are not meant to strike, however—at least, not immediately. They hover with a righteous purpose, awaiting Arthur's command. The very sight of them is enough to chill the blood of even the most battle-hardened.
Arthur stands at the center of the platform, his gaze unwavering. His eyes seem almost sad, as though he regrets having to take such a drastic action, but his stance speaks of the unyielding nature of his clan's ideals: swift justice, purity of purpose, and overwhelming force.
The audience is silent, stunned by the sheer magnitude of the magic. Many had expected a drawn-out battle, a test of skill and resilience—but this? This is something else entirely. Arthur's magic, a combination of divine wrath and the overwhelming judgment of the Holy Steed Clan, has rendered the entire contest moot.
"Do you yield?" Arthur asks, his voice carrying over the arena with the weight of a divine decree. His tone is measured, calm, but with an unmistakable finality. "Make your choice."
The arena falls into an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the faint hum of magic still hanging in the air. The other three combatants, bound by the ethereal chains of light and with blessed swords hovering above them, do not resist.
After a long, tense pause, they each concede, their voices resigned but respectful.
"I yield," says Lucia Winterhart, her eyes flickering with a mixture of awe and frustration, as she bows her head. Beside her, Tyrus Greymane follows suit, his strong frame slumping in acceptance. Vira Silverleaf, the elven archer, gives a sharp nod, her usual fiery spirit subdued in the face of Arthur's overwhelming power.
Arthur watches them, his expression unreadable as he stands tall, the air of divine authority surrounding him. The light chains retract, dissolving into radiant particles as the magical swords vanish into nothingness.
With a single, elegant movement, Arthur steps off the elevated platform and lands lightly on the ground, his golden hair shining in the sunlight, his presence still commanding.
As he walks past the defeated competitors, his gaze briefly meets each of theirs. There's no triumph in his eyes, only the cool clarity of someone who has already known the outcome before it even began. His next words are directed not to the crowd, but to Frasia—a name whispered by those who had never heard of her abilities before the test began.
Arthur doesn't look at her directly, but his voice rings out clear and unshaken, enough for everyone to hear.
"Frasia," he calls, the name carrying across the arena. "You're not special just because you can use your family's bloodline's magic."
The declaration is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. Some of the onlookers exchange confused glances, unsure if he's speaking to the young woman or making a broader statement about bloodline power in itself. But his words are not just a challenge—they are a statement of fact, a declaration of superiority.
The weight of the message is undeniable: Arthur has just demonstrated a mastery of magic that surpasses anything any of these combatants could ever hope to achieve, even with their own prestigious bloodlines.
His and Frasia's use of level four magic at the age of thirteen is unheard of. They both have in this one day, proven themselves to be true prodigies.
As Arthur steps off the platform, he continues with an almost prophetic tone, speaking not only to Frasia but to the entire arena, to the spectators who are still reeling from the display of power.
"This is a generation of miracles," he says, his voice unwavering. "Blessed by the Gods, perhaps. But I have come to show you that genius is not born from blood alone. It is something you must shape, something you must forge with your own hands and will."
The crowd stirs, a low buzz of awe and whispered conversations rippling through the stands. The legacy of the Holy Steed Clan has always been one of power, purity, and divine favor.
But Arthur, with his calm composure and devastatingly efficient magic, has just elevated that legacy to new heights. Not only is he the second person in history to achieve Level Four magic at such a young age—he has set the bar impossibly high for everyone who follows.
Frasia, who had been standing near the platform, listens to his words with a frown. She is not immune to his challenge. There's a flicker of anger in her eyes, but also a moment of hesitation, a doubt creeping in as she realizes that perhaps her newfound gifts weren't going to be enough to fulfill her and her God's purpose after all.
Becoming a spark that ignites the corrupted fire deep in her heart, a small smile graces her face as an excitement for the future is placed in her mind.
Arthur Leywin's declaration isn't just about the contest—it's a declaration of a new era. He is the prodigy, the genius among geniuses, and the world will soon know that this is only the beginning.
As Arthur turns to leave the platform, the crowd erupts into a storm of applause—some in admiration, some in disbelief, and others in quiet envy. But no one can deny one thing: Arthur Leywin has just set the stage for a future that will be shaped by his incredible abilities.
A future in which miracles are no longer a rare occurrence, but an expectation.