Low-Fantasy Occultist Isekai

Devon walked with long strides, hands behind his back in a manner reminiscent of his master, turning his head just enough to greet the occasional guard or craftsman who recognized him.

He's been making a name for himself.

Nick matched his pace, eyes flicking between street corners and rooflines. His efforts to make his name known had been successful, but that meant he had to go about his day with half a dozen eyes on him now.

"I have to say, being a noble makes things easier, but it has its annoying bits," Nick said. Several people had approached them to greet them, and they'd even gotten favorable prices for their breakfast rolls, but everyone looked at them with barely concealed greed, hoping to gain the favor of a noble house.

Devon huffed a laugh. "It means more dealings with self-absorbed idiots, that's what it is."

"And everything turns into a performance," Nick added. Being able to sense people's emotions made things easier on that front, at least. He wasn't at risk of falling for insincere flattery.

Devon grunted in assent, "Yeah. People watch, now. Not the way they watch high nobility, but enough to be annoying. We're respectable, which is nice until you realize respect comes with obligations and consequences, even in the training yard."

"Is it that bad?"

"You'll see soon enough. Defeating a peer in a duel boosts House Crowley's reputation, while losing to one causes gossip for days. If the opponent is older and more experienced, it's understandable; people see that as ambition and tend to forgive it. On the other hand, losing to someone younger makes others whisper our family might not even last two generations," Devon explained.

Nick made a face. "I don't plan to lose, so I guess I won't have to deal with that."

"No one does," Devon rolled his eyes, then smiled. "But it helps to remember what's at stake beyond bruises. And what isn't. You're not going to shame us if some twenty-year-old with two years of Tower instruction runs you around the yard."

"Good to know," Nick said, filing it away. Not that I have any interest in losing.

"You are lucky you're younger than almost everyone at the yard," Devon continued, exhaling slowly. "I have less room to lose to anyone, since I'm known as Master Xander's apprentice, which means the expectations are twice as high. But it's fine. I like the pressure."

The sound initially reached them in fragments, then merged into the unmistakable noise of organized violence: wood striking wood, the sharp twang of a well-timed parry, a spell popping like a cork, followed by the hum of wards activating.

The public training grounds spanned a block that might have once been a market, but had long since been remodeled.

Designed for variety over aesthetics, it had twelve fields arranged in two rows. Six were dirt, flat, and marked with chalk, with stands on two sides. The other six were themed to resemble natural environments: a swamp with reeds and mud, a sealed beach with real sand, a broken-stone "ruin" with low walls and a collapsed arch, a sloped pitch, a glade with tall grass, and a narrow street with walls and a mock balcony.

Invisible to all but the most magically attuned, powerful wards hung over the fields, dormant until a duel occurred, at which point they stirred.

Nick paused at the entrance and let [Empyrean Intuition] feed him information. The ground hummed faintly with power, and by following its threads, he could see how the magic was connected to the overall warding structure that protected the city.

Untangling the threads, he saw that the protections had three distinct layers designed to disperse killing intent and redirect strikes, to catch misfires and mis-aims before they reached the stands, and a third that resembled the Tower's inspection spells, though less detailed.

That might be similar to recording magic. I guess it makes sense because you can learn just as much from fighting as you can from watching yourself fight.

"There is strong magic here," he said.

"Apparently, the Duke paid for the wards out of his own pocket a few years ago," Devon said. "Some noble's nephew thought it would be funny to sling a real [Fire Lance] at a boy he didn't like. He killed two observers in the stands."

Two uniformed city watchmen stepped forward as they approached, wearing blue coats with white piping and short batons at their hips, exuding polite confidence.

"Morning, Lord Crowley," the older one said with a nod. "Brought company?"

"Eulos, good morning. Yes, this is my brother," Devon said. "Nicholas."

The watchman's eyes swept over Nick professionally. "Welcome, Lord Nicholas. You're cleared to use the fields if you agree to the rules. Avoid casting spells outside the lines, and you'll be fine. Do so, and you'll be banned."

"That works with me," Nick nodded.

The younger man smiled, glad it was that easy. "Would you like to spar with friends or strangers today? We've got a line forming for people looking for new opponents. With the Tower exam in a few days, everyone's eager to get in some last-minute practice."

"Strangers," both brothers said.

"Fair warning," Eulos added. "More mages than usual are frequenting the fields lately. We don't know enough about any of them to say their preferred style, but if you choose strangers today, assume you are about to face spellcasters. If you don't like that, field four is melee-only right now."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"We're fine with spells," Devon said. He looked toward the sloped pitch. "Put me on three if you can. I want to work my feet on an incline."

"Done," the younger watchman said, making a note on a slate. "And you, Lord Nicholas?"

"Whatever field is free is fine," Nick said. He wanted to get a feel for the place before he asked for favors.

"Field five, then," Eulos said, pointing toward the glade with the ring of taller grass. "Your opponent's already waiting, and you have a few spectators."

Devon clapped Nick on the shoulder. "See you after. Don't break the poor sod."

"I'll do my best," Nick said. They split, Devon veering toward the slope, Nick toward the green.

As he reached the edge of field five, the wards brightened in color as they noticed him, and he had to keep [Blasphemy] from negating them, lest he set off alarms.

A set of narrow stairs led up to a simple platform on the side, where duelists could agree on terms before the fight. Nick took the right-hand platform and looked across.

He was surprised to find he knew the boy on the other side. What are the chances?

Tim Poules had gained half an inch in height and learned to keep his shoulders straight since their last meeting, but his expression remained earnest and determined.

He wore a short dueling robe in House Poules' colors, practical rather than flashy. A proper wand now hung at his belt, and his hair was styled into a short, practical look.

He recognized Nick a beat after Nick recognized him. Color drained from his face, then rushed back, and he raised a hand in an awkward half-wave.

"You have to be kidding me," the boy said, voice carrying just enough to be heard over the general noise.

"Hello to you too," Nick said, walking the rest of the way up and offering a hand. "Alluria's smaller than it seems, if we've already found each other."

Tim took the hand and gripped it, shaking it precisely twice before letting go. "Nicholas, ah, Nick," Tim said, stumbling over the name choices. "I, uh. Hello."

"Nick's fine," he said, amused. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I didn't expect to see you anywhere," Tim replied, then realized what he'd confessed and blurted, "I mean, you just vanished after leaving the feast, but you had a duty to see to, so I guess it shouldn't be surprising. How are you?"

"Pretty good," Nick smiled. "And you?"

"Trying my best," Tim said, one corner of his mouth lifting. "I haven't seen my father since he went north with the regiments. He was very excited about the prospect of fighting, but the dwarves aren't easy targets." He paused and grimaced. "You know how it is, I'm just a little worried."

"I know," Nick said, thinking about what the dark dwarves he'd fought were capable of. And they were nothing but dregs of their real force.

"I came in with my master two days ago," Tim continued. "He's currently catching up with some old friends and sent me here to gain dueling experience. I signed up for the exam yesterday." He glanced down at his hands. "I've spent more hours practicing casting since spring than in the previous three years combined. I think I have a good chance at the written. The practical…" He looked at Nick again, looking worried. "You?"

"I just signed up too," Nick said. "I've been around about as long as you have. And yeah, I've been putting the hours in."

Tim chuckled. "If your training is still as intense as I remember, you'll have no trouble passing."

"The plan is to practice my control now," Nick said, half embarrassed about his show in Oakenhallow. "I need to get better at not wrecking my surroundings, since we don't have all the space the grassland offers here."

"Good, because the fines are expensive if you manage to break something," Tim said. The relief was there under the joke, though. "If we're matched—"

"We are," Nick said, glancing toward the center of the field, where the wardline had already acknowledged both of them.

"I'd like to keep it friendly," Tim said, then flushed. "Not that you—"

"I know what you mean," Nick interrupted, not offended. I can sense he's intimidated, but also that he's gotten stronger. Maybe I was too uncharitable in my assessment of his teacher.

A whistle from the side stands cut across the conversation. "Crowley!" someone called, sing-song. "Show us if you are as good as you said!"

Nick looked over and saw Penelope Osmond and Drusilla Boer, the noble heiresses he met on his first day in Alluria, sitting together on the bleachers surrounded by a gaggle of attendants.

Sitting with them was a third girl he hadn't met yet; taller, with square shoulders under a dark tunic, her hair braided close to her scalp in a style that seemed meant to keep hair out of her eyes rather than for fashion.

She didn't laugh at the catcall, her eyes tracking his every movement.

"Pay them no mind," Tim muttered. "They heckle everyone who has yet to enter the Tower."

"I know them," Nick shook his head, unsurprised he'd met the girls again. "More importantly, who's the other girl?" The heiresses are pretty decent, but nothing to write home about. That one, on the other hand, is very good.

"You don't know?" Tim's eyes widened a fraction. "That's Eona Sadie. Sir Leon Sadie's sister, and the one who's expected to get the top score. She's a shoo-in for an apprenticeship right out of the gate!"

Nick's spine stiffened slightly. Sir Leon had asked him to befriend his sister, and he knew she was supposed to be one of the top contenders at this year's exam. I might have to put on a bit of a show. Maybe not too much, though. Poor Tim is already a little pale.

Seeming to sense his thoughts, Eona stood up, stepped down from the stands, crossed onto the field between their platforms, and looked up at them, seemingly deciding to take on the role of referee.

"What are this duel's terms?" she asked, her voice was even and lower than most girls.

"Non-lethal, standard safety," Tim said quickly.

"Agreed," Nick nodded.

"I'll allow you to use the terrain to your advantage, but keep your magic within the ring," Eona added, nodding toward the line of taller grass. "No outside interference is allowed. I will call the start. If you hear the wards blare, stop. If you don't, stop anyway if I say so."

They both nodded.

"Take your positions," she said and stepped off the field without ceremony.

Nick walked to his mark at the end line, rolling his shoulders once to prepare his body for the argument. As soon as the duel began, he would layer thin shields around himself, set [Sky Step] beneath his feet, and keep [Empyrean Intuition] tuned for any trick, remembering Xander's words not to trust it too much.

He didn't want to overthink this and risk missing an easy win. He could experiment more after the first match.

Tim faced him, adopted his stance, and exhaled, relaxing his shoulders. He shifted his weight forward, with one hand near the wand but not gripping it yet. His lips pressed together as his mana churned, preparing to cast what Nick recognized as a basic shield spell.

Eona raised a hand, held it for a moment, then dropped it.

Nick moved.

Three [Wind Blasts], blunted to prevent real damage, tore through the air in a tight, staggered spread designed to force a shield into a bad angle. He took two steps to the left with [Sky Step] so he wasn't where Tim last saw him, then darted forward, layering his defenses to disrupt any return spell.

Tim didn't react at all; he just remained standing, his eyes widening and his mouth still forming the last syllable of his spell.

A loud noise split the air as the overhead wards flared, creating a dense, translucent shell around Tim just before Nick's spells could hit. The magic struck and caused harmless ripples on the ward's surface, skittering along its curve and popping into the grass like a breeze.

Nick aborted his maneuver, letting [Sky Step] bring him down in a controlled descent. He flexed his hands and turned his head toward Eona.

She had one eyebrow raised and the thinnest ghost of a smile.

"That is the reflex ward," she said in a teaching tone. "It activates when someone is about to get squashed." She nodded toward Tim, whose face had gone from pale to mortified to determined in three seconds. "By the rules of the grounds, if the reflex ward saves you before you finish your first defense, you forfeit the round." She glanced at Nick. "You won."

Tim groaned softly and put a hand over his eyes. "I could have—"

"Don't blame the wards," she said dryly. "Blame your reaction time."

Nick exhaled slowly. He didn't intend to humiliate the boy, but he wasn't about to apologize for winning. Fortunately, after the initial embarrassment passed, Tim showed some spine.

"We can do another," Nick offered. "With different terms. I wanted to try using only non-elemental magic anyway."

Tim managed a shaky grin. "Let me catch my breath. And my pride." He gestured lamely at the shell, which was already thinning into nothing.