Rise of Tyrus

The ring of fire spread across the ground, leaving behind a trail of charred earth and a smoky haze. Igneal’s fiery blaze scorched the dirt and grass, spreading and intensifying with each passing moment. Many lizardmen leaped out of the way and screamed, their spears and bows clattering against the dirt while a few—those that were lingering too closely—were unfortunate enough to be struck by the burning inferno. Their cries and yells were eclipsed by the unrelenting fire that consumed them, even as they struggled to claw and grasp at their scales. Amidst the carnage, Igneal cackled.

“Lizardmen are affected by extreme temperatures, whether hot or cold,” Igneal explained, a wide smile on his face. "If they get too cold, their bodies become as stiff as stone, making them more manageable. High temperatures they avoid like the plague.”

The fire blazed on, its orange flames dancing and devouring all within its vicinity. All that remained were the charred remains of trees and bushes, their once vibrant colors now reduced to a monochromatic palette of black and gray. The smell of burned flesh permeated the air, and the wails faded as the last of the lizardmen on fire turned to piles of charred remains. Plumes of smoke rose high in the sky, and the remaining beasts screeched and hissed, their eyes darting between Igneal and the beast.

“You’ll burn the entire region!” Tyrus hissed.

Igneal glared and said, “Instead of worrying about these vermin, shouldn’t it be time to escape while we can? That’s what you wanted, right?”

Tyrus bit his cheek, disliking that the noble was correct. This was the perfect moment for them to escape, especially with the lizardmen in chaos. He could use the opportunity to cast a spell or two for good measure, but he didn’t have the time, nor did he want to waste any precious mana.

Silent and full of energy, Tyrus’s body grew stronger as he heaved the noble onto his shoulder. The latter grunted in surprise, but his face twisted in disgust the moment he realized what was happening.

In one powerful bound, he ascended over the roaring flames and the lizardmen. Using the momentum, he pushed off the nearest tree, landed on the other side of the flames, and took off again. His lead-filled legs carried him swiftly through the trees and bushes, jumping over fallen logs and swaths of water. It took a great effort to avoid craning his neck over the devastation Igneal created.

From his perspective, the magic’s radius didn’t seem extensive, suggesting that the fire wouldn’t spread rapidly if the lizardmen acted fast enough. But in order for that to occur, they would have to overcome the beast, which was likely given its state of injury. Dealing with it was inevitable and just a matter of time. Once they accomplished that, more reinforcements would arrive and douse the flames.

For a moment, a dull pain pierced Tyrus’ heart—not from spending his mana reserves or the effects of the barrier. Whenever his thoughts drifted to the beast, a pang of sadness crept up like spiders slowing descending from their web. He couldn’t explain the reason, but a part of him wished the beast would come out victorious.

“What’s with the sad look? Do you maybe regret choosing to run? We can always return and finish the job,” Igneal sneered.

Tyrus looked up, his eyes narrowing. He had forgotten about Igneal for a moment there. It dawned on him in an instant that he was actually carrying another individual, leading to discomfort in his legs and causing his back to sweat. Soon, his pace had slowed down considerably.

Rather than requesting a drop-off from Tyrus, Igneal frowned and gazed into the distance. “You should train your body further. Endurance and strength should pose no challenge for an Augmentation Sorcerer. My weight should be around the same as a small sack of potatoes.”

"I'm going to drop you now," Tyrus grumbled.

“There’s no need for that, commoner. Despite being a bit uncomfortable, you serve as a suitable steed, albeit a slow one.”

Tyrus’s eyebrow twitched, and the urge to throw the noble onto the ground was growing more and more difficult to suppress. However, he settled with just stopping, placing him down gently, and giving him an icy stare.

“I am not your steed. And also, my name is Tyrus. Why do you insist on calling me commoner? You know my name.”

Igneal adjusted his stance and brushed off his shoulders. “It’s a force of habit. I rarely converse with low-born folk. I’d rather not remember a commoner’s name either, but alas, I suppose that’s not a possibility anymore.”

“Do people even like talking to you? I find it hard to believe you have any friends,” Tyrus said.

"You're one to talk, but that's not the point. When have you become so talkative? In our first meeting, you spoke brief words and let my sister do most of the talking.”

Tyrus blinked, taken aback. Come to think of it, he was indeed talking a lot more. It must’ve been the adrenaline rushing through his system. His nerves were on high alert, and his blood was pumping like crazy. There was a good chance his tongue loosened up without him knowing.

He had always made it a point to talk as little as possible to minimize his presence. He didn't dislike talking, but it wasn't his favorite thing. There just wasn’t a need to unless it was necessary. Bottling his thoughts came naturally to him since he’s been alone most of his life. There was no benefit to be gained from speaking his mind unless he risked angering those not to be trifled with. At most, people would call him odd and ignore him.

It’s always been like that as far as he was aware. Even people his age were put off by his lack of response and short answers. Tyrus recalled an incident from a few years ago when a young villager attempted to engage him in conversation by asking about his family, but eventually gave up when he offered no meaningful response.

With how little of a memory he possessed before a specific time and hiding his identity to the best of his abilities, there wasn’t much he could share. Every time he tried to remember his past, his mind drew a blank, as if memories were hidden behind an impenetrable barrier. All he knew was that someone had taken care of him, had a connection to the Beastfolk king, and Wanderer might have information about his past. Until then, he was left unaware.

Yet, from the moment he entered the realm of sorcerers and magic, his previously bleak existence of seclusion and practice became a vibrant tapestry of novel encounters. Meeting Fiona and Wanderer and experiencing spellcasting for the first time set off a spark of inspiration within him. A bright light in the form of a sword cut through his old, dark lifestyle, leaving him yearning for more. Maybe wanting new breathtaking experiences has led to him opening up a bit more and talking more frequently.

“I guess so,” Tyrus said finally. “I’m used to being alone, but the time I’ve spent so far has been great, whether good or bad. Learning about magic and improving myself is what excites me. That magic you used earlier—Wildfire—was amazing to see.”

Igneal stared at him quietly, fingers drumming along his sleeves. The snap of a twig and a rustle of a nearby bush mingled with the quiet air. The buzzing in the background had disappeared, though only for a moment, until it returned with a vengeance. A sharp tune from afar occupied the space, and then came a pitiful roar that only Tyrus could hear. The beast must’ve finally succumbed to death at the hands of the lizardmen.

“I suppose that was the first time you’ve ever seen such a potent magic,” Igneal started, trudging toward Tyrus. “Most low-born folks are limited to basic magic or none. Most of the time, it is because they lack the resources or talent to experience higher forms. If you wish to experience a similar display, then why not revisit my offer from before?”

“To become your friend,” Tyrus recalled. “What you really mean is underling.”

“Not underling. A friend. From all the time we have spent together, I have a solid grasp of your wants and needs. You want to become an explorer to obtain money and strength. I can give you these simple things in return.”

“And why would someone of your status offer that? You don’t seem the type to do such favors, especially to someone who’s a ‘low-born’ like me.”

Igneal shook his head and turned. “Come, let’s talk as we walk. Might as well leave the danger zone as we chat. Don’t want any lizardmen or beasts to hear us, correct?”

The noble took off, his feet leaving a trail of footprints in his wake. Tyrus watched for a few moments until he shrugged and followed suit.

There was no confusion or obliviousness on his part regarding Igneal's intentions. All he wanted was someone to boss around. An underling who’d do his bidding and follow his commands. If Tyrus just went along with it, life would be much easier for him. Money and strength—all would be given so long as he pledged his allegiance to the Lockhart. If he were to be honest, the thought of accepting the offer wasn’t the worst thing to occur.

Though he knew little of the Lockharts, he knew they were a powerful and respected family given how they dressed and the conversations he had heard from Fiona, Selena, and even Igneal. They were part of the Great Lineages, one that rivaled the imperial family of Lethos. Igneal wasn’t lying in the slightest about possessing the resources Tyrus seeks.

Many people would instantly jump on the opportunity to have somewhat of a relationship with a Lockhart. However, because it is Igneal offering such a thing is what’s off-putting. He wasn’t sure if the noble was sincere, and it could all be an elaborate scheme. What would he gain from him, anyway? He was a nobody. Not even his name held any importance.

At least with Fiona, her intentions were as clear as day. It also helped that he was closer to her than Igneal. Their personalities were night and day, yet both shared the thought of recruiting Tyrus into their ranks. One wanted Tyrus’ assistance in reaching the top rank while the other seeks friendship. And through that friendship comes with too good to be true benefits. It was way too suspicious.

“I can tell by your expression that you think my proposal seems too good to be true,” Igneal said.

“Can’t blame me for being suspicious. I might look dumb to you, but I know there’s a catch.”

Igneal’s face turned serious. “The catch is that I require loyalty and strength.”

“...Huh?”

His eyes drifted to the foggy sky. “There is a title—a position—that I and a few others covet. A position so extraordinary that nobody can fathom achieving it. And I want that title. But for me to even consider taking it, I must prove my worth to father no matter what. You are aware of the family head position in the Great Lineages, correct?”

When Tyrus nodded, Igneal continued. “The family head position functions similar to the succession to the Imperial Throne. In simplest terms, once the current holder of the title passes away or resigns, the eldest son of the Emperor takes the throne. I don’t know about the others, but the Lockharts go about it differently. It is more or less a competition between the children of the current family head. As of now, there are three eligible for the throne: the eldest son and daughter, and I.”

“Hold on... Does that mean Fiona has a chance of becoming the family head?” Tyrus asked, taken aback.

Igneal snorted. “She is not eligible to become the family head. One requirement to become family head is to have a primary affinity for fire. My poor sister received the short-end of the stick and received her mother’s water affinity instead; she is practically the black sheep of the family. Talentless and disappointing as well, might I add. No, it is another sister of mine—who has the fire affinity—that I was referring to.”

So that’s why Fiona makes a face whenever her family is mentioned.

"How does your desire for the position affect me?"

“As I mentioned, it’s a competition to inherit the position to become the Family Head Lockhart. What that entails is the Lockhart land and wealth, which is considerable by itself, and the relationships fostered by previous title holders. My two older siblings will do whatever in order to achieve that power. Because they are older, they have the advantage. I need influence, a vast reputation, and competent allies.”

Tyrus narrowed his eyes. Igneal’s expression remained unchanged, but the intensity and sharpness in his gaze was enough for Tyrus to stop walking.

“...You want my help in achieving the position,” Tyrus finished.

“I wouldn't phrase it in that way. I am merely offering you an option in taking part in something big. You can refuse, but it would be ill-advised. My father has seen something within you, that much is certain. He is the type of man to ignore those who don’t warrant his attention. The fact that you grasped it for even a second means you’re worth keeping around. You command quite the element, and you're an Augmentation Sorcerer as well. I’ll even throw in a bonus and fetch you a world-class instructor for swordsmanship.”

Smirking, Igneal stuck out his hand. “Well, what do you say? Will you accept, or will you decline?”

Tyrus glanced at his palm, the buzzing growing louder with every ticking second. What greeted him were clean nails and skin that had a touch of moisture and sweat. There were also a few tiny scars, somewhat faded. He looked at Igneal’s face next, a smeared yet regal visage staring back, the smile never wavering. It was as if Igneal was sure Tyrus would accept such a sweet deal.

“...I—”

“Have you received any furthers orders from Sezor yet?”

A voice from below snapped him out of his trance. Tyrus ducked as low as he could and peered over the ledge. Silently, he gestured toward Igneal to stay quiet, which he thankfully understood as he tagged along and followed his line of sight.

A decrepit town, infested with dilapidated shacks, moss-covered rooftops, and fractured fences, stood a stone’s throw away. The awkward buildings crowded together, suspended above a small lake plagued with floating garbage, tall reeds, and even boats.

Bridges connected to the huts jutted out, all connecting to a central platform fashioned out of planks. On the platform stood a building way larger than the rest, sporting a dome-shaped roof with a large bell attached to the very top. It was the only building that seemed intact compared to the rest.

Armed men draped in bandages across their faces swarmed the village, and from afar, the number could easily reach the twenties. A few of them wore armor that was rusted in a few areas—the rest wearing leather—and a majority equipped with a weapon, be it swords, spears, shields, and daggers. Posted on the roofs of each shack like sentinels were archers, while those on the ground chatted to each other in pairs. At the far end of the village was a bridge connecting to dry land filled to the brim with carriages, cages, and buffalo being taken care of.

Most shocking weren’t the cloaked men that were standing guard at a run-down village, but what was stashed on the central platform. Bounded to poles with cracked lanterns were two people, each struggling with their restraints. There was a woman and a man, both sporting a few cuts and knots on their faces.

“Wait,” Tyrus whispered. “I recognize them.”

Igneal nodded. “So do I. They are applicants who joined the exam alongside us. And judging by the bandages on their capturer’s faces, I know who they are. Their connection is with the man responsible for the corrupted mana. I know this because I’ve heard it from a—”

“Shh!” Tyrus pressed his index finger against his lips, his eyes glued to a nearby sentry. “I think they’re about to say something important.”

Tyrus ignored Igneal’s scowl and averted his full attention back to the conversation. One of them mentioned Sezor, a name he recognized after some reflection. It was definitely the finely dressed man who had those two Elemental Sorcerers as bodyguards. If his name had crept out of nowhere, then that meant the group of men were definitely related to the masked man calling all the shots. Maybe now would he glean some answers and figure out their plans in the Wasteful Wetlands.