Life was strange. As with magic, using the same components at different times could produce unexpected results, especially if the person in control lacked complete mastery of the process.

Osmod would know. He had been exiled from the Tower less than four months ago. His career had hit a dead end, and he could only find work in the ward room of the auxiliary building because Archmage Tholm took pity on him, thinking he might still have some use left before he was discarded entirely.

He didn’t take it to heart. It was more than anyone else would have done, and it had given him a chance. A chance that he was now at risk of losing, all because the kid he’d recommended the Archmage take in was so much more than he could have imagined back then.

It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with prodigies and geniuses. Every apprentice to an Archmage is special, and Tholm only accepts the best of the best. Once, I was counted among them. But this kid… He’s something else.

Though he’d wanted to meet with Nicholas Crowley more than once, the old Archmage kept him busy with menial tasks, sending him around the city to scout potential targets for the baby monster he was brooding over, so that he could sharpen his teeth before the training wheels had to come off.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was more than he had done during his months as a glorified security guard, and given Epistula’s enthusiasm for the potential reversal in fortunes, he knew better than to complain.

That didn’t mean he enjoyed sneaking around the docks at night, avoiding guard patrols and the few gangs that remained after the Duke’s rage had swept through the district.

Don’t complain now, Osmod. You said you’d do anything for another chance, and cleaning up the messes of a little monster isn’t the worst kind of work. One day, once the kid is fully grown and can hold his own, you’ll be able to cash in the favor with him too, and you’ll be fully restored.

A more naive version of himself, the one who hadn’t been cast out, who hadn’t seen his life fall apart and his friends reject him, acting as if they had never even known him, would have believed that Tholm alone should have reinstated him.

That acting as a thug for the old man would bring him back into the light once he proved himself enough. But the current Osmod, the one who had learned more household charms than real magic over the past months just to make his life outside the Tower bearable and to lift the burden off his girl’s shoulders enough so she wouldn’t be haunted by thoughts of leaving him, knew better.

Tholm had given him a chance, but instead of reclaiming his position, it was to prove himself useful for shadowy work where he could apply the skills he’d gained over the years as his apprentice.

Feeding enough mana into the [Amulet of Precise Recall] to start its activation, Osmod sent his senses through the darkened building, scanning every surface for recent presences.

I doubt Hone would truly abandon his son like this. No, the man I know is simply too arrogant to appear in public. He will have come to take them back and erased as many traces as possible to prevent anyone from pinning it on him.

As expected, nothing stood out, but he anticipated this and looked closer, searching for minor mismatches compared to what he’d seen the night before.

It would have been impossible to remember all those details, even with his high INT score, but the amulet, a relic from when he could stand straight, made it possible, if only for brief bursts and with potential headaches if he overused it.

With its ghostly, unnatural fingers running down his spine, clearing his mind into a heightened state that few could ever hope to achieve naturally, even among the Prestige mages, he checked again, and this time, he saw hints of mana residue.

They were so subtle that even a dedicated sensor could have missed them, but Osmod was more skilled than that, having recently achieved [Expert] with his [Yestersight], and now he had proof that Archmage Hone had personally been in the townhouse.

The amulet turned off at his command, and he sagged against the closest wall, closing his eyes and breathing in.

Why Tholm has abandoned his neutral stance, I do not know. I’m sure I could find out. I still have enough contacts among the other apprentices and enough information to sell them and entice them, despite their disgust with my position. But it’s better to remain clueless. Tholm would have told me if he wanted me to know, and learning more about what’s happening would only put me in danger.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t see the big picture. Archmage Hone had gotten involved with the wrong people, using his son as the middleman to keep himself clean, and now he was forced to do damage control because a little monster he couldn’t have anticipated had blown everything apart.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Once, Osmod would have been worried, even disgusted, that his mentor was sending a child into extremely dangerous missions. Nicholas Crowley might have been a prodigy, but he was just shy of fourteen years old, according to the records he’d seen.

But he’d seen firsthand the results of his encounter with Hone’s gang of thugs. That kid had smacked them around like they were the barely classed mages, and not the other way around.

“Sometimes, someone who breaks all the rules, whose power cannot be measured with simple levels and attributes, comes around, and everyone who has the privilege or the curse of being in their path has the choice to bend or break. Trying to understand them is useless,” he muttered. It was an old saying, mostly meant to explain how Tower Master Bluetear had gone from a promising apprentice to a Prestige Mage in just two years.

It was, as far as he knew, the fastest anyone had ever reached the most coveted milestone. Something that a mere mortal couldn’t hope to comprehend.

Well, now it seemed like they might have another such monster among them.

We’ll have to wait and see. Nicholas Crowley has the potential to be great, even greater than any before him. But he’s also at risk of crashing and burning spectacularly if he aims too high without a solid foundation.

Facing an actual Archmage was definitely enough to rip the wings off even the fastest bird.

Once he was fully recovered from using the amulet, Osmod prepared to slip back out of the docks, but not before one last check.

A less paranoid person might have missed it. Should have missed it, really, as he only felt the slightest flicker, even with his senses still tingling from being stretched so far, but Osmod knew that coincidences in magic were very rare, if they existed at all.

Something was moving below the building he was sent to observe, and while he had gotten the confirmation he needed, and if he was smart at all, he would have already fled, considering the likelihood of it being Archmage Hone again, he didn’t.

If there was one thing Osmod was guilty of, it was doing his job too well, and he’d die on that hill. Even if it might actually kill me this time.

Dust swirled inside the townhouse, moved by an unseen breeze. Lines etched themselves into the stone floor, and Osmod felt his eyes widen as he realized that someone was preparing a ritual from afar.

The number of people who could do so and go unnoticed was tiny. It was likely a Prestige mage or someone of similar mastery behind it.

The [Cloak of the Unseen] would keep him hidden, but Osmod felt too paranoid as he watched more and more lines appear out of nowhere. He doubled his defenses, slipping on one of Tholm’s [Rings of Protection] just to ensure he wouldn’t reveal his presence, even if it felt heavy on his finger, with the mana drain enough to prevent him from casting almost anything.

Such was the cost of using an Archmage’s personal equipment. It was worth it anyway, as he could observe and document everything through a recording crystal; from the ritual lines spreading upward from the basement to the upper floors and covering the entire building, to the muted flash of mana that followed, as the power was contained within the cage, preventing anyone except him from seeing the teleportation of seventeen people into the city.

This is insane, he thought, feeling lightheaded from the implications. This building belongs to Hone, no matter how much he insists he abandoned it. If someone used it as a base, he would know. Which means he’s aware of this.

The new arrivals certainly didn’t seem to be a group of apprentices coming back from a field trip. They were warriors, all of them, with spiraling tattoos on their skin and fierce looks in their eyes. They quickly moved out of the basement, spreading through the townhouse and strengthening its defenses, turning it into a fortress in just over half an hour.

The amount of magic they used was truly staggering, and Osmod would have thought they were Prestige mages if it weren’t for the tattoos flaring up each time they cast one of the impressive spells.

A pit started to form in his stomach, and he knew he had to move to tell Tholm about this new development. However, he was equally certain that if he made one mistake, he would be discovered, and the consequences would be more severe than just an honorable mage’s duel.

No, these men were killers, and he would be dealt with if they found him.

Slowly, he pushed off the wall and started slipping away. The townhouse was now well fortified enough to withstand a wyvern’s fury, and he could barely detect anything through the layers of protection, meaning that any further moment he spent there would be pointless, besides being extremely risky.

Why would Hone lend himself to this? He must realize the city is buzzing about a secret base found in the residential district! The Duke is on the warpath, and the Tower Master could return any day now. If he's caught, he might lose his position.

The answer to that, of course, was that Hone and his apparent accomplices had no intention of getting caught.

“Now, now. Where is the little rat going?” a sickly-sweet voice rang through the dark alley, and Osmod felt his heart jump. Slowly, oh so slowly, he turned around and saw that, as he’d feared, two of the people he’d sensed inside the Townhouse had found him.

One was a beautiful woman, whose eyes burned with intensity even in the shadows, and whose red lips curled up with sadistic intent.

The other was a small, unassuming man missing an arm. He was even more frightening because Osmod could hardly sense anything from him, and he was a very good sensor.

“Let’s not waste time, Terentia,” the man grunted, apparently having already dismissed him as a threat. “Kill him and let’s get back to our business.”

With that, he vanished. Not teleporting, as spatial magic had a very familiar ring to it. He simply disappeared from one moment to the next.

The woman didn’t seem to enjoy being ordered around, but she sighed, “Well, you heard him. He might only be the nominal leader for now, but Immanuel’s word is still law. I gotta kill you, can’t play, sorry.”

Osmod didn’t bother engaging in banter. This Terentia was clearly too far gone to reason with, and any amount of time he spent here would only result in more of her people finding him.

Instead, he did something he’d been working on for months, ever since the Night Hunger had killed his charges and stolen his future. Something extremely risky, but that was also his only shot at escaping here alive.

Thrusting almost all of his mana outside his body at once was not a skill mages normally took the time to master. It would leave them helpless, for one, and the resulting explosion was too unfocused, wasting much of the energy for little reward.

Yet, the shadows slithering toward him from all sides, pulsing in time with the tattoos on Terentia’s skin, could not be stopped by mere barriers.

I hope Master Tholm didn’t stiff me with the ring. Epistula, if I don’t make it back, wait at least three months before moving on.

His mana ignited, and the world turned to light.