The Legendary Mage (Alavin)

Chapter 121

After the announcement of the participants for The Clash of Eight Orders, the whole of Cobalt Strike was abuzz with excitement.

The time for The Clash of Eight Orders had come around once again.

Cobalt Strike had not achieved a notable ranking in the last three tournaments, and not only did the Elders feel the pressure, but the younger generation of Protégés also felt dishonored. However, this time seemed different. Their lineup was unprecedented; even without Celesse in the fray, the four Golden Protégés and the likes of Cedrick were a formidable force, their collective strength far surpassing that of past tournaments.

Within the organization, the Elders were confident, and the Protégés were fervently discussing the upcoming contest.

"Can Roald secure a top-five spot?"

"Will Cedrick and Mariela outshine the other three Golden Protégés?"

"Who will be the dark horse of this edition of The Clash of Eight Orders?"

"Why isn't Celesse competing? She would have easily secured a top-three position!"

"What kind of lineups will the other seven organizations field?" Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

"Oh, how I wish I could participate in The Clash of Eight Orders, or at least witness it!"

The Elders allowed the Protégés to speculate, hoping that the organization's lively spirit would inspire Roald and the others who were about to compete.

The Commander personally met with Roald, Mariela, and the other competing Protégés, distributing ample quantities of Elixir Herbs and Magical Remedies to ensure that they could perform at their peak during the tournament and showcase the might of Cobalt Strike.

The entire organization was in high spirits, rallying behind Roald and his companions, all except for Alavin, who was forgotten.

Alavin didn't give up; he ignored the fervor above and, in the pitch-black, damp dungeons below, tirelessly practiced his Shadowbringer, enduring the most brutal transformation of his life.

The Chained Spirit repeatedly stirred the Shadowbringer within him, and time after time, Alavin felt the murderous aura of the Shadowlord. His tormented wails and pained moans echoed long in the dungeon, regardless of day or night. Even the Protégé guards felt uneasy, wondering what was happening below, yet they dared not descend, fearing the young man might lose his sanity.

Each session brought Alavin intense pain—the dark aura of the Shadowbringer seemed to tear his body apart, and the murderous intent of the Shadowlord realm threatened to devour his soul.

He endured agonies worse than death, screaming in heart-wrenching pain.

Despairing and occasionally fainting in agony, Alavin’s voice grew hoarse.

Alavin was on the verge of collapse, but each time he fell, he was reminded of his family—their faces, their laughter, the sweetness and warmth of the past years. Each time he collapsed, he heard his father's admonition. “The weak perish, and the strong suffer. You must be the strong one, forever!”

Alavin had the Restoration Mantra, his greatest reliance, which allowed him to recover swiftly after each fall.

The Chained Spirit suggested enduring the ordeal ten times a day, allowing for gradual assimilation, but Alavin pushed himself to fifty times, a nearly mad pursuit of day and night trials.

Gradually, Alavin began to endure, to guide, and to control. The Shadowbringer's aura refined Alavin through its relentless onslaught.

Five days later, Alavin ascended to Stage VIII through his purgatorial trials.

While the ordeal was excruciating, the transformation it wrought in Alavin was akin to a rebirth. Previously, his strength was merely physical, but now he radiated power from within. And this was just the extra 'gift' resulting from the Shadowbringer's aura and the Restoration Mantra's cycle of destruction and repair.

Five more days passed, and it was time for Roald and the others to depart for The Clash of Eight Orders.

At last, Balder came to the dungeon, forthright in his approach. He simply asked, "Your stage!"

"Stage VIII! Stable!" Alavin stood with his back to the storeroom. His body was shrouded in a dark aura, and his voice was hoarse. In his palm, he held a small black dagger—a 'shadow' formed from the Energy Core's essence, an external manifestation of the Shadowbringer. It was chilling and exuded a deadly aura. Alavin felt the piercing intent of death, as though he was holding a tiny reaper.

"My father is already at Cobalt Strike," Balder said, jangling the keys in his hand with a simple smile. "I wish you fame across the Eight Orders in advance."

"Balder," Alavin slowly rose to his feet.

"Any other requests?" Balder was determined to support Alavin wholeheartedly; that was his nature.

"You won't regret your decision today," Alavin said, clenching his right hand as the aura of the Shadowbringer quietly dissipated.

In the Energy Core, eyes slowly closed, and a deep voice resonated. "Go forth, to your first battle of renown. Unleash your full power. A single Shadowbringer is enough to sweep through the Eight Orders of the Northlands."

...

The Arena, the grandest and most magnificent in Cobalt Strike, was rarely opened to outsiders. It was reserved for the Golden Protégés and a select few mid-aged Protégés for their training.