Chapter Thirty-Two: Aftermath

Inside the Hall of Awakening, a large crowd of apprentice mages sat below, utterly stunned by the scene unfolding before them, entirely at a loss to comprehend what had just happened.

Some possessed innate talents—sensitivity to one of the Eight Great Schools—and so, when they sat upon the throne, they would stand out immediately. For example, those attuned to the School of Transmutation might find an ornament on their body spontaneously morph into another shape. If their specialty was the School of Abjuration, a defensive spell such as “Mage Armor” might instantly envelop them. Even for those without such special effects, the process of sitting on the throne might spark an inspiration, illuminating a path for their future.

This was precisely why Mystra’s curriculum reserved specialized training for after the awakening ceremony.

Yet none among these apprentices had ever heard of anyone vanishing into thin air as soon as they sat down.

What was even stranger was that the young man in question reappeared after a brief disappearance. When the cloaked female mage escorted him away via teleportation, most of the students had yet to recover from their shock.

“That’s some blatant privilege on display. I bet those NPC mage apprentices beside us are fuming. Somebody just cut the line, put on a show, and then left as if nothing happened,” remarked a tall, thin man lurking in the corner among the players.

“Oh, come on, the one who sat down just now was also an NPC. That’s just their own internal power struggle. Look at us, everyone else is feasting while those of us who picked mage keep getting thrashed by this game,” grumbled the chubby man seated next to him.

“But didn’t you notice he had an Eastern face? Maybe he’s a player too.”

“If he’s a player, I’ll jump off the Floating City and attempt a chained Feather Fall challenge.”

“You’d actually bet on that?”

“My brother’s on the development team for this game. Believe it or not, before the promo videos dropped, he had no idea what the game was about. The whole thing was pushed through by the top brass, cost be damned. The only selection criteria was a 299-credit account. The content? Nobody knows which designer came up with it. Some even speculate most of it’s AI-generated.”

Warming to his theme, the chubby man continued, “Sure, there’s precedent for procedural generation, but have you ever seen a game this highly detailed? I almost got brainwashed. Nineteen zero-level spell models—I practice the gestures even in the shower, convinced I could actually cast them. When I have the time, I’ll write them all out by hand and get someone to authenticate them. If there’s a backdoor for privilege in this game, I’d take it myself.”

“So, about that guy just now—I’d bet anything he’s the scion of a top leader in the Mage Association. Otherwise, Old Mokar would never have been so deferential. Didn’t you see how he acted like royalty even toward the princess from the Eastern Empire?”

“In real life, I’m the one who flaunts privilege, but in this game, I’m getting schooled by these NPCs,” the tall, thin man said helplessly.

The idle chatter of the two left Wang Ningwei unmoved; her attention was firmly fixed on the nine enigmatic figures at the front desk. Seven of them stood in positions of honor at the center, while two assumed unmistakable bodyguard stances, each stationed at a corner, scanning the surroundings.

“What brings you here in person?” The elderly mage presiding over the ceremony bowed his head in deep respect; he had no other choice.

A century ago, when he had first enrolled at Mystra, the person before him had already ascended to the presidency of the Mage Association’s headquarters.

“It’s nothing. Did Antinoia just take the boy away?” President Os, pacing by the throne, mused.

“Yes, right after that apprentice reappeared,” the old mage replied.

President Os paid him no further mind. With a wave of his hand, he cast a spell that blocked the novice mages’ view from the stage, then bent down to inspect the throne’s condition.

The remaining three members of the six-person group took turns stepping forward to examine it as well. The two bodyguards remained unmoved at their posts.

After quietly investigating for five minutes, Os finally straightened.

“Always leaving a mess for us to clean up. Let’s go—the show’s over, nothing left to see,” he said with a dismissive wave.

The seven departed, followed by a vigilant middle-aged man who had been on guard from the start. He cast a spell as well.

“As for you, Mokar, suspend the ceremony for now. Tell the apprentices to return in five days.”

“Understood, President,” Mokar replied, though he realized now he had underestimated the impact of that young man’s actions.

The apprentices below had no idea their awakening had been postponed five days on account of a single individual. Only a handful, who had been introduced to Mystra’s leadership through letters of recommendation, recognized the true identities of the seven or eight mysterious figures and found it hard to believe that a simple awakening ceremony could draw the attention of the highest authorities.

What Mokar did not know was that all Seven Giants of Mystra had assembled on stage.

These seven, gathered together, were a force so formidable that not even a divine avatar manifesting on the main world of Arthur could expect to escape their combined might.

Only when the illusory curtain was lifted did the apprentice mages realize the mysterious group had gone. Most were still full of anticipation, watching as the elderly Mokar returned to the stage, waiting for him to announce the start of the awakening.

In the Grand Council Chamber, the Seven Giants who had just visited the Hall of Awakening stepped one by one through an interplanar portal. The small meeting room was devoid of decoration—just a plain circular table of nanmu wood and twelve chairs. Yet every directive from the Mage Association headquarters was issued after discussions held in this very chamber. Countless ambitious souls in the association dreamed of one day claiming a seat here.

“Quite the coincidence, to run into this sort of thing during a regular meeting,” said Nufeng, the most recently ascended legendary mage among the Seven, as he took his seat.

“When was the last time the throne caused such a commotion?” mused Veranser, the only woman and the sole elf among the Seven, lost in thought as she stood by the window.

Leaning against the sill with a pipe between his lips, Reno—another of the Seven—remarked, “Over a hundred years ago, wasn’t it, with young Krol? He became a legendary mage in thirty-five years, one of the fastest on record in the association. Back then, he only managed to summon a hatchling-level time dragon out of thin air.”

“If I hadn’t acted quickly and sent it back, you’d have seen two time dragons and a volume dragon descend upon the Floating City,” Nufeng replied with a touch of exasperation.

“That Midsummer adventurer from Earth is no ordinary figure. The shock the Arcane Throne endured this time will take three or four days to repair. When Krol caused a stir back then, we resolved it within two hours and didn’t delay the apprentices at all,” Reno added.

“He’s not the remarkable one—it’s the figure he just met who is,” Nufeng corrected irritably.

By now, all present had been briefed by Antinoia on the main points: Zhao Xu had just reversed time itself and met the third-generation Goddess of Magic, Sisylvina, already at the end of her path before her apotheosis.