The Glitched Mage-Chapter 107: The Power Chart Part 2

The Monolith's glow hadn't even dimmed before Riven's hand was already reaching for it again.

Still warm. Still pulsing with energy.

He placed his palm flat against the obsidian surface, letting his mana thread through it once more. The rankings shifted. New names appeared. New targets.

But for a brief moment—he didn't move.

He simply stood there, listening to the quiet crackle of residual flame still flickering around him. Listening to the hushed murmurs in the crowd behind him. Feeling the quiet churn of power within his chest.

This strength… it was different now.

The weight of his mana heart, the way it flowed sharper, denser, hungrier—it wasn't the same as it had been a month ago. Not even close.

His fingers curled slowly against the Monolith.

He could feel it—every bit of progress forged in the shadows of the mana-dense island, every movement refined in the heat of simulated combat. Two weeks spent locked in relentless battle against the construct of Cassiel. Again and again. Blinding speed. Crushing blows. The pressure of divinity bearing down on him.

Compared to that?

These duels weren't even making Riven break a sweat.

The crowd didn't know the truth. They couldn't.

All they saw was the surface—his rise through the ranks, the black flames, the effortless victories.

But Riven knew what it had cost.

He hadn't just trained.

He'd endured.

He'd died a hundred different ways inside that simulation, only to rise again each time—stronger, faster, sharper. Every loss had carved away weakness. Every defeat had forged control.

He'd been broken and reforged by the image of a paladin who fought like a force of nature—cleaving mountains, standing unshaken in the heart of storms.

And now?

His opponents moved like beginners, their strikes telegraphed, their mana thin and slow. Like children pretending at war.

He dragged in a quiet breath, letting it settle deep into his lungs before exhaling slowly. The weight of divine pressure no longer pressed against him, but the memory of it did—etched into muscle, nerve, and bone. It was in the way he moved. The way he struck. The way he didn't hesitate.

Behind him, Nyx watched in silence, arms folded as the murmurs grew thicker. She said nothing—but he didn't need her to. She could feel it too. What he'd become.

What he was still becoming.

He focused on the Monolith again, and this time, his voice was calm—quiet, but certain.

"Next."

The list shimmered once more, cycling rapidly as it adjusted to his new rank.

Zain Halcor — Rank 99

Riven's eyes narrowed.

"A wind-aligned duelist," someone near the edge of the crowd muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "Fast, cocky. Loves flashy footwork and keeping constant pressure."

"No way… he's actually aiming for the top 100?" another voice said, half in awe, half in disbelief.

The murmurs swelled instantly, rippling through the growing sea of students. More were arriving by the second, drawn to the Monolith, to the duels, to the rising name now etched in glowing script.

The Elder called for silence, already accepting the next set of mana beast cores Riven placed on the pedestal. His hands moved with efficiency, the ritual automatic by now—he, too, had felt the shift. The pressure coming off Riven wasn't that of a normal Second-Year anymore.

It was something else.

The summoning circle flared once again. A gust of wind kicked up around the dueling platform as the mana took shape.

Zain Halcor stepped through the portal with the easy swagger of someone who had never once tasted real defeat. His robe flared at his ankles, enchanted threads rippling from the subtle winds circling his body. His short blonde hair was swept back, and he wore a smirk that practically dripped with confidence.

"Well," Zain said, cracking his knuckles, "I thought I'd get someone interesting today, but I didn't expect the 'black flame prodigy' himself."

Riven didn't respond. He stepped into the ring without fanfare, his aura still simmering low—but not hidden. Not anymore.

Zain clicked his tongue. "Not much of a talker, huh? No worries. I'll keep the crowd entertained for both of us."

Wind coiled at his heels as he moved toward the center. The crowd leaned in, tension humming across the arena.

The Elder's voice cut the air. "Duel begins on my mark."

A heartbeat passed.

"Begin!"

Zain vanished.

No flare of mana, no loud charge—just the hiss of displaced air as wind folded around him. He moved like a blur, a streak of pressure darting around Riven's left side. His blade—a narrow rapier etched with flight runes—lashed out in a gleaming arc, meant to carve clean across Riven's ribs.

But Riven was already gone.

Heat shimmered in his place.

Zain's blade passed through empty air—and then the true Riven stepped forward from behind, his body coiled like a spring, flame blooming along his arm.

Zain twisted just in time to deflect the strike, but the heat scorched his outer robe, searing across the cloth like ink bleeding into paper.

"Fast," Zain said under his breath. "Faster than I expected."

Riven said nothing. He advanced again, steady, methodical—his movements too calm for a battlefield.

Zain launched back, putting distance between them, then shot forward again—zigzagging in rapid bursts, each movement marked by miniature wind pulses that kicked up dust and scattered debris.

He struck again and again—high, low, diagonal. But each time, Riven was already a step ahead. Dodging. Redirecting. His body flowed like liquid fire, too refined, too sharp.

And with each exchange, the pressure mounted.

Zain began to sweat. His footwork, once fluid and showy, turned frantic.

"This isn't right," he muttered, backing away, chest rising and falling. "You're not supposed to be this fast."

"Speed's nice," Riven said quietly, his tone almost thoughtful as he watched Zain struggle to rise. Black flame coiled slowly along the edge of his blade, its hiss barely audible over the crowd's hush. "But maybe you should've learned how to fight too."

He took a step forward, gaze steady.

"Then this might've lasted longer."

He dashed forward, Crimson Mirage scattering across the ring. Zain struck two illusions down before he realized the real Riven wasn't behind him—but above.

The downward strike came fast and final.

Zain raised his rapier to block—but the abyssal fire wrapped around it, devouring the wind enchantments in a breath. His blade blackened, the metal warping and screaming as it was eaten through.

The next moment, Riven's foot slammed into his chest.

The wind mage went airborne—launched back across the ring. He hit the barrier hard enough to rattle the enchantments, then dropped to one knee, coughing, gasping.

The Elder raised his hand.

"Enough!"

The barriers faded. The Monolith flared.

[Rank 99 Achieved – Riven Drakar]

Silence.

Then chaos.

The crowd erupted—not just in murmurs now, but in rising voices, in movement, in awe. Students shoved closer, trying to see the one who had broken into the top 100 so effortlessly.

Riven sheathed his blade with a slow, fluid motion and turned away from Zain without a word. The flames on his arm extinguished with a breath.

Nyx was already waiting near the edge of the arena, watching the shifting rankings.

She didn't need to say anything.

Neither did he.

This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.

But as Riven approached the Monolith once more, the only thought running through his mind was simple.

One step closer.

The crowd had thickened, students pushing closer to the edges of the ring, voices rising in waves of anticipation and disbelief. Riven stood at the center of it all, unmoved, his presence commanding even in silence.

Then, a shift in the atmosphere.

From the far side of the Training Grounds, two more figures approached—recognized instantly by the way the crowd parted around them.

Cole Drakar strode with deliberate confidence, his expression twisted in something between amusement and disdain. His red cloak swept behind him, the Drakar crest gleaming across his shoulder. Beside him, Ember moved with far less arrogance, her crimson curls catching the sunlight as her eyes locked onto Riven.

Of course they came.

"Don't do something you'll regret, Riven," Ember called, her voice low enough for most to miss—but not him. There was no venom in it. Just worry. "You've already made a point. If you lose now…"

"You'll humiliate yourself," Cole finished, stepping forward with a smirk. "And more importantly, you'll drag the Drakar name down with you. Again."

"No, that's not what I meant—" Ember began quickly, her voice laced with urgency.

"Today's the last day to decide," Riven said quietly, his gaze cutting sideways toward Ember.

She froze. The meaning behind his words was clear—he hadn't forgotten what he told her the other day. She had a choice: stand beside him, and sever her ties to the Drakar family… or stay behind, and be left behind.

"Riven…" Ember's voice trembled as her face lost its color.

Cole scoffed, glancing between the two of them. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Riven didn't answer. He turned back toward the Monolith, eyes narrowing as the names began to shift once more.

Who's next?