I have been waiting for hours, but it seems the people I invited are yet to arrive. I guess they have to make preparations since my invitation to them is quite abrupt. I am currently inside a nameless ruins within Mount Origin, and in front of me is a triangular table. I am sitting in one corner, maintaining my invisibility. Suddenly, one of the Sages arrives. She sits in her chair, a bit incensed. Her red-orange hair cascades down her shoulder in a wild manner. She is Sanaryn Flamberge. She seems to not notice me as she complains how she is the first to arrive. I keep quiet and let her complain to the air, even going as far as wanting to kill Miyandrel Celeste.

"Typical of Miyandrel Celeste," she mutters angrily. "Always making everyone wait, on edge, and… gosh... I swear, one day, I'll end her."

I remain silent, observing her frustration.

"And where is that blasted old man? Gone senile? Can't even be punctual," she grumbles, glancing around the ruins as if expecting someone to pop out at any moment.

I resist the urge to reveal my presence and continue to eavesdrop on her discontent.

"Hmph! If this is some elaborate prank, I'm not amused," she says, crossing her arms. "Dragging me out here for what? I better be compensated for this nonsense."

I watch as she fidgets in her seat, clearly agitated. It's amusing to witness her irritation, but I refrain from making a sound, letting her vent her frustration to the empty air.

Sanaryn's clothes are quite bold in that they are more like a bikini actually. She looks like Wonder Woman, except there are no stars, or skirt. She is instead wearing a red robe with gold layers. I recall Mia, my wife, who always is prim and proper. I don't know why, but I suddenly appreciate Mia more now. Sanaryn continues to complain hoping to also kill Pierre Viola. Unfortunately, Pierre is already dead. I killed him. I remain steadfastly quiet, letting Sanaryn vent.

"Ugh, I can't believe I'm stuck in this ridiculous ruins waiting," Sanaryn grumbles, tugging at the hem of her robe. "Who designed this place? It's like they want me to freeze to death!" The winds visibly make her robes flutter from the very open walls.

I resist the urge to comment on her attire, my thoughts drifting to Mia and her more conservative fashion choices.

"And where is that idiot Pierre? He's probably off somewhere, avoiding responsibility as usual," she snarls, her frustration evident. "I swear, I should have killed him ages ago."

I maintain my silence, recalling the day I took matters into my own hands and ended Pierre's existence.

"Always causing trouble, that Pierre," she continues, oblivious to his fate. "If I get my hands on him, he won't know what hit him. I'll make him regret every moment he wasted."

I listen to her rant, wondering if she'll ever realize the truth about Pierre. It's tempting to reveal the secret already, but for now, I choose to stay quiet and let Sanaryn vent more of her grievances. Is it just me? Or is it kind of entertaining watching her flail about?

Top of Form

Bartholomew Whitman finally arrives. His pristine white robes have no extra accessories to them, yet I feel a sense of power emanating from his clothes. Despite being so old and thin, I feel this hidden power pulsating from his very being. He greets Sanaryn, and then he eyes me where I sit.

"Sanaryn, my dear, always a pleasure to see you," Bartholomew Whitman says, his voice calm and resonant. "How have you been, my child?"

Sanaryn nods, her irritation seemingly melting away in the presence of the respected elder. "Bartholomew, you know how it is. Dealing with the incompetence of others."

The old man chuckles softly. "Indeed, my dear. It's a trial we all must endure."

His gaze shifts to me, and I decide it's time to make my presence known. "Greetings, Bartholomew Whitman. I am Randel Eir Dromastus. It's an honor to be in your esteemed company."

As expected of Bartholomew Whitman! He is a powerful old-timer who garners respect in the Sorcerer World, so it is as expected that he can see through my invisibility to some extent.

Bartholomew smiles, his eyes twinkling with wisdom. "Ah, Randel Eir Dromastus, a name I've heard whispered in the winds of magic. A pleasure to meet you, young one."

"I appreciate your kind words, sir," I respond, inclining my head respectfully. "Though I believe this should be the second time you heard it. The first time is from my wife, and the second time is now."

The old man laughs, a hearty sound that echoes in the ruins. "You almost had me fooled with that invisibility. Impressive, my boy, very impressive."

I bow slightly, taking his compliment to heart. "Thank you, Bartholomew Whitman. Your words mean a lot to me."

He finally takes his seat, and the atmosphere in the room seems to shift, acknowledging the presence of the venerable Bartholomew Whitman. I feel Sanaryn's emotions boiling in the surface of her mind as she directs me her ferocious gaze.

"Randel Eir Dromastus!" Sanaryn's voice cuts through the air like a whip. "How dare you ignore me! Have you lost your manners?"

I meet her gaze, an apologetic expression on my face. "My apologies, Sanaryn. I got lost in thought."

She huffs, clearly unimpressed. "Lost in thought? In the presence of greatness, no less! You should be on your knees, grateful to share the same air as me."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, fully aware of her volatile temperament. "I didn't mean to offend, Sanaryn. Let's not start on the wrong foot."

"Too late for that, Randel," she retorts, crossing her arms. "You better watch yourself."

I take a deep breath, deciding to shift the focus. I turn to Bartholomew with a smile. "Bartholomew, old Sage, could you please leash your dog? She seems a bit agitated."

Bartholomew raises an eyebrow, glancing between Sanaryn and me. "Dog, you say? I'm not sure I follow."

I subtly plant a suggestion in Sanaryn's mind, weaving my illusion magic. "You know, Sanaryn, sometimes it's good to let others take the lead. We can all learn from each other."

She blinks, a momentary confusion flickering across her face. "Yeah, maybe you're right. I... I guess I overreacted."

Bartholomew chuckles, oblivious to my manipulations. "Ah, she is a bot volatile, but she is not a dog… She is my equal. A sage like me nonetheless. So I prefer it if you tone dowon your insults, please be more indirect about it."

I don't know about that. I look at Sanaryn whose nose seems to touch the sky just by her arrogance alone. I sigh. This will be quite a pain. I hope we can skip the talking, and start the fighting already.

Sanaryn grits her teeth, going on and on about how much of a bitch Miyandrel Celeste is for sending me to do her dark dealings.

I frown and tell her, "That's my wife you are talking about."

Sanaryn shuts up, perhaps detecting my bloodlust. Her eyes narrow as she continues her tirade. "Miyandrel Celeste is a conniving wench, sending her husband to do her dirty work. Typical of her."

I sigh, feeling the need to defend my wife. "Sanaryn, watch your words. Miyandrel has her reasons, and you know I am more than capable of handling whatever task she gives me." Not that this is a 'task' she has given me to begin with.

"Yeah? Such an excellent pawn…" Sanaryn grumbles but falls silent, sensing my disapproval. There's a tense pause, and then she shifts the conversation in an unexpected direction.

"Ugh, it must be true then," she says with a dramatic sigh. "The villainous princess has finally found herself a husband. How utterly unfair!"

I raise an eyebrow, caught off guard by her sudden lament. "Lady Sanaryn, this isn't a competition. And what does your relationship status have to do with anything?"

She groans in frustration. "I'm still single, a virgin, and here she is, getting everything she wants. It's unjust! I'm an upright and righteous Pyromancer, for goodness' sake!"

I blink, feeling a bit awkward at the abrupt shift in mood. "Lady Sanaryn, this isn't Sorcery Academy. And relationships aren't a contest. Focus on your own path, not someone else's."

She looks at me with a mix of annoyance and resignation. "Easy for you to say. You have it all."

I shake my head, realizing once again the unpredictable nature of Sanaryn's emotions. Dealing with her is proving to be more challenging than I initially thought. But she is just as I recall from the novel.

Sanaryn smirks, her eyes locking onto mine. "You're mine now, Randel. I've decided to steal you."

I raise an eyebrow, not expecting such a bold proclamation. "Sanaryn, that's not how relationships work."

She chuckles, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Who said anything about a relationship? I don't mind an affair."

I frown, sensing the turmoil in her thoughts. I can now read her mind clear as day, and it's filled with thoughts of revenge. She's still simmering with resentment over the message Mia delivered through the oracle, reveling in the idea of stealing me away as payback.

I decide to clear the air, turning to the two sorcerers. "Actually, my wife's name is now Mia Dromastus. I required her to abandon her past if she wants custody of our children, or something like that."

Sanaryn's expression darkens, and she mutters under her breath, "How dare the Witch of Fate pursue a normal and happy life after all of the evil she has done!"

I bite my tongue, refraining from pointing out that Mia is not pursuing a normal life. Her path is far from ordinary, filled with the complexities of magic and destiny. I choose silence, realizing that divulging too much could complicate the situation further.

How strongly I wish Mia just pursue a normal life.

Bartholomew's eyes narrow, his voice grave. "Is it true, Randel Eir Dromastus? Did you kill Pierre Viola?" I have Mia inform Bartholomew of Pierre's death for this specific purpose, a 'leading' conversation that is certainly not cheap.

I meet his gaze without hesitation. "Yes, Bartholomew. I did. It was necessary."

Pierre Viola is one of the Three Sages, and now that he is dead, a spot has opened up. "I wish to take the Trial of Power," I add.

Bartholomew nods thoughtfully. "The Trial of Power is not to be taken lightly. Are you prepared to face its challenges and consequences?"

"I am," I respond with conviction.

Sanaryn scoffs, her tone mocking. "You, a Sage? You're a hundred years too early to even think about such a position, Randel."

I raise an eyebrow. "Funny, Sanaryn. You're only a year younger than me."

Her eyes widen in surprise, and she stammers, "Well, that's not the point!"

I glance at Bartholomew, who seems amused by the exchange. Sanaryn turns to him, her frustration apparent. "Bartholomew, I don't like him. I'd rather kill him than see him become a Sage."

Bartholomew raises a hand to calm the brewing tension. "Let us not resort to violence, my dear. People have their reasons. We will see how he handles the Trial of Power before passing judgment."

Sanaryn grumbles, clearly displeased with the turn of events.

Bartholomew's gaze is steady as he begins to unfold the history of the Three Sages. "In ancient times, Sorcerers were rampant. But after the creation of the Empire, the need for order became paramount. Thus, the Three Sages were formed, with the solemn duty of safekeeping the peace of the Sorcerer World."

He continues, recounting events from two centuries ago after the Holy War. "As time passed, the Three Sages slowly diverged from the Empire's influence. We ensured our operations remained unbiased, focusing solely on maintaining balance."

I nod, acknowledging his words even though I'm well-versed in the history of the Three Sages. Bartholomew looks at me intently.

"Do you truly wish to be a member of this prestigious faction?" he asks.

I meet his gaze with determination. "No, Bartholomew. I desire only the Sage's Favor, the right to request any favor from my fellow Sage one time with absoluteness."

Sanaryn's anger flares, and she retorts sharply, "Selfish! All about your desires, huh!? Perfectly the same as the Witch of Fate!!"

Bartholomew intervenes, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. "Patience, my dear. Everyone has their circumstances."

He turns to me and explains, "There are two methods to join the Sages. The most commonly used method is through the recommendation of the Empire and a dozen renowned Sorcerers. That's how Pierre Viola joined our ranks."

I nod, understanding the political intricacies involved. Bartholomew continues, "The other method is through the Trial of Power. It's a one versus two duel between the applicant and the two other Sages. A rather brutal test, but it ensures the strength and capability of the prospective Sage."

Bartholomew looks at me, his gaze probing. "Are you certain you wish to undergo the Trial of Power?"

I meet his eyes with unwavering determination. "I am fine with it. Less hassle to fight two Sages than involve myself in the theatrical play of the Empire."

Sanaryn's anger flares stronger, her magic crackling around her like an intense storm. She stands up, a fiery aura enveloping her. She questions me with intimidating intensity, "Do you think you can look down on the Sages just because you find dealing with them less of a hassle than the empire?"

Her hair is ablaze, and her hands pulse with dangerous heat. She scolds me for my perceived arrogance, expressing eagerness to teach me a lesson about life. "You have to know where you stand, Dromastus. Don't forget the soil beneath your feet, or you might find yourself lacking humility."

I calmly meet her fiery gaze, maintaining my composure. "Lady Sanaryn, I have been honest all this time. The reason is simple: I am desperate. Bartholomew understands that perfectly."

The tension in the room escalates, and I prepare for whatever lesson Sanaryn believes I need to learn through the fiery trial she seems so eager to impose.

As Bartholomew stands up, I follow suit, preparing for the Trial of Power. He explains the rules succinctly, his posture poised. "Two Sages against one applicant. Fight with the intent to kill. Only stop when the applicant is either dead or the two Sages have acknowledged the applicant."

Sanaryn grins savagely, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Fight!" she shouts, revealing another facet of her character— a battle junkie who relishes the thrill of combat.

Bartholomew, however, injects a dose of reality into her enthusiasm. "Sanaryn, this is your first time conducting a Trial of Power. You should know the fight is not conducted in this very chamber where the Three Sages meet."

Sanaryn's excitement dims as she processes Bartholomew's words. He continues, "We'll relocate to the designated arena for the Trial of Power. Follow me."

I can't help but scoff at Sanaryn, finding her simple-mindedness amusing. Sanaryn, embarrassed, quickly extinguishes her flames. She defensively explains, "Well, this chamber looks so ruined, I thought this is where the Trial of Power is concluded."

Bartholomew, with a gentle chuckle, easily brushes off Sanaryn's embarrassment. "No need to worry, my dear. The Trial of Power is concluded somewhere else."

He stands up, looking like a jovial old man going on a field trip. "Come now, both of you. Follow me. We'll conduct the Trial of Powers in the Valley of Repeat."

The mood lightens as we prepare to leave the ruins and venture into the designated arena for the Trial of Power. Sanaryn's embarrassment is momentarily forgotten as we follow Bartholomew, and the Valley of Repeat awaits as the battleground for this critical test.

.....

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..

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I stand before the Valley of Repeat, a green concave hidden within Mount Origin. This place is sacred and mystical. Every peak of midnight, this place is said to return to its original state no matter how much effect a person may leave here. I marvel at its beauty, expressing it in words.

"The hues of green paint a picture of eternity," I remark.

The old man, Bartholomew, melancholy smiles as he replies, "I cannot agree more. This valley has witnessed the passage of time, yet it remains untouched."

It is currently dawn, and the sun has long ascended mid-sky.

Sanaryn interrogates me, her eyes probing for sincerity.

"Can you be trusted?" she questions, her tone blunt.

I meet her gaze, responding, "Absolutely. My intentions are clear."

She's vocal about her feelings, not mincing words.

"Bartholomew," she addresses the old man, "reject his request for the Trial of Power. We should just kill him outright."

I sigh at the openness of her plan for my murder.

"Why such a direct approach?" I ask.

Sanaryn's eyes narrow. "I don't trust you. There's something off."

I ponder her hostility and realize it might be related to my wife. Sanaryn has a personal grudge against her. Hell, a lot of people does… I imagine even if the Universe wants her dead, she will still manage to survive. The tension becomes clearer as Sanaryn direct me her bloodlust.

"It's because of her, isn't it?" I say, a realization dawning.

Sanaryn clenches her jaw but doesn't deny it. Bartholomew, seemingly unfazed, calmly intervenes.

"The Sages cannot decline an applicant's request for a Trial of Power, especially if the applicant has already killed one of the Sages," he explains. "We also cannot deny the Trial of Power even if the applicant has a direct relationship with a person we as Sages swore to destroy…" The old man adds, without a hint of emotion in his tone.

"I've killed Pierre Viola. I'm more than qualified for the Trial of Power," I assert to Sanaryn.

She challenges me immediately, concern etched on her face, "But if you become a Sage, you might bring harm to the Sorcerer World."

Sanaryn seems convinced that Miynadrel Celeste, my wife, harbors a wicked plan. "Your wife is plotting something that will turn the world upside down, as she usually does. You're just a pawn in her game."

I look her in the eyes, sincerity in my voice, "I am just a normal husband hoping to clean up the mess of his wife. I don't want her actions to affect the world." I walk to one spot of the grassy valley, while Sanaryn walks opposite me.

"You can't even recognize yourself as just a pawn," Sanaryn ridicules me, her tone cutting. "There's no getting through to you."

Without further warning, Sanaryn announces the start of the Trial of Power. In an instant, she flickers in a spark of ember, the speed of her movement astonishing. She materializes beside me with a swiftness matching Pierre, a Space Magic specialist.

Her presence is imposing as she summons a scimitar of pure fire elements. The heat emanating from it is palpable even without direct contact.

"Let's see what you've got," she taunts, the challenge hanging in the air.

With a thought, I cast <Phantom Step> and appear at Sanaryn's rear. Then, I cast <I Believe> on myself, inducing a Third Person's Point of View, allowing me to look 360 degrees around me. I point my finger at Sanaryn and cast a Calm Spell, followed by a Sleep Spell.

Two bolts of illusory arrows strike Sanaryn, and her movement slows down. It isn't the effect I intend, since that should have made her fall into sleep instead.

Sanaryn smirks condescendingly at me as she flickers again, appearing at my flank. "Is that the best you've got?" she challenges.

Sanaryn summons another scimitar of flames in her other hand, dual-wielding as she strikes at me. Meanwhile, I notice a fireball projectile dropping from above, cunningly conjured to evade my detection.

I simply stand my ground.

As Sanaryn lunges, she passes through me, and simultaneously, the fireball she conjured descends upon her head. She stands there, looking at the real me.

Smugly, I remark, "Maybe you should have your eyes checked since you kept chasing after my illusion. You should be better than that."

Sanaryn calms her breathing, and it seems the lingering effects of my Calm Spell and Sleep Spell have been dispelled. She brandishes both swords, and with a flicker, she rushes at me again. Sanaryn walks past me, and I realize she is up to something.

Whispering joyfully, she says, "I see you."

Sanaryn strikes at me rather accurately, forcing me to reveal myself. In response, I cast <Phantom Step> to escape her.

Sanaryn's eyes are burning, and it feels like she can see through me. Even if it's a kind of temperature detection, I remain confident that I won't be easily seen. I realize her mystical accomplishments go beyond the elementalism of Pyromancy she pursues.

She chases me with incredible speed, and I attempt to outrun her, devising a new strategy to adapt to the changing variables. Warily, I eye the old man who is yet to join the fight.

"If only there were an easily accessible life sacrifice I could use to cast Phantom Apocalypse," I think to myself, knowing it could tip the scales in my favor.

As I dodge and weave around, I notice Bartholomew watching us with calm ease. It seems he won't join unless I show something worthy of his attention. Sanaryn, on the other hand, is limiting herself to a few spells and appears to be enjoying the combat more than the Trial itself.

While keeping my toes on the ground, I scan myself. I feel a foreign magic in my skin, and I see burnt markings on my hand. Noticing my actions, Sanaryn explains what it is. It's not just out of arrogance but her honor and pride as a warrior.

"You've been marked by Ifrit's Brand, my own unique magic," she declares. "Every fire-based magic that touches you will be multiplied in effect. The brand also marks me in a way that I can easily track you. Worst of all, Ifrit's Brand will spread throughout your skin, amplifying its effect over time."

I wryly smile at how fast my situation has turned. Pierre is really a chump if compared to the legit Sorcerers. If only I can cast my Phantasm Apocalypse. This is the disadvantage of my Phantasm Apocalypse, a magic that requires life sacrifices. Creatures with sentience can easily reject it, and that's why I must hijack my sacrifices' minds first and usurp their will, but clearly Bartholomew Whitman and Sanaryn Flamberge have strong mentality. I cast Mirage Clone, summoning clones of myself. They easily die to Sanaryn's onslaught. I buy myself time, finalizing a strategy that is slowly forming together. I grin…

I look around the Valley of Repeat. I think I have an idea. The terrain is my ally, an ever-shifting landscape with illusions playing tricks on perception. I gather my strength, focusing on the essence of the valley. My hands move in intricate patterns as I invoke the latent magic residing in this place.

The air shimmers, and the Valley of Repeat responds to my command.

I cast Phantasm Apocalypse, setting up the Valley of Repeat as my sacrifice. "Change," I declare.

In response, the atmosphere shifts, and the once vibrant valley succumbs to the dark magic. In order for something or someone to be a sacrifice, they must have either of the two, life force and magic power. The Valley of Repeat is plenty with it.

Quickly, the green grass withers, and the visible healthy soil grays beneath the weight of the impending spell. The sun itself darkens, as if undergoing a solar eclipse. The air thickens with the anticipation of the magical forces at play. I extend my one hand and use <Telekinesis> to seize hold of Sanaryn's figure.

Sanaryn, surprised and unable to move, expresses her astonishment. "What's happening?" she demands, struggling against the invisible force that holds her in place.

"It is my turn from now on," I calmly assert. The dark winged angels descend from thin air, crashing down around Sanaryn. Their presence is ominous, their eyes emotionless as they wield steel weapons that promise death.

Sanaryn, still held in place by my telekinetic grip, looks around in terror. "What have you done?" she accuses, desperation evident in her voice.

"These are the consequences," I reply coldly, watching as the angels close in. "Of looking down on me."

Sanaryn explodes with fighting spirit; her hair turns to fire, and her eyes burn brightly. She glares at me and challenges, "Is that the best you can offer?"

I laugh, a confident smirk playing on my lips. "Oh, my dear, I haven't really started yet."

Dramatically raising my arms, I announce to her, "For a start, I shall surround you."

Sanaryn, confused by my choice of words, furrows her brow. Then, she notices the ominous darkness that has engulfed the surroundings. The once vibrant day has transformed into an eerie twilight. She looks up, her eyes widening as she realizes how dark the sun has become. However, the most noteworthy sight captures her attention—the flying dark winged angels that have literally blotted the sky.

"What have you unleashed?" Sanaryn demands, her voice a mix of awe and apprehension.

"A taste of what's to come," I reply cryptically, reveling in the unfolding spectacle. "Prepare yourself, Sanaryn. This is just the beginning."

.....

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..

.

Bartholomew laughs boisterously, "I understand now how you've defeated Pierre!"

He praises, "Your magic is anomalous, god-like even."

I am honestly flattered. Now that I've piqued his interest, it appears Bartholomew is ready to join the fray. Standing before me is Sanaryn, emanating powerful flames and fighting spirit. Walking just behind me, Bartholomew's bald, slim, and frail figure is slowly expanding, reinforced by robust life force and magic power.

"Ah, the young ones never cease to amaze," Bartholomew chuckles, his voice now carrying a hint of power. "But let's see if you can withstand the might of experience."

Sanaryn's flames surge higher, dancing around her with newfound intensity. "Bring it on," she challenges, her eyes blazing with determination.

I steady myself, feeling the weight of their combined presence. "I won't hold back."

Bartholomew's transformation is startling. His frail frame swells with energy, his once feeble form now radiating strength. "You've earned my attention, young one. Let's test more of your magic."

Sanaryn's flames leap forward, encircling us as the battleground. I focus, summoning every ounce of my magic, ready to face this unexpected duo.

The sky is blotted with my dark-winged angels. The sun undergoes a phantasmal Solar Eclipse, courtesy of my magic. The eerie sight offers an impression of a godly battle unlike any other. I remain on the ground within the Valley of Repeat, tensing myself.

"The Trial of Power is a test for sorcerers who wish to apply as a member of the Three Sages," I remind myself. I must make the Sages acknowledge me, and only through it will I be allowed entry as one of the Three Sages, finally.

The eclipse intensifies, casting an otherworldly hue upon the landscape. The dark angels wheel and swirl, their wings eclipsing the fading light. It's a spectacle that could rival the celestial battles of legend.

I stand firm, channeling every ounce of my essence into the demonstration of my prowess. The ground beneath me vibrates with raw energy, responding to the call of my command. The very air crackles with the potential of unbridled power.

As the shadows deepen, I steel myself for the imminent arrival of the Three Sages. Only their acknowledgment will pave my way into their esteemed ranks.

My mind turns and grinds, thoughts running faster than real time.

"I don't know exactly how I'm going to make them acknowledge me," I mutter to myself. The options whirl in my mind. Attacking them with the intent to kill is a thought, but as a Phantomancer who relies on the edge of his tongue, that only works if I truly want them dead.

I watch Bartholomew, the old man, finish his transformation. No longer slim, he's now packing with muscles, standing at an imposing eight feet tall. His body ripples with powerful sinew, a proof to his mastery as a Vivamancer specializing in life magic. One transformation, and he's already shown the extent of his abilities. This is a test, not a fight to the death. The old man must know he can take it easy with the transformation.

My mind races, considering alternative ways to impress the two of them.

With a deliberate motion, I gesture towards the ground. The very earth responds, weaving intricate patterns of light and shadow at my command. It dances in harmony, a testament to my command over the arcane forces.

But it is a bluff.

I am buying time for a big spell.

Now that I come to think of it, I tend to resort buying time before I unleash big spells.

The old man just smiles at me, crossing his arms. "The Three Sages follow the rule of Survival of the Fittest since its founding," he explains. "If you manage to join and even take the top seat, it's almost guaranteed that you can protect your wife just by your title alone."

I appreciate the sentiment, but I have more specific plans for how I will protect my wife and my twins. "Thank you, but I have my own way of ensuring their safety," I respond.

The old man nods knowingly, as if understanding my determination. "Well then, let's see what you're made of."

I've made my decision. I guess I just have to fight until both of them are exhausted.

The old man's smile remains, but there's a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Show us what you're capable of," he encourages, gesturing for me to make my move.

As I step forward, the shadows of my dark-winged angels swirling around me, I can't help but think about my wife and twins. This is not just about proving my strength for the Three Sages; it's about securing a future for my family.

A future for my very normal family.

Suddenly, Sanaryn pounces on me with her magically conjured dual scimitars. She vanishes in a spark of embers and goes in for my head immediately. As she swings her swords at my neck, I reappear beside her, attacking with a palm strike imbued with <Telekinesis>.

Sanaryn, caught off guard, realizes that the me she attacked is my angel all along. I've transferred the Ifrit's Brand that she inflicted to one of my angels. Before my palm connects, I see through <I Believe> via my Third Person's POV that Bartholomew has snuck up on my rear and is going for a powerful punch.

I hear Bartholomew's teasing voice, "Always watch your rear, young one."

Sanaryn, disoriented by the unexpected turn, barely manages to evade my palm strike. She regains her composure, eyes narrowing in determination.

Bartholomew's punch is swift, but I anticipate his move. With a deft sidestep, I narrowly avoid the full force of the blow. His laughter rings through the air, echoing off the valley walls.

"Quick reflexes, but can you keep up?" Bartholomew taunts, his tone a blend of amusement and challenge.

I focus, extending my senses to the dark-winged angels swirling above us. I command them to stay put.

"I told you," I hear the old man's teasing voice a second time, this time he is in front of me. "Watch your rear!" I can feel his powerful presence bearing at me, but it doesn't escape me that Sanaryn is trying to sneak attack me with her dual scimitars.

"I always am watching my rear," I smugly reply to the old man. I push my palm imbued with <Telekinesis> at my back feigning to attack Sanaryn, but instead of targeting Sanaryn, I use it to propel myself forward. As if having an eye in the back of my head, I duck low and go under Bartholomew. Closing my fist, I punch upwards while using <Telekinesis> and <I Believe> simultaneously to dish out the most damage.

Unexpectedly, Bartholomew hugs me, using some kind of spell to lock me in place. Sanaryn unsummons her scimitars and casts powerful fire magic. She summons an orb of flames akin to a sun that has almost filled the Valley of Repeat. With a swift motion, she tosses it at me.

Bartholomew's laughter echoes as the flames approach. "Seems like you need to watch more than just your rear, young one!"

The reasons I kept my angels in the sky aren't just for intimidation and to increase my persuasion power. If Phantasm Apocalypse is my ultimate spell, then my ultimate strategy is numbers and tricks. The Valley of Repeat is not so big; I imagine its size to be like a whole soccer field. For sorcerers fighting, it isn't so vast.

I bathe in the flames, feeling surreal heat. It's painful, but I endure by turning off my pain via my <I Believe> spell. Finally, when the flames are gone, I see Sanaryn's figure panting. Her eyes are no longer burning, and her once-flaming hair is now a bit milder. Bartholomew has a few burns on his body, but he is healing rather quickly.

"So, tricks and endurance," Bartholomew comments, a wry smile on his face. "Impressive, young one. But don't think the trial is over just yet."

Bartholomew expresses surprise, "Not even a single injury on you."

I cast <Phantom Step>, teleporting myself to the air with my angels. I suspend myself in the air with <Telekinesis>. Sanaryn frowns, noticing the discrepancy. She asks, "Have the angels become fewer?"

Bartholomew nods, "Indeed, they have."

He murmurs in admiration, sharing his theory with Sanaryn, "I believe he's able to exchange his life with these illusions."

It's one of my lesser tricks, but it has impressed Bartholomew a lot.

I confirm it, challenging them, "How about a fight in the sky, then?"

The Valley of Repeat may not be as good as a sacrifice as 12 accomplished Voidmancers, but the Valley of Repeat gives off a steady stream of life force to my Phantasm Apocalypse. I summon more angels, easily replenishing those that I have lost.

Sanaryn's fighting spirit has been stoked; thus, she summons more of her flames. With flames in her heels, she begins to fly upwards.

"Ignorant," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. "So short-sighted, Sanaryn. It's too easy for you to fall into a trap."

I utter the spell I have been preparing in the sky— Phantasm Gate— it is the big spell I have been building since the beginning. My angels scatter, and the illusion of me flying in the air vanishes. A formation magic is then activated, using my angels as a catalyst.

"Watch closely, Sanaryn," I say with a smirk. "This is the power of true mastery."

The angels and Sanaryn vanish in the air.

The black sun remains, and so is Bartholomew. He looks at me and compliments me on my ingenuity. I stand up from a random rock I found somewhere. All this time, Sanaryn and the old man has been fighting against my Mirage Clone, one imbued with enough magic power and memories it will be difficult for another person to detect whether it is fake or real.

I ask Bartholomew whether he knew from the beginning that it was a clone. Bartholomew tells me he is unsure if I am real even to begin with. I don't know how to take that.

"I've completed the Trial, haven't I?" I ask Bartholomew, eager for confirmation.

He looks at me thoughtfully before responding, "That depends on whether Sanaryn acknowledges your abilities as well."

A sense of uncertainty lingers, but then Bartholomew adds, "It seems her life has now completely fallen in your hands."

With a nod, I consider the implications. "So, what's next?"

Bartholomew raises an eyebrow and asks, "Do you intend to kill Sanaryn? That's often how the Trial of Power concludes. If the Sage, despite losing, doesn't acknowledge the applicant, the applicant has the right to kill the Sage."

I shake my head, "No, I don't intend to kill her. But I might have to rough her up a bit to earn her acknowledgment."

Bartholomew laughs happily as his muscles deflate, and his body returns to his frail and slim physique. "Ah, the joys of returning to my true form!" he exclaims. "I'm so happy I can leave the next generation with such powerful sorcerers."

I nod, understanding the weight of the moment. "You've done well, Bartholomew."

He sighs, a hint of melancholy in his eyes. "I won't be long for this world, you know. I'm desperate to get the retirement I deserve."

Curiosity sparks in his eyes as he turns to me. "Now, what favor do you wish to ask of me? The Sage's Favor is a sacred promise among Sages, a single-use vow that has to be fulfilled, whether we like it or not."

"If it's a pardon for the crimes of your wife, that's impossible," Bartholomew says, his tone solemn. "But if it's refuge you seek, I should be able to make some solid arrangements. My connections run deep given my age, status, and history."

I shake my head, declining his offer. "No, Bartholomew. I have more specific methods in mind."

Curiosity lights up his eyes, and he leans in. "What do you have in mind?"

"I need your help with a special magic," I tell him.

Bartholomew seems skeptical, but after a moment's contemplation, he gives me his word. "Very well. Consider it done. It seems the winds of fate have already decided that you are now a Sage, despite Sanaryn not yet giving you her acknowledgment."

The old man looks at the sky as if he is watching the angels and Sanaryn lingering about.