The city of Barmo was a living paradox—ancient stone under modern spellwork, bastions of civilization latticed with vigilance. It was a fortress in both brick and bureaucracy, the kind of place that didn't just prepare for trouble, but expected it.
As Belisarius and Martin passed through the arched gates, the guards instinctively moved aside. Their eyes lingered longer on Martin, wary. He was too young to be dangerous by appearance alone, but magic rarely played fair with appearances.
"Welcome to Barmo," Belisarius said dryly, as if repeating a script he'd long since grown bored of.
"Charming place," Martin replied, gaze sweeping over glowing ward-lines, surveillance crystals embedded in lampposts, and statues that were probably sentient. "I can almost feel the surveillance spells crawling over my skin. Warm welcome."
"You're not wrong," Belisarius muttered.
After delivering Martin to a mana-dampening detainment cell beneath the city's administrative wing—"temporary academic holding," they called it—Belisarius headed for the guard barracks. He had no interest in paperwork delays or processing rituals. What he needed was certainty.
The captain from the gate met him in the main yard.
"This way," she said briskly, leading him past rows of mages in sparring drills. "He's been training since sunrise. Thought it best to keep him warmed up."
Belisarius nodded. "I'm not here for a show. I need a read—fast, clean, honest."
They stopped before a ward-sealed training hall lined with obsidian tiles, the kind that absorbed and recorded magical residue for post-fight analysis. Inside, two figures danced at lethal speeds. One held a vibration-enhanced polearm; the other was barehanded and shirtless, his movements impossibly fluid, as though he anticipated attacks before they began.
"That's him," the captain said. "Sergeant Vance Roen. Local-born. Five years frontline against rogue elementals, three years internal garrison. No enchantments, no boosters, no gear. All raw Flow magecraft."
Belisarius watched Roen parry a downward arc, sidestep a follow-up strike, and slam his palm into his partner's chest with just enough force to knock him out cold—but not kill. Then he crossed the room, picked up a towel, and nodded toward the glass.
"Doesn't look flashy," Belisarius said.
"He isn't. He's practical," the captain replied. "Keeps the city stable."
"Good," Belisarius said. "Because I don't need someone to win. I need someone who understands what it means to stand across from a problem that doesn't blink."
Roen approached, toweling off.
"Warden," he greeted, voice calm. "You need a target read?"
"I've got someone who might be dangerous," Belisarius said. "Too polished to be self-taught, too unstable to be state-sanctioned. I want your take. Just one spar. No showmanship."
"Blind entry or prep?"
"No illusions. Just don't get cocky."
Roen didn't even flinch. "Where is he?"
In the basement holding ward, Martin lounged on the edge of the cot with his boots on the floor, inspecting the dense core he'd harvested from the divine spirit.
"Hmm," he muttered to himself. "Too unstable for a personal battery… but with a fixed conduit? Maybe an Earth-type exoshell. Or something quadrupedal."
He scratched a few notes on a napkin with a glowing shard of chalk pulled from his coat lining.
"I swear," the attending mage mumbled, watching from outside the cell, "he treats this place like a workshop."
Martin glanced up. "Could be worse. I could be bored."
Just then, Roen stepped into view. He looked Martin over, taking in the deceptively casual posture, the too-sharp eyes, the way his coat didn't quite hang right—too many layers, probably rigged with hidden mechanisms.
"Name?" Roen asked.
"Martin Kaiser," Martin replied, eyeing him with amused detachment. "And you are…?"
"Roen. Just need to know if you're a threat."
Martin stretched. "Oh. Then you'd best step in. Reading me from outside the fishbowl won't give you much."
Roen tapped the arcane lock on the cell gate. "Open it."
The mage frowned. "That's against protocol—"
"Warden's orders," Roen said, voice brooking no further argument.
With a deep hum and a heavy mechanical click, the gate unsealed. Roen stepped inside.
Martin stood up smoothly, tilting his head. "You armed?"
Roen shook his head. "Don't need to be."
Martin snapped his fingers.
The moment the sound echoed, the cell's four corners flared—tiny scars carved into the walls lit with residual mana. In a split second, wires burst from the corners like snakes—taut, silver-thin threads vibrating at an inaudible frequency.
Roen raised an eyebrow. "Since when do wires work like springs?"
"You can tell?" Martin asked, genuinely intrigued.
Roen circled slowly. "Tension-based flow matrix. You're not using the walls as anchors—you're using them as amplifiers. Smart."
Martin beamed. "Finally, someone who speaks the language."
Roen crouched slightly, one hand touching the floor. "So. Are you going to trigger them?"
Martin gave a playful shrug. "Not unless you charge first."
The wires sang, tuned to a vibration field that would slice flesh or deflect spells depending on resonance.
Roen didn't blink.
In the next moment, he moved.
Martin stepped back, flicking a wrist—two wires snapped taut between them, forming a cross-blade shape in the air. Roen ducked beneath it, rolled, and drove a palm strike toward Martin's knee.
Martin shifted the floor beneath them—literally. With a pulse of mana, the stone buckled like sand, Flow-transmuted into soft dust just long enough to kill Roen's footing.
Roen landed in a low crouch, pushed up, and surged forward again.
This time, Martin spun midair—coat flaring—and released a microburst of kinetic mana from his boots. It wasn't a full spell, just raw directional force. Enough to force space between them.
Both paused.
Breathing steady.
Neither had drawn blood.
But the message was clear.
Roen finally straightened and took a step back. "You're not aggressive."
Martin shrugged. "Only when I have to be."
"You wired that cell with more control than most military-grade traps. And you did it while bored."
"Didn't even need my tools," Martin said proudly.
Roen nodded, backing toward the open gate. "You're dangerous. Not because you fight well—but because you plan too much."
"Flattered," Martin replied.
"I'll file my report," Roen said, glancing once at the control mage. "Keep this one under pressure. But give him resources. He's the kind of problem you want on your side before someone else gets ideas."
Martin watched him go, then sat back down, arms behind his head.
"Well," he muttered. "That could've gone worse."
To Be Continued…