To use Exca'buer, one's mind needed to be clear, and the heart steady, because the blade— imagined in the heart of the caster— was only as stable as the one wielding it. A single moment of hesitation or panic, and the magic would collapse on itself. And Beramet? He was the perfect guinea pig for Shan to test this theory on. His opponent relied on his prized spell so much that he never used any other spell in a battle, he'd be clueless when it backfired.
All Shan had to do was shake him enough to break his concentration. Problem was, that required surviving long enough for him to trip over his own arrogance. It sounded simple enough in his head.
But there was also a potential fault in his plan, and that was simply that he could end up dying in the process.
Shan had grown accustomed to conjouring images in his head, planning every of his moves before he made them.
In his head he pictured a knight in shining armour, lustrous and pristine like the stories his mother told him as a child. This figure signified Beramet. The second figure was that of a someone hidden under a dark cloak and hood, it made it hard to tell the gender, or whether it was a human or something more rabid. This was the image Shan had constructed for himself, the trickster.
And the last image was that of the knight thrusting a sword at the trickster's heart, only that the sword was no ordinary sword. It was long and silver, slowly turning red as it drank his blood greedily, the other end.
This was what was going on through the head of the magicless mage initiate. The trick was to thrust the blade into the knights heart instead, and as quickly as he could.
In the real world outside of Shan's mind games, Beramet's magic surged. Pain shot through Shan's chest like a hot iron. He staggered, barely keeping himself upright. Shan was wondering why the knight was still standing? He should've collapsed by then. Shan's plan was perfect, or wasn't it? He was not sure how long he could keep up his bluff, but he knew he had to hold out for at least another minute. One minute more, and this knight would fall.
The crowd was watching, their eyes fixed on Shan, probably thinking, "Shan Vera? He's got this." "Total badass material." "I mean, future clan prince, right?" "Wow, he'd make a great boyfriend!" Yeah, right. That last one was just wishful thinking.
Still, he had to remind himself that he wasn't doing this for fame. This wasn't about applause, titles, or even the girls- though he did like a little girl attention every now and then. This was personal— a fight to prove that he wasn't the nobody everyone thought he was.
They saw him as weak and talentless. Maybe they were right. But that didn't mean he couldn't outsmart them. He might not have magic yet, but he had one thing they didn't— an absurd amount of confidence in his own nonsense.
"Damn you! How are you doing this, you loser!?" Beramet's face twisted in rage, veins bulging on his forehead. His arm shot up, commanding the invisible sword in Shan's gut to dig deeper causing him to stumble forward and cough blood, his body begged him to just give up and collapse. But he couldn't. Not yet.
"Shit! Why won't this bastard fall?" Shan hissed, the word slipping from his lips as he dropped to one knee. He was losing control of the act, and if he did not get up soon, Beramet would figure out his trick. And what good was a trickster with bad tricks.
So, with every ounce of strength he had left, he forced himself back to his feet, wiping the blood from his chin in a way he hoped looked… heroic?
Shan dug into his mind and shut out all the pain, "You have to do this, pull of the greatest trick of the decade. Just focus."
Beramet's once-smug grin vanished, replaced by sheer disbelief. And Shan took is as his signal to turn the tables.
Shan smiled, digging both hands slowly into his pocket, trying to look cooler and calmer than he felt. The more he acted like this was no big deal, the more unhinged Beramet became. Shan's fingers tore through his trousers and dug into his skin, the pain more nerve wracking than anything he had ever felt before.
Beramet's magic wavered, the sword slipping from Shan's gut by a little and lashing back at its caster. A flicker of pain crossed Beramet's face.
Shan could still feel it digging into his gut but not as deep as it was moments earlier.
"What's wrong, Beramet? Running out of steam?" Shan asked, his voice louder than it needed to be, it barely hid the pain he felt underneath. It was all about the act now. "I don't even need to use my magic to beat you."
"What?!" Beramet's eyes widened as blood spluttered from his mouth. He was losing his focus on the spell. But for some reason, he was still standing, which made Shan a little nervous. He expected Beramet to crumble by now. Shan's mind scrambled for another move. He had to take control of the situation before Beramet realized what was happening.
Then it hit him: get closer.
It was risky, but crazy enough to work. Shan started to walk toward his opponent— slowly, deliberately, like a predator stalking its prey. In reality, if he moved any faster, he would have collapsed right there. The pain in his chest was growing more unbearable by the second, but he kept his steps steady, his face unbothered.
Another fun fact about Exca'buer: the closer you got to your opponent, the more powerful the spell became. Essentially, Shan was serving himself up to Beramet on a silver platter. But here came the twist: that kind of pressure would make a cocky bastard like Beramet lose control and his spell backfire. His arrogance would be his undoing.
What if he tried switching spells? Shan had thought of that but... Not a chance. Beramet was too cocky, too reliant on his fancy sword trick. He wouldn't risk changing tactics now. And that would be his downfall.
Shan could see it in his eyes— panic. Beramet's breathing turned shallow, and his lips trembled. His own spell was ripping him apart from the inside out. Shan wished Beramet's suffering would be a hundred times the one he was dealing with at the moment.
In his mind's eyes he could see the trickster and the knight, the only difference was that the knight was slowly thrusting his sword into his own heart.
Shan smiled openly, this time it was genuine. "Got you bastard."
Beramet screamed, finally collapsing to his knees. Blood poured from his nose and mouth like a busted pipe. His chest heaved as if he'd just run a marathon.
The crowd gasped, murmurs spreading like wildfire. "Did Shan just— win?" "No way, how?" "Pfft, I knew he'd do it."
"Yeah, sure you did." Shan wanted to glare at whoever said that.
Relief washed over Shan, but the pain in his chest did not go away. If anything, it was worse now. It wasn't the sharp stabbing sensation anymore; it was something deeper, something hotter— like his ribs were on fire. Shan stumbled backward, shutting his eyes for a moment.
This? This was just a taste of what real mage duels were like. But it didn't matter. Shan wasn't just any mage— he was the next clan prince of Sorcerene. He would have to be the strongest in all the land.
"How boring." He thought.
"Wait— what the hell was I zoning out for? Focus, Shan. Focus."
He straightened up, widening his stance, and made sure to stand over Beramet with all the confidence of a guy who had just pulled off the impossible. The trick was to look like he was totally in control, even if it felt like he was seconds away from collapsing. He wiped the last of the blood off his face and grinned.
"Hey, Beradork," Shan said, his voice loud and mocking, "how do you like that? And guess what— I didn't even have to use a spell." The words tasted sweet on Shan's lips, even if he had to swallow down more blood to get them out.
Beramet looked up at his rival, his face twisted in agony and disbelief. Shan could see it, his pride was in pieces. But he still wasn't done.
"How… how did you pull this off?" Beramet choked, his voice ragged, barely more than a whisper. "I won't… accept this!"
Shan crouched down beside him, leaned in close, and whispered, "This is what you get for being a piece of crap all these years, stealing the hot girls, strutting around like you were invincible. And guess what? You just got beat by the guy who hasn't even awakened his sigils yet. Hurts, doesn't it?"
"Please work. Please let this idiot break even further." Shan prayed silently.
"ENOUGH!" Master Teo'mar's booming voice echoed through the air, shattering the tense silence. Shan exhaled, relief flooding through him. Shan was running out of improvisation lines, anyway. "It seems Mrizuen Beramet Defai is unable to continue the duel. Victory goes to Mrizuen Shan Vera."
Shan wanted to smile but his lips twitched instead.
"Wait, where's the applause? The "Good job, Shan!" or "We love you!"? Nothing? Seriously? What do I have to do to get some love around here?" He told himself.