The Glitched Mage-Chapter 112: We’re Going Home

Riven didn't wait for applause.

He didn't need it.

The arena was still trapped in silence, the echoes of his final blow hanging in the air like ghostlight. Even the Monolith seemed reluctant to pulse again, its glow dulled beneath the union of shadow and sunlight still spiraling across its surface.

Riven turned without a word.

No victory cry. No smirk. Just the faint crackle of his boots against scorched stone as he walked away from the ring—his blackened blade now sheathed, his body taut with fatigue he refused to show.

Nyx waited near the edge, her expression unreadable.

When he passed her, she fell into step without speaking.

Together, they left the Training Grounds.

No one dared follow.

No one dared speak.

They moved like wraiths through the outer corridors of the Academy, the world blurring into quiet stone and distant whispers. A few students bowed instinctively as they passed, unsure if it was respect… or fear.

Riven didn't acknowledge any of them.

His shoulders were square, but his breath came shallow. Controlled. Every step was deliberate. Measured.

They reached his room in silence.

The moment the door closed behind them, Riven let go.

His body pitched forward—caught halfway between collapse and surrender—before Nyx's arms wrapped around him, steadying him with a strength that belied her slight frame.

She helped him to the bed, guiding him down gently. Riven didn't resist. He sank into the mattress like it was the first solid ground he'd known in weeks.

His breath escaped in a long exhale, fingers slack at his sides.

The abyss still stirred beneath his skin, but it was faint now. Distant. Like something waiting patiently in the dark.

"You channeled too much of the Abyss," Nyx said, her voice softer now—less scolding, more resigned. She exhaled slowly and ran a hand through her hair. "But I get it. That Paladin bastard… he wasn't going down easy."

Riven gave a tired, crooked grin. "Yeah. But I still won. That's what matters."

"Damn right you did." Nyx grinned back at him, the sharpness in her eyes softened with pride. "You should've seen their faces. The Elders looked like they'd swallowed their own tongues. And your so-called siblings? I thought Cole was going to faint."

Riven chuckled under his breath, a low, gravelly sound. But before he could respond, a faint rustle broke the quiet—paper sliding across stone.

Nyx turned sharply, already halfway to the door. She crouched and picked up the folded slip that had been pushed beneath it, her eyes narrowing the moment she saw the seal.

"Of course," she muttered. "No rest for the wicked."

She walked back and handed it to Riven without another word. He recognized the insignia immediately—etched in deep violet wax, the skull of the Necromancer Temple stamped into the center.

"Archmage Elara," Riven murmured, fingers brushing the seal without opening it. "She felt something during the fight. I could sense it. She's summoning me."

Nyx didn't answer right away. Instead, she moved to his side, knelt down, and began pulling off his boots. "Well, she and the rest of the world can wait until tomorrow," she said firmly. "You're done for the night."

Riven smirked as she tugged one boot off with a little too much force. "What, no ceremonial tucking-in?"

Without missing a beat, Nyx pulled the blanket over him with theatrical precision, then gave it a firm pat on his chest. "There. Now shut up before I decide to smother you with it."

That earned a laugh from him—soft, genuine.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, his voice fading with his strength.

Nyx rolled her eyes and moved to the wall, taking up her usual post beside the door. She leaned back against the stone, arms crossed, shadows curling faintly around her boots.

Riven's breath began to slow. The Abyss still echoed in his veins, distant but not gone. And as his body surrendered to exhaustion, his last thought before sleep claimed him was simple:

Tomorrow, he'd face Elara.

But for tonight, he would rest.

—x—

Riven stepped through the teleportation gate and into silence.

The world on the other side was colder—older. Smooth stone gave way to blackened marble, and the soft hum of the gate faded behind him like a memory being tucked away. He stood at the threshold of the Necromancer Temple proper, beneath an archway carved from obsidian and bone, its surface etched with sigils that pulsed faintly in his vision. Only necromancers could see them—glyphs that watched, whispered, and judged.

The air here carried a different weight. Cool and dry, it slipped across his skin with the scent of incense, parchment, and something fainter still—dusted bone and time-worn secrets. The carved skull above the entrance seemed to breathe with each flicker of the runes, its hollow gaze fixed downward like a sentinel.

He didn't hesitate.

He stepped forward, and the shadows welcomed him.

Nyx remained by his side, silent but sharp-eyed, watching for threats no one else could see.

"Hide for now," Riven said quietly, his voice rough with lingering fatigue.

Nyx's gaze snapped to him. "You're still recovering."

"I'll be fine."

She didn't argue. She just gave him a long look—one that said she didn't believe him for a second—and then melted into his shadow without another word.

Riven stepped inside.

The interior of the temple was quiet as ever—dim corridors lit by flickering sconces, walls etched with spells older than the Academy itself. The air was heavy with mana, laced with whispers from long-forgotten rituals. Even now, he could feel the weight of ancient power pressing in around him.

The great hall of the Necromancer Temple stretched out ahead, its darkened archways lit only by cold violet flame. Columns of black stone loomed in silence, each carved with sigils of the old rites, their meanings long forgotten by the outside world. Here, necromancy was not feared—it was sacred. It pulsed in the walls, in the air, in the floor beneath his feet like a second heartbeat.

He walked with measured steps. His robes trailed through the mist-like haze that curled low to the ground, faint echoes of wandering spirits shifting in its depths. Acolytes moved along the upper balconies, silent and robed, their attention snapping toward him the moment he passed beneath them.

He didn't slow.

Beyond the great hall, a pair of stone doors stood half-open—marking the threshold to the Inner Sanctum. That's where they waited.

Elara.

New novel chapt𝒆rs are published on ƒгeewebnovёl.com.

And the Temple Elders.

The chamber beyond was vast but quiet, lit by a single chandelier of bone and flame. Seven chairs formed a crescent before a raised dais, each one occupied by a figure cloaked in black and violet.

And at the center, flanked by them all, stood Elara.

Her dark hair framed her face in soft waves, a striking contrast to the violet eyes that gleamed with quiet intensity. The moment Riven stepped inside, those eyes locked onto him—sharp, discerning, unblinking. She studied him in silence, not out of surprise, but with the calm precision of someone searching for traces of something she already suspected. As if the echoes of his duel still clung to him, and she intended to read every shadow they left behind.

Finally, she spoke.

"You've stirred the upper ranks."

Her voice carried across the room, smooth and clear, despite the distance. There was no scolding in it—only observation.

Riven inclined his head, his voice quiet but steady. "Word travels fast."

"You climbed to Rank One," she continued, stepping down from the dais. "You shattered expectations. Overthrew every challenger. And now, the Monolith bears your name." Her lips curled, not in surprise—but in approval. "I am not shocked."

Riven's brow lifted faintly. "No?"

"I've seen the way your magic moves," she said. "The way the dark seems to cling to you. You were never meant to stay in the lower ranks. Your power was always going to devour whatever cage they tried to place you in."

She circled him slowly, gaze flicking briefly toward his hands, his shoulders, his aura.

"But I didn't summon you here for congratulations."

Riven's expression didn't shift, but something behind his eyes sharpened. "Then why?"

Elara returned to the dais and faced him fully, the other Elders now watching in silence.

"Because it's time," she said. "For the Temple to return home."

Riven's silence was immediate—but beneath it, his heart kicked once, hard.

Elara's voice was quiet, but every word carried the weight of conviction. "The Solis Kingdom was never truly our home. Before the fall of the Shadow Kingdom, they tolerated us—used our craft when it served their purposes. But acceptance was never part of the bargain. Even now, they hunt necromancers without pause or question. To them, we're a threat that must be erased."

She exhaled slowly, the weight of years settling behind her eyes before she spoke again.

"There are whispers of war brewing. The borders grow tense. The paladins gather in silence, and the nobility tightens its grip like a hand clenching around a dagger. But while they posture in gold-plated halls, something else has risen in the dark."

She stepped forward again—just one pace, but it felt like a declaration.

"The Shadow Kingdom."

A few of the Elders shifted at the name. One even muttered, "I thought it was just rumours… but it really is true after all."

Elara stepped forward from the dais, descending to stand before the Elders in a slow, deliberate arc. "We've hidden long enough. The Solis Kingdom tolerated us once, because they needed us. But now? They would rather see necromancy erased entirely than allow us to exist in the open once more."

She paused, eyes shadowed with old memory. "They will never accept us. Not truly. We were never meant to survive here."

A low murmur passed through the Elders, but no one disagreed.

"That's why we're leaving," Elara said simply. "We've already begun preparations—sealed tomes packed, soul-inked archives transcribed. The final shipment will leave within the week. After that, the Temple will disappear from this kingdom for good."

She turned to face Riven fully now, the violet in her eyes catching the torchlight like a flare behind fog. "We won't go as vagabonds. We go home. To the place where necromancy was born. Where it is understood, not feared. Honored, not hidden."

She didn't have to say its name again. The words already clung to the air.

"You've already climbed so far within the Academy," Elara said as she approached, her voice quieter now, more personal. "If you choose to stay, I would understand."

She stopped just in front of Riven, her violet eyes meeting his.

"You can remain here—continue your ascent, gather power within their walls. Or you can come with us. To a place where necromancy isn't hidden behind whispers and fear. Where the greatest of our kind still pass down what the world has tried to forget."

She exhaled, not pleading—offering.

"The decision is yours."

'Well, I didn't see this coming,' Nyx murmured from within his shadow, her voice edged with amusement. 'But I have to admit… this works out suspiciously well.'

Riven didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth tugged ever so slightly. He stepped forward, his gaze steady.

"I'll go," he said, his voice low but certain. "I'll leave the Academy and travel with you to the Shadow Kingdom."

A faint glint sparked in his eyes—something sharper than mere agreement. "When do we leave?"

Elara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. A rare, genuine smile curved across her lips.

"Tomorrow."