The Glitched Mage-Chapter 98: A blade fit for a king

The air between them crackled with abyssal energy, heavy with unspoken promises and undeniable finality.

Riven exhaled, slow and steady, as the spirit's mist coiled around her in restless anticipation. He had broken her resistance, had reached into the depths of her hatred and twisted it into something useful. Now, all that remained was to solidify her purpose—to forge her into a blade worthy of his hands.

She was no mere specter. No simple spirit to be shackled into a tool.

She was something far more dangerous.

Which meant he needed a weapon strong enough to bind her essence—a vessel that could hold her without breaking.

His fingers flexed, and with a flick of his wrist, the Staff of Ignis materialized in his grasp.

The crimson shaft gleamed under the moonlight, its deep, dragon-forged core pulsing faintly with warmth.

Riven's grip tightened around it.

He had never been a staff wielder. The bulk of it was unwieldy, ill-suited for his style. But the core—it was perfect. If he could merge it with the abyss, if he could forge it into something that reflected his own power—

Then this wouldn't just be a sword.

It would be an abomination.

Fire and shadow, entwined like his own abyssal flames. A force that consumed, devoured, and left nothing in its wake.

His shadows surged, swallowing the clearing in suffocating darkness.

The spirit watched him, her form still wreathed in mist, yet something in her gaze had shifted. A quiet, unspoken understanding.

"Are you ready?" Riven asked, voice edged with quiet finality.

The shadows pulsed around them, answering for her.

She stepped forward.

"Begin."

Riven slammed the Staff of Ignis into the ground. The impact sent a pulse of fiery mana through the floor, warping the very air around them.

The forging had begun.

Darkness surged, coiling into a swirling vortex at his feet. The spirit's mist thickened, pulled by an unseen force, drawn into the abyss's hungry grasp. The weight of the ritual pressed against reality itself, bending the fabric of existence to accommodate the act of creation.

Riven raised his hands, his shadows latching onto the spirit's essence. She resisted.

Her form thrashed, the mist unraveling and re-forming in an instant, as if fighting against the chains pulling her forward. But she had already agreed—her own words had bound her.

Riven would not let her go now.

The abyss roared, pulling harder, dragging her essence toward the Staff of Ignis. The flames within the staff fought against the shadows at first, the fire and darkness clashing violently, neither willing to yield.

But Riven commanded both.

He forced them together, just like his own abyssal flames.

Flames warped into tendrils of black fire, coiling around the spirit's form, branding her into the forging process. She let out a sharp breath—a sound between pain and exhilaration—as the abyssal flames dug into her being, reshaping her.

The first step of the forging was complete.

Now came the refining.

Riven's mind sharpened, his focus absolute.

"Form."

The shadows obeyed. The mist that had made up the spirit's body began to stretch, condense, solidify. The shape of a blade started to emerge—long, elegant, yet wickedly curved. The abyssal steel pulsed with both fire and darkness, its edges shifting between existence, as if undecided between being ethereal or tangible.

The Staff of Ignis warped, its form condensing, reshaping, twisting as it fused with the blade. The shaft burned away, its fiery core stripped and reforged into the very foundation of the weapon.

The grip formed first—sleek, wrapped in darkened leather that pulsed with abyssal heat. The crossguard followed, forged from the remnants of the staff's dragon-forged metal, gleaming with ember-like veins that pulsed faintly beneath the surface.

And the blade—

It was alive.

Not just a weapon, but a will given form.

Abyssal mist curled along its edges, shifting between reality and void. The fire of Ignis flickered within its core, making the blade pulse, as if it were breathing. It was not purely abyss. Not purely flame.

It was something new, just like his own flames.

The forging neared completion—but there was one final step.

Riven had to bind her.

His shadows surged, coiling around the half-formed weapon.

The spirit lashed out—the last remnant of her resistance flaring. Her mist surged, trying to break free, to reclaim her old self before the transformation was complete.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

But Riven was ready.

He tightened his grip on the forging process, his will crushing down on hers. "Do not fight me. You chose this."

Her mist shuddered.

Riven pressed on.

"I will not waste you like Velmorian. I will not let you be discarded and forgotten. You will have your vengeance—but you will have it as my blade."

The mist collapsed inward, drawn into the weapon in a single, decisive moment.

A shockwave exploded outward, sending a pulse of abyssal fire into the sky. The ground beneath them cracked, reality trembling at the finality of what had just occurred.

And when the mist faded—

Riven stood, his grip firm around the hilt.

The blade in his hand hummed—not with magic, but with presence.

It was sleek, blackened abyssal steel, its surface shifting like liquid shadow. Ember-like veins ran along the fuller, remnants of the Staff of Ignis's fiery power now woven into its form.

It was weightless, yet carried an undeniable lethality—as if eager to be wielded.

And then—

A voice, curling into his mind, smooth, cold, and watchful.

"You better prove worthy of wielding me, Abyss Born."

Riven smirked, running his fingers along the flat of the blade. The metal was warm beneath his touch, an unnatural contrast to the abyssal magic woven through it.

"You'll have your vengeance soon."

The weapon pulsed, almost as if amused.

Riven lifted the blade, testing its balance. It moved with him, not just a tool, but an extension of his will.

Fire and abyss.

Vengeance and control.

Power unlike anything else.

Riven exhaled, his grip tightening.

Tonight, the veil had been at its weakest. The dead had risen. A kingdom had trembled.

But he had forged something greater.

A blade fit for a king.

—x—

The weight of the newly forged blade settled into Riven's palm, its presence undeniable. It pulsed faintly, a rhythm like a second heartbeat, the abyss and fire within it harmonizing into something entirely new. It was unlike any weapon he had ever wielded—not just steel, not just magic, but something more.

Nyx stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable as she studied the blade. The remnants of abyssal mist still curled around its edges, struggling between tangibility and nothingness.

She extended a gloved hand, hovering just above the blade's surface. Her fingers twitched slightly. A test. And then—her touch met the abyssal steel.

A sharp hiss echoed through the clearing, a pulse of power rippling from the point of contact. Nyx barely flinched, her stance unwavering. But her lips parted, her breath slow, measured.

"Now that was impressive," Nyx murmured, her voice an edge above a whisper.

She traced the edge of the blade, her fingers skimming the liquid-like metal. "This isn't just an abyssal weapon," she mused. "The fire of Ignis lingers, but it doesn't burn. It moves with the abyss, not against it." Her gaze flicked to Riven, her lips curving slightly. "You fused them perfectly."

Riven rolled his wrist, watching how the weapon adjusted to his grip, shifting between weightless and solid with each movement. "I had no other choice," he said simply. "Fire and shadow—it had to be like my own flames. Otherwise, it wouldn't be mine."

The blade pulsed at that, the ember veins along its fuller flickering with something almost sentient.

Nyx hummed in quiet amusement. "It's not just yours." She glanced at the weapon once more. "She's still here."

Riven's smirk widened. "Of course, she is."

A quiet breath of laughter escaped Nyx, but it was short-lived.

A low, distant bell tolled across the Academy grounds, its deep chime rolling through the night air like a warning.

Nyx's expression sharpened instantly. "That's a summons."

Riven dismissed the sword into his inventory, its form vanishing in a slow swirl of black fire. "An emergency meeting," he murmured.

She nodded. "They'll want to discuss the attack." Her gaze flickered with something knowing. "Or at least, they'll want to discuss how their 'hero' fended it off."

Riven exhaled sharply, already predicting what was coming. "Cassiel."

Nyx made an unimpressed noise. "Without a doubt."

—x—

The Academy's grand hall was packed when Riven arrived.

Students, professors, and enforcers stood in rigid silence, their faces bathed in the flickering blue glow of mana crystals embedded in the towering obsidian pillars. The air was heavy with tension, thick with the murmurs of uneasy whispers as the crowd struggled to steady themselves after the night's events.

At the front of the chamber, seated upon an elevated platform, King Aldric of Solis observed the assembly with an unreadable expression. His golden armor gleamed under the light of the mana crystals, the sigil of the rising sun embossed across his chestplate a stark contrast to the heavy tension in the air. His fingers rested idly against the arm of his chair, but the sharpness in his gaze betrayed his calculating mind.

Beside him, the Academy's Headmaster stood, hands folded behind his back, his presence secondary to the authority radiating from the king.

Riven's gaze flickered across the hall, noting Cassiel's position near the front. The paladin stood with perfect posture—shoulders squared, divine energy still lingering around him, the remnants of battle clinging to his aura. He was waiting.

It was clear who they were about to hail as their savior.

The Headmaster stepped forward, his voice cutting through the hushed murmurs with practiced authority. "Tonight, the remnants of the fallen Shadow Kingdom infiltrated our city's defenses undetected, launching a direct assault on the academy. Undead horrors emerged from the abyss, seeking nothing but destruction."

Riven remained silent, arms crossed.

"They were repelled," the Headmaster continued. "And for that, we must give thanks to the unwavering efforts of our academy's finest."

He turned slightly, extending a hand toward Cassiel.

The paladin's expression remained neutral—collected, but not entirely modest. He stepped forward as the hall erupted in applause.

Riven's lips curled in amusement. Predictable.

"His holy power cleansed the battlefield," the Headmaster declared. "His blade struck down countless undead. Without him, the academy's defenses would have been breached. The dead would have overwhelmed us."

Riven barely resisted the urge to scoff.

It wasn't Cassiel's light that had ended the attack.

It was the forging of the blade.

The spirit's release had been the true cause of the disturbance. Once she had been bound, the dead had ceased their assault. But no one knew that. No one had seen.

Nyx, standing beside him, exhaled quietly, unimpressed.

Cassiel inclined his head slightly at the praise, ever the perfect knight. "I only did what was necessary to protect our people," he said evenly, his tone composed, carefully measured. "The undead must be purged wherever they appear."

"Indeed," the king finally spoke.

The room fell into a hush.

King Aldric was not a man who wasted words. His gaze swept across the assembly, measuring, weighing, assessing. When he spoke again, his voice carried an undeniable weight.

"The attacks are getting worse."

His words landed like a hammer.

"It is not just the academy," he continued. "Every month, more undead are sighted across the kingdom. The remnants of the Shadow Kingdoms forces refuse to fade."

Riven's expression didn't change, but his thoughts sharpened.

The king's gaze darkened, his fingers tightening slightly on the armrest. "We must remain vigilant. The creatures of the abyss seek only destruction. Necromancers, those who tamper with the dead, must be rooted out and dealt with before their corruption spreads."

A heavy silence followed.

The message was clear.

The Shadow Kingdom's revival would never be allowed.

Riven remained impassive, even as the king's words settled over the hall like a death sentence.

Nyx shifted slightly at his side, subtle enough that only he noticed. He didn't need to see her face to know what she was thinking.

War was brewing once more.

Riven exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle.

This would only escalate.

The kingdom would continue its hunt for necromancers, for the remnants of the Shadow Kingdom. They would rally their forces, strengthen their warriors, push their crusade further.

They would grow stronger.

But so would he.