Rowan cast [Firebolt].

  The spell was weaker than his new Chant by a substantial margin, but it was also faster. And with the speed the Wrymling was closing the distance, that was exactly what he needed.

  It forced the monster to dodge to the side, slowing its charge but doing no damage. The spell impacted the ground, sending out a small shower of dust and dirt. Its mana was greedily absorbed by the ground, funneled deeper inwards.

  Rowan faced a choice.

  The vent was keeping his reserves topped off, but was that what he truly needed?

  Staying here effectively traded his mobility—one of his greatest strengths—for staying power—something he already had in abundance. And if this fight took everything he had in his Core, that meant he was doing something wrong.

  Another [Firebolt] formed in his hand, the spell coming to him like a finely honed reflex.

  During a fight, ten seconds was a long time. A [Fireball] would have been able to take care of the Wyrmling with relative ease, but there was no way Rowan would be able to actually cast it.

  He raised his hand, letting the spell fly.

  Once more, the monster used its almost frightening speed to move to the side. Reducing Rowan’s attack to nothing more than a deterrent.

  As it got closer, dodging his spells with ease, Rowan felt his muscles tighten in anticipation.

  A Silver-ranked monster with a Core was a dangerous opponent. It was faster, stronger, and more durable than Rowan. And having access to mana on top of that made fighting it a perfect test for his newfound strength.

  Obliterating things with a wave of his hand was certainly fun, but what Rowan needed was something to push his limits—force him to find the extent of his abilities.

  He grinned. But first, let’s see if you can make me move.

  Finally, when it crossed the halfway mark between the vent and the wall, Rowan changed his approach. It was in range, and he wasn’t planning on letting that go to waste.

  Serpents of Fire, he intoned. A tendril of flame, larger and thicker than any he’d cast before appeared out of his back, with another following soon after.

  The strain from infusing his body, drawing in mana from the vent, and holding two spells active at the same time was about as far as Rowan could push himself right now. If he had to guess, he could manage four in normal circumstances. But they would have been much smaller than the ones he was currently wielding.

  The Wyrmling’s eyes widened in alarm.

  It hissed in panic as a whip came crashing down towards it, sizzling as it cut through the air. Rowan’s spell impacted the ground with a loud boom, the force leaving a small crater. The Plateau tried to take its due, but he resisted its pull, his Intent unwavering.

  Keeping up the pressure, Rowan swung his other whip at the Wyrmling, trying to catch it off guard. It finally seemed to have had enough, drawing on its own mana. The monster’s eyes glowed a burning red, its claws taking on the same hue.

  Monsters didn’t have skills the same way members of the enlightened races had them. And the same was true for spells. Their magic was instinctual, almost basic in its application. But that didn’t make it any less deadly.

  Rowan’s other whip cracked towards the Wyrmling, coming from its side.

  Seemingly tired of dodging, the beast let out a loud roar, its burning claws intercepting his spell. They wrapped around it with a vice like grip, the beast grunting from the effort of holding it back. It skidded across the ground, eyes never leaving Rowan.

  His other whip came from above, aiming to crush the monster.

  The Wyrmling glanced up for barely a moment before its jaws took on the same hue as its eyes and claws, catching the tendril with a powerful bite.

  Rowan smirked.

  Got you.

  Casting another whip wasn’t something he was capable of. His focus was almost completely occupied by the two he already had active and everything else he was doing on top of that. But two were more than enough.

  He’d come here to push himself, and that was exactly what Rowan planned on doing.

  The two massive tendrils held the Wyrmling in place, a massive amount of mana coursing through his channels. He gritted his teeth, the strain he was under rising as Rowan attempted to cast another spell.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  It was a feeling unlike any other.

  A headache started blooming to life behind his eyes, his hands shaking from the effort of dragging more mana through his body. Rowan had no way of knowing for sure, but he was pretty damn certain even Yellow-Core mages would have had trouble replicating his feat.

  He savored the pain. It was the price of progress, and Rowan was more than willing to pay it.

  “Piercing Flame,” he whispered, his voice straining.

  A red ember flared in the palm of his hand. Rapidly growing brighter as more mana filled the spell.

  The Wyrmling realized what was happening, but even still, there wasn’t much it could do. Rowan’s whips kept it under pressure, forcing it to defend. It roared, throwing the burning tendrils to the side in an attempt to disengage. But they came back with a vengeance, the faint crackle of his flames joined by a sharp crack as they sliced through the air.

  This was where Rowan thrived. Where he felt most alive. There were no errant thoughts clouding his mind—no grief or anger—all that was left was the thrill that came with triumph.

  A wide grin stretched across his face as he let the spell fly. The [Firebolt] erupted from his hand, heading straight towards the Wyrmling.

  It snarled in panic, trying and failing to keep his whips at bay. But no matter what it tried, it wasn’t enough.

  The spell impacted the immobilized monster right under its head, piercing through its neck and shooting out the other side before dissipating, its mana spent.

  For a moment, nothing happened. The malice in its eyes undiminished. Its powerful body held his whips at back, the glow from its own inherent spells sharpening, growing in strength. But then it staggered. Its leg buckled and its grip loosened.

  Slowly, life faded from the Wyrmlings' eyes. Leaving them cloudy and unfocused.

  With nothing holding them back, Rowan’s whips tore it apart. Severing limbs and burning through its hardened carapace.

  As the dust settled, all that was left was a smoldering torso.

  Rowan stared at the scene for a moment before letting his spells drop. He exhaled a shaky breath, letting the tension drain from his body as the last embers of his spell flickered out.

  He stood amidst the heat and silence, the cavern eerily still after the chaos of battle. His Core hummed steadily, refilling itself from the vent, but the ache in his limbs and the pounding in his head reminded him of the strain he’d just endured.

  A Wyrmling had been a foe that would have driven him to flee just days prior. But now?

  Rowan smiled, staring at the smoldering remains. “Not so tough anymore.”

  The words were soft, almost a whisper. He was no longer the weak, dull disappointment of his family. Today, he’d taken the first real step at becoming a mage worthy of his family’s name.

  Pride swelled in his chest. He wasn’t just advancing in rank. He was proving his strength—to himself, and to those that were no longer here to see it. Proving that he was becoming something worth remembering.

  Kai cawed sharply from his perch, snapping Rowan out of his thoughts. His familiar glided down from the ledge, landing gracefully next to the Wyrmling’s mangled torso. His talons clicked against the scorched rock as he began digging into the monster’s chest with precision.

  Rowan watched in amusement as Kai worked. “Straight to the good stuff, huh?”

  His familiar ignored him, focused entirely on his task.

  With a triumphant trill, Kai finally pulled free his prize—a jagged, faintly glowing Core. The deep red light within it pulsed weakly, like the last embers of a dying flame.

  The Wyrmling hadn’t been weak, and while its Core was no Epic-grade treasure like the shamans, it was valuable nonetheless.

  Kai puffed out his chest, clearly proud of his find.

  Rowan chuckled. “Sure, let’s ignore the fact that it was me that did all the work.”

  That didn’t discourage his familiar. He threw the Core into the air and gulped it down, satisfied with his meal.

  But the little glutton was rarely satisfied for long. Turning his head, he dug into the charred flesh with unrestrained enthusiasm.

  Rowan shook his head, taking a moment to assess himself.

  His reserves were full, the vents steady flow ensuring he was ready in case of another fight. His Core felt stable, humming with energy. The strain that should have been there from channeling so much mana nowhere to be found.

  He allowed himself a moment to revel in the victory.

  The Wyrmling had been a good test, and while it hadn’t been easy, it hadn’t pushed him to the brink either.

  Rowan clenched his fists, his grin returning.

  I can’t believe how much of a difference advancing actually made.

  The thought of rejoining the Grove sent a ripple of excitement through him. Omi’s healing cooldown would be over by now, which meant the party would be gearing up for their next quest. And Rowan couldn’t wait to show them what he was capable of.

  The Plateau, for all its dangers and opportunities, had served its purpose. Rowan summoned a token from the Vault. It was the same type as the one he’d summoned all those months ago, when he left Eiselyth. A token to the Verdant Plains.

  He ran a finger over the engravings, marveling for a moment at the beauty of its design.

  Thank the gods they come with a beacon, Rowan thought to himself. Trekking across the Wilds to find Litwick would have been a major pain in the ass.

  “Alright you winged menace, time to get back to—”

  A faint noise reached his ears.

  Rowan froze, his senses sharpening. The sound had come from one of the many tunnels leading into the cavern—a low, guttural growl that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  Kai paused mid-meal, his head snapping up as he let out a warning trill. His wings flared, his bright eyes scanning the darkness.

  “Up,” Rowan said firmly, his familiar immediately complying. Flying back up to his perch.

  The vent’s mana still flowed around him, ensuring he had plenty of power to deal with whatever creeped through the darkness.

  The growl came again, louder this time, echoing through the cavern. There was a strange resonance to it, and it took Rowan a moment to realize why that was. A rhythmic pounding reached his ears, footsteps approaching from the tunnel.

  His pulse quickened. “I think he really did bring friends,” he muttered, glancing at the massacred body of the Wyrmling.

  Rowan weighed his options. The teleportation token in his hand offered a fairly quick escape, but curiosity tugged at him. The Plateau was a crucible, and whatever was approaching could very well be another test—a chance to push himself even further.

  The pounding grew louder, joined by the sharp, unmistakable crack of splintering stone.

  Rowan’s grip on the token tightened as he stared into the darkness, a smile appearing on his face despite himself.

  “Well,” he said, the thrill of battle once more flaring to life, “one more fight couldn’t hurt, right?”

  Deciding to be proactive, he started casting [Fireball].

  The shadows at the far end of the tunnel shifted, and three shapes began to emerge.

  Rowan’s eyes widened.

  Fuck.

  It was a thin line between confidence and arrogance, and Rowan knew he veered into the latter more often than not. But as the three—almost Gold-ranked—Wyrmlings entered the cavern, he didn’t hesitate.

  Rowan sent a pulse of mana into the token, activating it.

  It would take a minute for it to affix itself. A minute that he had a feeling would feel much longer.

  The Plateau, it seemed, wasn’t done with him just yet.