Magus Reborn [Stubbing in Three Weeks]
237. Knocking at gates

As soon as the battle ended in his victory, Kai gave the tribal leaders time to rest and recover. He knew they needed it.

Out of all of them, Adil had taken the worst of it. Shards of glass had torn through his legs, one even breaching the side of his chest. It hadn’t been fatal, but it was still brutal enough that for a moment, he considered offering one of his potions.

But he didn’t.

Adil would only see it as an insult.

And it turned out, the worry had been unnecessary. Within minutes, a pair of Sand Knights arrived, carrying clothes soaked in herbal paste and a dark liquid in a bone flask. Kai couldn’t tell if it was a health potion or just a local tincture, but judging by the way the other council members didn’t rush to help or look alarmed, Adil would recover faster than his expectations.

Hence, he turned his back on the injured man and walked toward the rest of the tribal leaders, who had clustered together near the edge of the dueling ring. Maari, Husam, Saif, and Khalid stood close, speaking in low voices, but their eyes shifted as he approached.

The way they looked at him now—It was different. He could tell that they no longer saw an outsider trying to make demands. They saw only a strong Mage. He had faced all five of them together, and while none of them had gone all out, neither had he. And still—he’d won.

That was more than enough to shift the ground they stood on. Only now he could hope they’d go through what he asked for.

“That was a good duel, Count Arzan,” Khalid said in a steady voice.

Kai nodded. “It was. You all surprised me, quite a bit. It would’ve been a grander battle if I’d seen more of you using your elements.”

That made Maari chuckle, brushing a lock of wind-swept hair behind her ear. “Going by your last move,” she said, “I think we all agreed it wouldn’t have gone well for us.”

She gave him a sideways glance, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly.

“And if you're serious about what you told us… then we all need to be in good condition. No use showing off just to be bedridden when it matters.”

Kai inclined his head. “That’s fair. So you agree to my proposal?”

She met his gaze without blinking, then frowned slightly. “We still need to think about it. But,” she added, “you’ve shown your strength. And more than that—your courage. Not many would stand against all five of us. That’s something we’ll remember.”

Her eyes flicked across the ring toward Ansel, who stood a little apart from the group, arms folded and watching quietly.

“And one of our own has vouched for you,” she said.

Kai followed her gaze, then turned as Khalid stepped forward.

“You wouldn’t have gotten support otherwise,” Khalid admitted. “Not because of pride. But because we’ve barely managed to keep our people alive these past few years. Sending them to war—even for an important cause—felt like throwing stones at a mountain. I believe we weren't just at the edge of the cliff. But with the abductions…” His jaw clenched. “The orcs have crossed a line.”

Kai could see it in their eyes. They had hidden it during the meeting to gauge his intent, but it was on display. Not just weariness—but something colder. He knew that it was personal. The way Saif stared into the darkness, the way Maari’s hand curled at her sides, and the way Khalid’s gaze sank to the ground as if something inside him refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

He understood.

“They took members of your family,” Kai said.

Khalid looked up almost immediately. “You know?”

“Ansel told me.”

A beat passed.

“He didn’t tell me he said that,” Khalid muttered.

Before Kai could answer, another voice broke through—strong, bitter.

“They took our sons and daughters,” said Saif. He stepped forward, voice rough with barely restrained anger. “It’s not a secret. Not anymore. The Duneborns came into our lands and dragged away our blood.”

He looked straight at Kai.

“If you can help us get them back—if you mean what you say—then I’ll back your journey. Tower or no tower.”

Kai didn’t hesitate.

“If we can agree on terms,” he said, “I’ll personally lead my people to hunt those orcs down. No delay. While you gather your warriors, prepare for the march on the tower, I’ll take the fight to the ones who stole from you.” He looked across each of them. “I’ll need guides. Paths only your tribes know.”

Silence stretched between them. For the first time, no one looked away.

“That won’t be hard,” Khalid said, folding his arms. “But I believe we should check with the other tribes too. It’s possible they’ve had similar attacks. I was going to send out messengers earlier, but dealing with the aftermath… took time.”

Kai nodded once, then asked, “How many tribes are left?”

The question made Khalid’s jaw tighten. “Not many,” he said quietly. “Thirty-one. We hold a gathering every six moons,” he continued. “Some of us meet more often, others less. But the numbers… dwindle. Every time a tribe offends the orcs, even slightly, one of Khorvash’s generals rides in with their banner—and the whole tribe is exterminated.”

Kai narrowed his eyes. “And you don’t do anything?”

There was a sudden pause. Then Husam frowned deeply. “It doesn’t do anything.”

His voice reeked of bitterness. “The orcs treat us like livestock. Cattle they allow to graze so long as we keep our heads down. When we rise up… they make examples out of us. Even if all the thirty one tribe band together, we wouldn’t be strong enough to stop them. At least not with the god given artifacts they wield.” He spat, realising his mistake a second later. “Sorry, I mean human made artifacts.”

Kai nodded, everything making sense now. The fear. The inaction. It wasn’t because they lacked pride—but because survival had become its own kind of resistance. Still, a question had been nagging at Kai’s mind ever since he first heard about Khorvash.

He looked toward the ring at Adil getting treated with a paste and asked slowly, “Has this Khorvash grown in strength… gradually? I don’t mean tactics or artifacts,” he clarified. “I mean raw strength.”

The tribal leaders glanced at one another, confusion flickering across their faces—until Maari’s voice broke through the silence.

“I’ve seen him,” she said. “Four times in my life.”

The others turned to her, listening.

“Unfortunately, every time I did, I also watched him slaughter tribals. Entire squadrons of Sand Knights. And yes…” Her lips pressed into a line. “He’s changed.” She looked at Kai directly. “The first time, he was strong. Strong enough to take three knights on his own, but he needed help. The second time… five. Then ten. And the last time—two years ago—he fought twelve Sand Knights without using any of his artifacts.”

Her voice lowered.

“He crushed them. With his fists.” She inhaled sharply and looked directly into Kai’s eyes. “Why are you asking?”

He stared at the question reflecting in the woman’s eyes, his mind running a thousand miles. Strength like that didn’t come from training especially in a mana desert. It usually came from things that had higher involvement. And right now, he could imagine.

“I believe Khorvash is absorbing mana… from a leak in my mother’s tower.”

“What do you mean?” Khalid asked.

“Well, different creatures use mana differently. Mages channel it. Beasts sometimes store it. But orcs—they absorb it. Through their skin. Into their flesh. It strengthens them, warps them. The more they take in, the more powerful they become. In normal orc societies, those who can absorb more become leaders. That’s how they rise.”

He glanced around at the others, letting his gaze rest on each of them in turn.

“But this is the Ashari Desert. Mana is thin here— basically starved. So the orcs that live here have probably never reached their full potential. They’ve been… limited. Until now. Mage towers… they aren’t simple buildings. They’re constructed on Aethum stones. These crystals pulse with condensed mana—and if something damages the foundation, it can leak. That leak would have permeated the atmosphere… might’ve overpowered the concealment enchantments.”

He drew in a breath.

“But if someone like Khorvash is absorbing all of it—”

Maari’s eyes widened as she continued his words“—then the tower remains hidden.”

“And he gets stronger,” Husam finished.

Kai nodded. “That’s my conclusion. And I’m confident about it. The tower is leaking mana. Khorvash is feeding on it. That’s why his power has been growing unnaturally fast.”

Khalid’s face darkened. “He proclaims himself the chosen of Belkhor.”

Kai chuckled. “Do you really think an orc knows what’s happening to him?”

He shook his head.

“They have no real study of magic. No foundations in runes, formations, or arcane theory. If there is a leak—he probably believes the mana he’s absorbing is a divine blessing. A ‘gift’ from Belkhor. Fanatics attribute everything to their gods. They don’t ask why something happens. They only kneel and thank the sky.”

The silence that followed was broken by Khalid’s voice, quieter now.

“We… also have gods we worship.”

“You’re not fanatics,” he said simply. “There’s a difference between faith and fanaticism. They might look alike from a distance… but one builds temples, the other burns them down. It’s the difference between a religion and a cult.”

His voice lowered a notch.

“Either way, I’m not here to preach.”

Maari nodded. “We appreciate the information. You’ve given us much to think about.” She exchanged a glance with the other leaders before continuing. “We’ll give you an answer by tomorrow morning. And if we decide to do something about the orcs… I’ll personally accompany you to the other tribes. If you truly mean to go deep into orc territory, you’ll need all the tribes behind you. Not just a handful of names.”

Kai’s eyes lingered on hers for a moment. He inclined his head. “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

He didn’t say anything more. Just turned and walked back toward his people. But even as he moved away, his thoughts continued to flow inside his mind. They would agree.

He had seen it in their eyes. In the weight of silence after he spoke, in the way even Adil had avoided eye contact toward the end of their fight. They were tribal leaders—but they were also fathers, siblings, sons and daughters who had lost kin and watched their people bleed. His strength had spoken to them, but it was his offer that was without games—that had opened the door.

Now, it was a matter of how they would move. How fast they could find the abducted. How many more tribes could be convinced before the orcs realized someone had begun to stir the sands against them.

Time, Kai thought, his jaw tightening. It was always a battle against time.

***

Francis impatiently tapped his leg against the wooden floor of the carriage, the stack of parchment across his lap were long forgotten. Minutes trickled by like molasses, slow and sticky with irritation. It had already been half an hour since they stopped, and not a single wheel had turned.

Through the window, the sun was beginning to set, dyeing the sky with streaks of amber. Francis sighed. Another night in this gods-damned carriage? He had been promised a proper bed. A soft one, with clean sheets and a goose-feather pillow. Not straw under his back and a lump for a cushion.

Growling under his breath, he shoved the door open and stepped down, the cold evening air biting into his joints. It rattled his bones—but not as cruelly as it used to. Two years ago, a chill like this would have sent him to bed aching for days. But now?

Now, he thought with a wry grin, now I’m practically spry.

He owed that to Lord Arzan. Ever since he had taken up residence in Veyrin, the young lord had sent him elixirs and potions like clockwork. Expensive ones. Potent ones. The kind even nobles only took during emergencies. Every month, without fail. It had done wonders for his constitution.

The pain in his knees had dulled. His fingers no longer stiffened like rusted hinges. The fatigue that once weighed on him like a curse was now little more than an annoyance. He stood straighter these days—and he noticed the way people looked at him differently for it.

He pulled his robe tighter and walked down the line. A row of luxurious carriages stood lined up to the right. Gold filigree, crested lions, and winged swords stared back at him like smug little ghosts. He recognized a few of the houses. Nobles he had intended to court once they were properly inside Hermil. The fact that they were all here together…

If someone didn’t know better, Francis mused, they’d think King Sullivan was dead and they’d all come to squabble over the crown.

He didn’t dwell on it long. Something tugged at his focus—the gates. He adjusted course, picking up his pace until, after five minutes of walking, the city’s southern gate came into view. It loomed tall and wide, guards stationed at both ends, lanterns flickering to life.

Francis slowed, eyes narrowing as he observed the scene.

On the left, a procession of carriages was being steadily allowed through. The guards examined each crest, compared it against a list, and waved them inside without hassle. It was all very proper.

But that wasn’t what made him pause. It was the names. Or rather, the ranks. Several of those let through were Viscounts. One was even a Baron. Francis’s jaw clenched slightly.

Our house outranks half the men being let in, he thought. So why in all hells are we still waiting?

He glanced back toward the line of carriages behind him. Their crest was clear—polished, pristine, unmistakable.

Count of Veralt. Appointed by the King himself.

And yet they were stuck.

Francis’s eyes narrowed further, his gut twisting in suspicion. Something is not right. He huffed, cold breath curling in the air as unease itched at the back of his neck. A bad premonition.

His eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on Killian and a handful of their men near the gate, locked in what looked to be a tense argument. A city guard—clearly a commoner—stood opposite them, arms folded tight, jaw clenched stubbornly.

Francis adjusted his cloak and made his way toward them, the chill forgotten. Killian glanced at him as he approached.

“This man,” Killian said, voice simmering with irritation, “is disrespecting the name of Kellius—refusing to let us through before the others. Says we’re not allowed to move forward.”

Francis turned his gaze to the guard, who met his stare with surprising steel for someone so far beneath them. “And why is that so?” he asked. “Be careful with your answer. House Kellius will not suffer insults without consequences.”

The guard flinched slightly—just enough to show he understood the weight of the name—but recovered quickly, squaring his shoulders. “Orders came from the first and third prince,” he said. “They said their loyal followers are to be let through first. I’m just following commands, my lord.”

Francis’s brows drew together. “So you’re breaking the hierarchy? Tradition dictates those of higher title pass first.”

“Please understand,” the guard said, sounding more desperate. “The rules come from the crown. This isn’t my decision to make. It’s above me.”

Francis didn’t respond immediately. His eyes shifted to Killian, whose fingers had dropped to rest on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white with tension. A single, subtle shake of the head from Francis was enough.

Not here. Not now.

They weren’t in Veralt or Veyrin anymore. Stirring trouble at Hermil’s gates would only confirm whatever lies the Princes had whispered into court ears. A noble striking down a guard—what better way to turn public opinion?

He turned his attention back to the guard. “Then fetch me someone who can make a decision. Your guard captain.”

The man blinked. “I—I was told to follow the Princes’ orders—”

“And did those orders include barring conversation with your superiors?” Killian interjected, eyes narrowing. “We’re not asking you to break the line. Just to send word.”

The guard hesitated, clearly cornered. He looked behind the gate, lips parting as if to argue again, but Killian moved closer, resting a firm hand on the man’s shoulder.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said smoothly. “Ask someone else to call him.”

The guard swallowed. “Why don’t I just go fetch him myself?” the guard muttered, stepping back with a grimace.

“No,” Killian said flatly, and that one word held enough edge to make the man freeze again.

Before the tension could rise further, Francis caught movement from the gate. Two figures in crisp guard uniforms strode toward them, head held high.

Both bowed the moment they approached. “Lord Francis, Knight Killian,” one of them said formally. “We apologize for the delay. You may proceed inside immediately.”

“But the Princes—”

One of the men turned to the gatekeeper, and his eyes hardened into a glare sharp enough for the man to wince back. “What are you doing? We had orders from the King himself. Do you think the Princes outrank that?”

The guard’s face drained of all colours. He sputtered, eyes wide, and shook his head quickly. “No—no, of course not. I didn’t know. I wasn’t told…”

“I’m sure,” the senior guard snapped. “We’ll deal with this later.”

Francis didn’t say a word to the guard. He simply looked at him, letting the silence speak volumes. He’d expected King Sullivan to remain neutral, perhaps even test Arzan’s faction a little. But this… This was an explicit gesture of favor.

Still, calling for the guard’s punishment now would only cause more noise. Later, Francis thought. There’ll be plenty of time to clean house once we’ve planted our roots.

“Let’s go,” he said to Killian, turning toward the now-open gates. The others followed, and behind them, Francis could hear the hissed scolding of the junior guard as the other two set into him.

But Francis’s thoughts were already far ahead.

“The games have begun,” he muttered, his voice low.

Killian nodded beside him, grim. “And we’re still the weaker hand. The Princes hold more sway.”

“For now,” Francis replied. “But our goal isn’t to play their game. It’s to build a faction that outgrows both of theirs.”

Killian gave a short nod, but his jaw was tight with tension.

A sudden chill passed over Francis then—not the wind, not age—but something that scraped against instinct. He shivered, pulling his cloak tighter. As they sat in the carriage and passed through the gate and into Hermil’s outer ring, he glanced up at the darkening sky.

Red spilled across the heavens, bleeding into the dusk like an omen.

Will we rise or be crushed before we could do anything?

He exhaled softly, watching his breath curl in the air.

Time will tell.

***

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