The Glitched Mage

The training grounds were alive with movement.

After Seraphis had slithered off to patrol, Riven had returned to find Krux overseeing a grueling endurance drill. Recruits ran laps under the weight of mana-infused pressure, their muscles straining as sweat dripped onto the packed dirt. Those who faltered were met with Krux's sharp voice barking at them to keep moving.

Nearby, Aria had taken a group of would-be assassins to a separate section of the field, where they practiced maneuvering through obstacles without making a sound. Every so often, she would flick a small throwing dagger toward one of them, just to see how quickly they reacted.

Riven observed from the raised platform, his gaze calculating.

Some of them would make it.

Most wouldn't.

"Your orders, my king?" Krux asked, stepping up beside him. His golden eyes gleamed with approval as he glanced at the struggling recruits.

Riven exhaled. "We push them further. We don't know what lies ahead for our kingdom so they need to be prepared and they need to be prepared fast."

Krux's grin sharpened. "I thought you might say that. I'm actually surprised at some of the strength and endurance of these guys."

Riven stepped forward, raising a hand.

At once, the recruits halted their drills, panting as they turned toward him. Some stood straight, others trembled from exhaustion, but none dared look away.

"You've proven you can endure," Riven said, his voice calm yet absolute. "Now we test your limits."

His shadow flickered.

In an instant, darkness surged outward from beneath Riven's feet, stretching across the training grounds like ink spilling over parchment. The temperature dropped. The air thickened with raw abyssal energy.

From the shifting blackness, silhouettes of Riven emerged.

Not mere illusions, but fully formed clones that were perfectly matched in detail to their king down to the smirk he always wore.

The recruits stiffened as they counted.

Twenty.

Twenty versions of their king, standing between them and victory.

"These will be your opponents," Riven declared. "Defeat them, or fall trying."

A sharp inhale from the gathered warriors. One of the recruits—a tall man with jagged scars along his arms—stepped forward, clenching his fists. "You want us to fight this many versions of you? We wouldn't stand a chance against one of you let alone twenty!"

Riven's smirk was razor-sharp. "They aren't me," he said, his gaze glinting in the dim light. "I've weakened them—just enough to give you a fighting chance. But make no mistake…" His gaze swept over the recruits. "They're still more than enough to put you in the dirt. Now—prove you can stand."

His fingers twitched—

And the clones moved.

Like shadows untethered, they rushed forward in perfect synchronization, their attacks seamless and precise.

The trial had begun.

Robert barely had time to react.

One of the shadow clones blurred in front of him, a flicker of abyssal energy before its fist slammed toward his ribs. He twisted, barely dodging in time, but the air shook with the force behind the strike.

Across the training grounds, the recruits fought for their lives.

Some wielded weapons, whilst others used elemental magic, but none of them were prepared for the clones' relentless assault. They moved with terrifying precision, never pausing, never hesitating—just like Riven had warned them.

Robert blocked another strike, gritting his teeth as he countered with a quick slash of his dagger. The blade passed through the clone's body like cutting through smoke—before it solidified at the last moment, catching his wrist in an iron grip.

Before he could react, the shadow pulled, sending him crashing onto the dirt.

He gasped for breath. Fast. Too fast.

Nearby, another recruit—a woman wielding a halberd—tried to keep distance, swinging her weapon to carve space between her and her attacker.

It didn't work.

The clone sidestepped effortlessly, weaving through the arc of her swing before appearing behind her in a blur of motion. A kick to the back of her knee sent her collapsing, her weapon tumbling from her grasp.

The clones didn't stop.

They pressed forward. Unrelenting. Unforgiving.

Panic began to seep into the recruits' movements. Their formations faltered, their reactions slowing.

Krux, watching from the sidelines, let out a low hum. "They're breaking."

Nyx smirked, arms crossed. "They should be. They're fighting one of the things they fear the most, it's enough to have them hesitate and doubt."

From the raised platform, Riven stood motionless, watching everything.

The clones weren't perfect copies of him. His mana strained under the weight of maintaining them all at once. They weren't as strong, nor as fast, but they didn't need to be.

This wasn't a battle for survival.

It was a battle to adapt — to force his recruits past their limits.

And yet…

His gaze flicked across the battlefield.

Most of them still fought like soldiers.

Reacting to attacks. Defending themselves. But never dictating the battle.

Wrong.

He clenched his fingers slightly—

And the clones grew more aggressive.

Their strikes became sharper, their movements faster, pushing the recruits further into exhaustion.

Riven's patience thinned.

"Still too slow," he murmured. His voice wasn't loud, yet it cut through the battlefield like a blade. "You hesitate. You defend."

One of the recruits barely managed to dodge an incoming strike before stumbling back.

Riven's gaze burned. "If you do nothing but endure, you will eventually die."

His words sent a ripple through the struggling warriors.

Robert gritted his teeth, his knuckles white as he adjusted his grip on his daggers. His arms ached, his muscles burning from the strain of constant defense. He had barely been able to keep up with a single clone, let alone the relentless assault of the others.

But Riven's words echoed in his mind.

"If you do nothing but endure, you will die."

A surge of defiance burned in his chest.

He had been reacting this entire time—deflecting, dodging, barely holding on. That wasn't going to be enough.

He had to strike back.

Without hesitation, Robert inhaled sharply, focusing on the mana surging through his veins. He stepped into the clone's range, rather than away from it, his daggers igniting with Wind Blade as he slashed upward.

The air screamed as the crescent arc of wind magic tore through the space between them.

The clone jerked, its movement lagging just a fraction of a second. Robert saw the opening and took it—his body twisted as he drove his other dagger forward, embedding it into the clone's shoulder.

The shadow form rippled, its body flickering as the magic disrupted its structure.

Then—it dissolved.

Robert barely had a moment to process his victory before another clone rushed at him. But this time, he was ready.

He didn't wait for it to strike first.

With a sharp exhale, he thrust both daggers forward, a surge of Wind Pressure bursting from his blades, pushing the clone back. The moment its footing wavered, Robert closed the distance. His daggers became a blur, slicing through the air in precise, deadly arcs.

The second clone shattered.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then, as if his breakthrough had set off a chain reaction, the battlefield changed.

The other recruits stopped defending and started fighting.

A recruit wielding fire magic abandoned his panicked casting and focused. His hands moved in precise motions as he conjured a controlled burst of Fire Lance, aiming not where the clone stood—but where it was about to move.

The moment the shadow flickered forward, the flames met it mid-step, incinerating it instantly.

Another recruit, an earth mage, stopped retreating and slammed his foot into the ground. Earth Spikes erupted beneath the clone attacking him, impaling it before it could adjust.

The halberd-wielding woman who had been knocked down before gritted her teeth. This time, she didn't swing blindly. She planted her feet, let her mana flow, and spun her weapon in a calculated sweep, reinforcing it with Water Surge. The enhanced strike carved through two clones in a single, fluid motion.

One by one, the clones began falling.

And for the first time since the battle had begun—the recruits were no longer just surviving.

They were winning.

From the sidelines, Krux let out a low whistle. "Now it's getting interesting! Damn, this is more than I expected."

Riven, still standing on the raised platform, remained silent. His eyes swept over the battlefield, watching as his recruits finally started acting like warriors.

His mana pulsed, the strain of maintaining so many clones weighing on him. The remaining shadows flickered, their forms growing unstable as his reserves thinned.

It was time to end it.

He raised a hand—and in an instant, the remaining clones dissolved into nothing.

Silence fell over the training grounds.

The recruits stood among the dissipating shadows, chests heaving, sweat dripping from their brows. Some had minor injuries—burns, cuts, bruises—but they stood.

Riven exhaled slowly, rolling his neck as the pressure in his mana heart lessened. He stepped forward, his voice carrying through the still air.

"You learned something today."

The recruits straightened instinctively.

"You thought this was a test of strength," Riven continued, his expression unreadable. "It wasn't. Strength alone means nothing if you don't know how to use it."

He let his words settle for a moment before he continued.

"Against true enemies, you won't have the luxury of reacting. You must think, anticipate, strike first. Or you will die."

His flames flickered around his fingers as he cast a sharp look over the group. "Remember that."

The recruits, still catching their breath, nodded. Their eyes were different now—harder, sharper. They had faced the impossible and pushed through. They weren't just standing because they had survived.

They were standing because they had grown.

Krux crossed his arms, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Looks like some of them might actually be worth training after all."

Nyx hummed, tilting her head. "A good few of them."

Riven smirked, satisfied.

The real training could now begin.

—x—

The fire crackled softly, its warm glow casting flickering shadows over the gathered warriors. The encampment, though bustling during the day, had settled into a quiet hum of murmured conversations and the distant hammering of construction crews working late into the night.

Riven sat at the edge of the campfire, watching the flames dance against the logs. His generals were seated nearby—Krux sharpening his blade, Nyx absently tossing a dagger between her fingers.

The recruits who had survived the trial sat a short distance away, still catching their breath from the day's grueling training. Some clutched their injuries, wrapping bandages around fresh wounds. Others simply stared at the fire, their gazes distant as they processed the battles they had fought.

Robert was among them, his daggers resting across his lap. His eyes, once bright with youthful arrogance, now carried a newfound weight.

Good.

They were learning.

Riven leaned back against his chair, exhaling slowly. The recruits weren't strong yet. But they would be. He would make sure of it.

Then—

A shiver ran through the night air.

The warmth of the fire seemed to flicker. The torches set up around the perimeter wavered slightly, their flames dimming as if something unseen had passed over them.

A ripple of unease spread through the camp.

Riven sat up, his fingers twitching. His senses prickled, a whisper of wrongness creeping along his skin.

He wasn't the only one who felt it.

Krux straightened, hand gripping his sword. Nyx stilled, her usually relaxed expression sharpening into focus.

Then—

A low groan echoed from beyond the encampment. The sound was inhuman, dry and rasping, like wind whistling through hollow bones.

A moment later, shadows began to stir at the edge of the encampment and Riven stood to his feet, his eyes widened as he realised what was approaching.

Figures lurched forward.

Dozens of them.

Rotting flesh, tattered armor, and glowing blue eyes.

It was a horde of undead.

—They were under attack.

Before anyone could react, Seraphis moved. A blur of pearl-white scales streaked past the campfire, faster than even Riven could track. One moment, the divine serpent lay coiled beside the tents, basking in the warmth of the embers—the next, she had lunged forward, her massive form slamming into the encroaching undead like a living spear of golden light.

A thunderous boom cracked through the night as her immense tail whipped out, shattering the first wave of corpses. The brittle undead scattered like broken dolls, their bones crunching beneath the sheer weight of her strike. Dust and flecks of rotted flesh filled the air, the stench of death thickening. A guttural hiss left Seraphis as she sank her fangs into the skull of a knight, her golden eyes burning with savage intent. The corpse twitched, its blue glow flickering violently before going completely still.

Riven barely blinked.

She was fast—too fast. He knew she was holding back, but this? Even Krux, who rarely looked surprised, let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Seraphis coiled back, her forked tongue flickering as she surveyed the battlefield, tail twitching with irritation. Riven felt it through their bond—she was straining, restrained by the limits of his own power. She wanted to unleash her full might, to obliterate everything in sight, but she couldn't. Not yet.

Her power was still tied to him, and his own mana, though vast, was not enough to sustain her full strength effortlessly. A soft, frustrated hiss escaped her, but she did not relent, launching herself forward once more to crush another knight's ribcage into dust.

The camp erupted into chaos.

Krux was already moving, his golden eyes gleaming as a sword materialised in his grip, radiating raw mana as he charged forward. "Move!" he barked, his voice carrying over the rising battle cries.

Nyx vanished into the shadows, her sword flashing as she cut down the first undead that stepped into her reach, her movements precise, effortless. Aria had already perched atop one of the wooden barricades, her twin daggers glowing with dark violet mana, scanning the approaching horde with cold calculation.

Despite their exhaustion, the recruits reacted instantly. The Shadow Knights scrambled for their weapons, adrenaline overriding fatigue as they formed a line of defense, elemental magic flaring to life around them.

Riven stepped forward, his abyssal energy crackling at his fingertips, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield. The undead were not fresh. They were old, armor rusted, bones brittle, their tattered banners marked with the insignia of the Shadow Kingdom. His kingdom. No… his predecessor's.

Something was wrong.

His flames ignited as he flicked his wrist, sending a torrent of black fire ripping through the nearest cluster of undead. The wave of flame engulfed them instantly, their hollow eyes burning out as their corpses crumbled into ash. But even as they fell, more came.

They dragged themselves out of the darkness like maggots writhing from a rotting corpse, their dead eyes locked onto the encampment. And worse—their movements were not mindless.

They weren't aimless husks shambling toward the nearest target. They were moving with intent.

As if drawn by something.

Riven's stomach twisted.

Then, it hit him.

His abyssal magic. His shadows. He had called them.

These undead had been slumbering for decades, maybe centuries—buried remnants of the old Shadow Kingdom's armies. And now, they had awoken. But why? Why attack him?

His mana flared in frustration.

Nyx materialized at his side, her voice deadly calm. "They don't belong to you."

Riven's fingers tightened around his staff he pulled from his inventory. "What?"

"These are not yours to command," Nyx said, her voice steady. "They were raised by Velmorian. Look at their armor—the insignia they bear. They belonged to the former Shadow King."

The weight of her words settled over him like a curse.

Velmorian.

Even in death, his influence lingered.

The realization burned through Riven like ice. The former Shadow King's army had once obeyed his will, but now, with their master gone, they were nothing but aimless corpses with nowhere to go. No master. No commands.

Only one instinct remained— kill.

Kill everything.

Destroy anything that moved.

And that included him.

His jaw clenched. Without a will binding them, they had no distinction between friend or foe. The shadows had drawn them here—his shadows—and now they sought to destroy what called them.

There was no saving them —no claiming them.

They were a threat.

Which meant there was only one solution.

Riven raised his staff, its abyssal fire illuminating his features in the firelight. His voice was cold, absolute.

"Kill them all."

His generals did not hesitate.

Krux's grin was wolfish as he surged forward, golden mana flaring around him. His fists cut through three undead at once, their decayed forms exploding into dust under the sheer force. Aria vanished and reappeared in the middle of the horde, her daggers whispering through the air, her attacks a dance of graceful death.

Nyx moved like a shadow, phasing through the ranks, her strikes silent, lethal.

The recruits followed.

Fireballs erupted into the sky, scorching undead where they stood. Wind blades carved through bone and armor, severing heads with surgical precision. Earth spikes shot up from the ground, impaling their rotting foes.

The battle was in full force.

Seraphis, still bound by Riven's limited strength, struck wherever she could, her frustration evident. She could do more—she wanted to do more—but his power wasn't strong enough to let her unleash everything.

Riven clenched his jaw.

He needed to grow stronger.

He needed to expand his control.

If he couldn't even command the remnants of his own kingdom's undead, then he had a long way to go.

Krux's voice cut through the battlefield. "My liege! We need to end this before they overrun the lower camp!"

Riven exhaled sharply. He had been too caught up in his thoughts.

No more wasting time.

He raised a hand, energy surging like a tidal wave. The flames at his fingertips coiled, turning into something deeper, something hungrier. A void of pure destruction.

"Fall back," he commanded, his voice carrying over the battlefield.

The Shadow Knights hesitated for only a moment before obeying, pulling away as Riven took center stage.

Abyssal fire erupted.

The sky darkened.

The air grew heavy, as if the world itself recoiled from the sheer force of his mana.

A wave of pure, annihilation swept across the battlefield, consuming everything in its path. The undead didn't even have time to react. The moment the fire touched them, their bodies collapsed into dust. Armor melted. Swords disintegrated.

The remnants of Velmorian's army, once formidable, were erased in an instant.

Silence followed.

The battlefield, once crawling with the dead, was empty.

Only ashes remained.

Riven exhaled, feeling the weight of his mana reserves drop significantly. His flames flickered, then dimmed.

The battle was over.

But the implications lingered.

Krux ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "Well, I wasn't expecting that to happen."

Nyx watched the dying embers of the battlefield, her obsidian eyes unreadable. "This won't be the last," she murmured. "As long as the remnants of the old Shadow Kingdom remain, more will rise." She exhaled, crossing her arms. "I've heard whispers—rumors that undead hordes have been attacking the Solis Kingdom's borders for months now. And tonight, they came for us."

Nyx's gaze flicked toward Riven, sharp and knowing. "It seems they've been aware of you for a while."

A sudden pulse of raw fury exploded from Riven, dark and suffocating. "Fuck!" The sheer force of his frustration lashed out like a violent wave, making those nearest to him instinctively step back. Even his generals, hardened warriors who had seen him at his most ruthless, flinched.

Riven sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to steady his raging emotions, but the damage was already done. His generals dropped to their knees in unison, heads bowed.

"We'll apologize, my liege," Aria said swiftly, her voice tight with urgency. "We failed to detect the horde during our scouting missions."

"It's fine," Riven said, waving her off, his voice clipped but measured. "We don't have enough people to cover the area properly yet."

A heavy silence settled over the encampment. The weight of his rage had passed, but the tension lingered. No one dared to speak. Even the recruits, standing at a distance, knew better than to make a sound when their king was like this.

Riven exhaled, dragging a hand through his blood-red hair as he turned to the smoldering battlefield. The remains of the undead lay in scattered piles of charred bone and twisted metal. This was only the beginning.

"We need more people," he said, his voice quiet but absolute. His gaze swept over the destruction. "No… we need an army. The Shadow Knights are an elite force, trained to fight beside you generals. But to continually protect the kingdom?" He shook his head. "They won't be enough."

He turned back to his kneeling generals, his expression unreadable. "I need an undead army of my own. One that can fight the dead… and protect the city."

The generals lifted their heads, their expressions unreadable. But there was no hesitation when they spoke.

"Give us your command, my king," they said in unison.

Riven's gaze burned with cold determination. "I will revive the warriors who fell during the collapse of the Shadow Kingdom."

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the gathered warriors. Even the most battle-hardened among them stiffened.

"The necromancers, the mages, the knights who died in the war… I will raise them," Riven continued, his voice carrying through the night, leaving no room for doubt. "And they will become the foundation of our army. They will once again serve their kingdom."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, as if his words had solidified into unshakable truth, his generals bowed lower.

"As you command, my liege."