‘A Mage Apprentice, huh...’
The widely acknowledged strongest Apprentice-rank profession was the Knight.
Next came Martial Artists, while Mages ranked quite low.
At this stage, a Mage didn't have enough mana to cast more than a few spells, making them easy pickings—especially on a relatively cramped arena stage.
For him to dare step up and challenge Ogre even after seeing a Knight defeated only proved he had absolute confidence in himself.
That kind of poise and composure could not be faked.
“Your fighting style is very aggressive. I like it. Interested in working for me?” Folke asked. Though his words carried the distinct arrogance of nobility, his tone was oddly impossible to dislike.
“I'm used to being on my own,” Ogre replied, flexing his hand.
He disliked restrictions. That was why he hadn't followed his father's dying wish to try joining the Church of Truth or Church of Dawn, both top choices for commoners.
If nothing unexpected happened, he wouldn't stay in this small city for long, either.
Folke wasn't offended by Ogre's refusal. He had merely made a casual offer out of appreciation for talent, taking a liking to Ogre's solid martial foundation.
“Do you need a short rest? Can your left hand still hold a weapon?” Folke pointed out Ogre's injury.
Others hadn't noticed, but he had picked up on it early on.
“I'm fine. I still have another hand.” Resting for such a brief moment wouldn't do much anyway, and Ogre hadn't expended much stamina.
“Then I should thank you for holding back.”
The ring on Folke's left middle finger gave off a faint glow, and he reached into what seemed like empty air to retrieve a potion.
‘A space ring! He's got quite a background...’
Ogre was slightly surprised. Portable dimensional items like that were extraordinarily expensive; hardly anyone among low-tier Professionals owned one.
“Catch.”
Folke tossed the potion. Guided by some mysterious airborne force, the glass vial filled with red liquid landed steadily in Ogre's uninjured hand.
‘Impressive mana manipulation. This guy is a Manipulation-type Mage Apprentice...’ Ogre's attention was completely fixed on the delicate control Folke had exhibited over the vial.
Mages generally developed in two directions: Manipulation and Evocation.
The former primarily channeled their spells and specialized in mental power, capable of executing many intricate spells.
The latter focused on mana cultivation, specializing in mana shaping—the more mana they poured in, the greater the spell's destructive power.
While the difference was hardly noticeable in daily life, their combat styles diverged significantly. Manipulation Mages primarily utilized intricate spells like elemental golems, rock manipulation, and fire serpents, later specializing in mental and soul magic with extremely high accuracy.
Evocation Mages, on the other hand, focused on wide-area spells like Firestorm and Chain Lightning. The later the stage, the greater the divide became between the two.
Evocation had a higher demand for mana talent, while Manipulation demanded greater mental power.
Of course, all-rounders existed, but a Mage's energy was limited; striving for everything often meant mastering nothing.
“I don't like taking advantage of injured opponents,” the noble-looking Mage Apprentice said.
Hearing this, Ogre shifted his attention from the boy's precise manipulation to the potion before him.
He recognized it. This was the famous Recovery Potion, a classic concoction brewed by potioneers.
As long as an injury wasn't overly severe, this potion could heal it whether applied topically or taken orally.
A single bottle was worth one gold coin. Most Professionals couldn't bear to use it casually, as one gold coin was enough to cover a regular family's food expenses for an entire month.
‘How generous. Seems I really set my price too low earlier.’ Ogre didn't stand on ceremony, pouring half the bottle over his hand. The red liquid seeped through the bandage and into his skin, accelerating the repair of his palm. Due to his magic resistance, however, the healing effect was somewhat dampened.
Ingesting it would have yielded better results, especially with Ogre's enhanced digestion.
Yet Ogre didn't want to lift his mask in full view of the public, even if what lay underneath was merely a fake face.
“Come on, then.”
Handing the remaining potion to an attendant nearby, Ogre took back his staff and pointed it at the young noble.
In Apprentice-rank duels, using Professional-tier items was forbidden, though this fairness was quite limited in reality.
Sub-Professional low-tier gear or even a suit of adamantine armor was more than enough to create a massive disparity.
Still, most combatants entering this arena stage lacked good equipment anyway. After all, non-Professional gear served merely as temporary transition pieces.
With a nod from both sides, the second title defense match commenced immediately.
This time, Folke was the first to unleash magic.
In an instant, Folke's body blurred. When the image solidified, four identical duplicates of Folke had appeared.
Immediately after, the five Folkes dashed along the perimeter of the arena stage, taking positions at five points to encircle Ogre.
Low-tier spell: Mirror Image.
‘Silent casting? Or a magical item?’
Gripping his staff, Ogre kept his masked eyes fixed on Folke's true body the entire time.
This was an ability derived from the Devil-Claw Falcon. Aside from granting Ogre kinetic vision, it also allowed him to peer through low-level magical illusions.
‘A coincidence? No, he's unaffected!’
Folke realized it too—the masked defending champion was charging straight toward his real body!
Now it was the young noble's turn to panic. His tried-and-true opening tactic had completely failed.
Rumor had it that Professional-tier Martial Artists possessed the ability to peer through low-level illusions, but wasn't this guy merely an Apprentice?!
He had no desire to engage in close-quarters combat with this brute.
The staff whistled through the air in Ogre's hands. While a staff wasn't the most practical weapon, nearly all weapon techniques could be executed with one.
Crossing the distance in just a few strides, he wielded the staff as a spear—Rainbow Piercing the Sun!
Boom!
The refined iron staff slammed into the Mana Shield, spiderwebbing it with tiny fractures. It looked as though just a few more thrusts would shatter it completely.
‘How is he so strong?! Was he holding back earlier?!’
Surprise welled up in Folke's heart. He knew the threshold of his Mana Shield all too well; that single thrust packed force rivaling an ordinary Professional.
Of course, Ogre hadn't held back before. The reason behind the tremendous power of this strike was simple.
He had employed a martial skill: Leaping Fish Spear.
It was a spear technique modeled after the arrow-nosed fish leaping from the water, unifying body and weapon into a ferocious forward surge.
‘Do you know the greatest difference between a Martial Artist and a Knight?’ That had been the first question Ogre's martial arts teacher asked him when teaching him spear technique.
‘Isn't it because they couldn't become Knights...?’ Back then, Ogre hadn't understood the distinctions between the professions.
He had simply assumed that Martial Artists lacked innate talent.
A Professional-rank Knight could wield battle qi, whereas a Martial Artist could only project their blood qi outward upon reaching Senior rank—though some also called that blood qi rage.
‘You are wrong, Ogre. Martial Artists are the inheritors of martial arts, and martial arts exist for the weak to fight the strong!’
The emergence of Martial Artists was quite similar to that of warlocks; both were paths explored by people who lacked corresponding innate talent in their pursuit of power.
However, Martial Artists differed from warlocks.
The martial prowess inherited by Martial Artists was the fruit of self-cultivation; Martial Artists placed greater faith in personal training!
Whether combat skills or martial arts passed down from the East, their original pursuit had only one goal: to make the weak strong!
Seeing that the shield didn't break, Ogre decisively snapped his staff back. Taking a deep breath, he retreated two or three steps before charging forward and leaping into the air!
Jumping into the air naturally left Ogre unable to dodge, but he knew all too well that he needed to end this fight fast! He had to unleash his strongest blow!
He had no energy to waste in a battle of attrition against a Manipulation Mage!
Borrowing the momentum of his leap, Ogre channeled all his weight and strength downward into the staff. Slashing down like a collapsing mountain, he delivered his strongest strike.
Grand Crushing Spear!
“Lightning Bolt!”
At the same time, Folke finished chanting his spell. Two crackling clusters of electricity crossed between his hands, erupting into a blinding glare.
The reason he hadn't chosen Fireball, which had a broader area of effect and faster casting time, was simple.
Lightning Bolt didn't require effort to track its target—the refined iron staff in Ogre's hand was the ultimate conductor!
At this range, Lightning Bolt dealt far greater damage!
In that instant, martial skill and magic clashed and intertwined.
The lightning passed through the Mana Shield first, surging along the refined iron staff.
The spectacle looked as though Ogre were wielding a spear of lightning, commanding the thunder itself in his assault.
At a glance, it truly carried the grandeur of a clash between Transcendent figures.
As the dazzling flashes faded,
the victor was decided: Folke's Mana Shield had shattered, and Ogre's staff was pressed squarely against the young noble's neck.
Ogre's Grand Crushing Spear had struck the exact spot he had pierced before; thus, this fully charged strike was guaranteed to break through.
“You lose.”
At this moment, faint traces of golden electricity had yet to dissipate from Ogre's body.
Following Ogre's crisp declaration, the spectators outside the ring erupted into cheers.
True to form, Ogre never disappointed, dismantling challenger after challenger in the swiftest and most unexpected fashion.
“No... That's impossible.”
Folke looked up. Feeling the chilly touch of the staff against his neck, his expression warped dramatically.
He finally understood his attendant's frustration: the bitter helplessness of being taken down by basic combat maneuvers before even getting to display his true trump cards.
The opponent's moves were so thoroughly mundane, so how on earth had he lost?!
Why hadn't the Lightning Bolt paralyzed him?!
“Gourmet wins!”
With the remaining mirror duplicates shattering into nothingness, the referee announced the verdict.
“Yes... I lost.”
As Ogre lowered his staff, Folke had no choice but to concede.
“Just luck,” Ogre's voice came from beneath the mask. He extended a hand toward him—a gesture of conciliation.
No one had noticed what kind of change had taken place within Ogre's body the moment the electrical current struck him.
The faint blue sheen rising beneath his skin was the true reason for his victory: Basic Magic Resistance.
This was an inherent trait woven into the skin of every ogre, and the very reason Ogre was shut out from the path of a Mage.
While this resistance reduced the efficacy of potions, it also provided him with formidable magical defenses.
Perhaps higher-tier Chain Lightning could still harm him,
but an Apprentice-level Lightning Bolt barely affected him at all.
“A loss is a loss. You are indeed the strongest Martial Apprentice I've ever seen.” Folke graciously took Ogre's hand. As he stood up, he extended an olive branch of his own: “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the second son of Marquis Cromie, Folke Cromie.”
‘So he's the second son of a noble family.’ Ogre understood immediately.
This guy was probably gathering hands to fight for the family inheritance. After all, such scandals were commonplace, primarily because noble titles in Engodo could only be inherited by a single heir...
It was better not to get too entangled with someone like that.
“Ogre Kessin,” Ogre whispered, withdrawing his hand, his voice audible only to the two of them.
He didn't really care about revealing his name to an outsider; after all, his name was currently clean.
His main intention was to reveal the surname Kessin. He had done so deliberately, curious to learn where his surname originated.
This noble from out of town might just know something.
Of course, Ogre wasn't trying to go back and acknowledge his ancestors; he merely wanted to locate his family to gain easier access to resources, and then avenge his father!
He would leverage every single bargaining chip at his disposal.
“Are you an exiled noble?” Folke asked, puzzled.
On this continent, commoners had only given names and no surnames.
Noble surnames were divided into two categories: prefixes and suffixes.
Placing the surname before the given name was something typically reserved for royalty and families of Grand Duke standing—though high-tier Professionals could do so as well.
Supposedly, it was a custom passed down from the distant, mysterious East.
Of course, Folke knew the truth.
It was no imported custom... It was entirely because the royal ancestors of Engodo had originated from the East!
It was only due to generations of intermarriage that their appearance had become indistinguishable from the Yake people.
Nobles with suffix surnames, on the other hand, were far more common. As long as one's ancestors had once achieved prominence, one could legally hold a suffix surname.
Ordinary commoners wouldn't go looking for trouble by imitating them and adopting a suffix surname—after all, doing so could easily offend certain nobles as well as invite resentment from fellow commoners.
To stand out, one needed the status to back it up. A commoner who copied such habits would easily be ostracized, which was why some destitute, exiled nobles would even choose to abandon their family surnames.
“Something like that,” Ogre gave an ambiguous answer, neither confirming nor denying it.
From Folke's response, he also understood that this noble from out of town truly had no knowledge of it.
“When you have time, I'll buy you a drink at the tavern,” Folke invited him once more.
Exchanging full names and surnames often meant establishing formal ties—an unwritten rule among nobility.
He felt that since Ogre was an exiled noble, he was qualified to be his friend, so his tone softened considerably.
“I'm free tomorrow.” Catching sight of the referee approaching from the corner of his eye, Ogre lowered his voice to reply once more. He didn't refuse this time, though he didn't commit immediately either.
His primary concern was that he didn't want to be seen openly fraternizing with an outsider under the watchful eyes of so many local nobles.
Yet he had no wish to offend anyone needlessly either.
Selling himself out as a subordinate was out of the question, but making a friend was perfectly fine.
One more friend was always better than one more enemy; this, too, was a bargaining chip.
He wondered what the young master's attendant would think of him then. It would probably be quite amusing.
“My uncle and I are staying at the Professionals Association. You can find me there. I'll be around for the rest of the week—just give your name when you arrive.”
Sensing Ogre's lowered voice as a warning, Folke also glanced sideways and noticed the approaching referee. Understanding that this wasn't the proper place to talk,
he left behind those quiet words and hopped off the two-and-a-half-meter-high ring on his own.
As a Mage Apprentice, mana body tempering was part of the mandatory curriculum; it was merely frail when compared to Martial Artists or Knights of the same rank.
“Congratulations to our Gourmet for successfully defending his title!” the approaching referee bellowed, raising Ogre's hand high.
With Folke having already leaped off the stage, the arena's cheers for Ogre reached a fever pitch.
The spectators hadn't heard the conversation between the two, as Ogre hadn't shouted anything this time.
They naturally assumed the pair had just been trading harsh words.
‘Someone from the Professionals Association, huh... Maybe I should get in touch.’
Ogre adjusted his mask. He would have to spend some effort procuring a more refined human-face mask.
This one was still too rigid; it could easily give away flaws.
“Where's my remaining half-bottle of Recovery Potion?” Ogre asked as he stepped down from the stage. That stuff was worth at least half a gold coin.
He had intentionally saved half of it; he didn't have enough money to throw around carelessly.
“Right here, sir.” The attendant secretly cursed him for being a cheapskate, but respectfully handed the Recovery Potion over to Ogre nonetheless.
Taking the leftover potion, Ogre casually slipped it into his satchel on the side.
Then he patted his chest. Hidden beneath the leather armor there was his greatest haul from this trip—a much more potent meditation method: the Withered Wood Rejuvenation Meditation Method.
‘I'll check out the black market later... Still got work to do in a bit.’
Rate on N.U.
