The Greatest Archmage To Have Ever Lived [OP MC, LitRPG]

Sael was in a good mood today.

He was going home. He was going to see Margaret, and Ilsa, and Orion, and Richter, and all the rest of them. He'd missed them. He'd missed them more than he'd expected, actually, which kept happening and which he kept being mildly surprised by, as though the concept of looking forward to seeing people was something he was rediscovering.

Not the King, though. He could very much do without seeing the King.

The sky over Orlys was a clean, deep blue, and the sun sat warm over the rooftops. Someone had painted the eastern gate gold. It was visible from half a mile out.

The city was packed. Sael hadn't seen it this full in centuries since Bran's time. The main avenue moved like a slow river — merchants with carts, travelers gawking at buildings, children weaving between legs on missions only they understood. Street performers had taken every third corner and the air smelled of roasting chestnuts, spiced wine, warm bread and about five other things he couldn't separate.

Oh, and there might have been some chicken, too.

Sael sat in the back of a self-riding chariot with his hood up and his pipe between his teeth. The chariot was one of the city's newest public conveyances: open-topped, floating half a meter off the ground, drifting through the crowd at a pace barely faster than walking. It adjusted around a man carrying a barrel without slowing.

He drew on his pipe and let the smoke go.

The tournament preparations were impossible to miss. Banners hung from every lamppost, deep blue and silver alternating with the crests of visiting houses. The arena loomed at the end of the boulevard, half-wrapped in scaffolding, and state mages were working at every level of it. One woman had her sleeves rolled to the elbows and was levitating an entire section of tiered seating into position, both arms raised, while two others guided it sideways with synchronized gestures. Carpenters hammered in the gaps between spells while a foreman on the ground was shouting instructions.

The chariot was loaded. Sael had overdone it with the gifts, he knew it, but he didn't care. Half of them he'd bought in Darransh, and the other half here in Orlys from the merchants who'd poured into the city ahead of the tournament.

For Orion, he'd found a set of inks from the southern coast that changed viscosity based on the glyph being drawn — not really useful, but Orion seemed to like anything magic related — and three books on applied ward theory that he'd written himself from scratch. He'd also made the boy a focusing rod himself, shaped from blackwood and cored with a sliver of runeglass. It wasn't flashy. It would work.

For Ilsa, he'd bought a rapier. He'd noticed it the first time they sparred: her balance. She was training with a longsword because that's what knights trained with, but her instincts were faster than that, and lighter too. A rapier would fit her like the longsword never quite had. He'd found a good one in Darransh, made by a smith who understood that a blade's weight was a conversation between the hand and the point, and he'd spent an evening reinforcing the guard with his own work. Richter might raise an eyebrow at someone handing his daughter a different weapon, though... but he hoped it would be okay.

For Richter himself, that had been harder. What do you buy a duke? Sael had settled on a astrolabe of Darranshi make, old and beautiful, and a bottle of wine from a vintage that didn't exist anymore. Richter would understand both.

He'd made several pieces himself, too. Artifacts, mostly, small, practical things. A warming stone for Margaret that would never burn and never cool past comfortable. A warding pin for Richter's cloak. A handful of others he'd packed carefully and separately from the bought goods. He'd also been thinking, lately, about setting up a forge near the house. He could sell his work, earn a living from it. The idea appealed to him more than he'd expected.

For Robin, he'd bought a new set of bowstrings — Tessian gut, properly treated, the sort that held tension in any weather — and a rangefinder scope from a Darranshi artificer that the fox had not stopped turning over in his hands since receiving it. For Lance, Sael had learned what mattered: a pouch of Areshi long-cut tobacco, a bottle of plum brandy from the southern valleys, and a box of candies from a confectioner near the tournament grounds. Lance had accepted all three with appreciation.

Oz had refused any gift. Flatly. So that was that.

They'd arrived in Orlys about an hour ago. Most of that hour had been spent shopping, which Sael would maintain was efficient shopping, and which Oz would maintain was an indulgent waste of time.

The chimney was going. A thin line of smoke, pale against the blue, rising steady and unhurried from the house at the top, someone was home, it seemed.

He sat up a little, and saw Margaret was on the swing. He could see her from the bottom of the hill: a small figure in the distance, swaying gently, her grey hair catching the light. She must have spotted them at the same time, because the swing slowed, and then she was on her feet, and then she was waving, one arm high.

Sael smiled.

"That's my granddaughter, Little Margaret, we call her little because her paternal grandmother was the big Margaret, " he said, turning to Lance.

Lance looked. Margaret was close enough now to make out clearly, he glanced at Sael.

"She looks..." Lance paused. He was not a man who spoke carelessly. "Considerably older than you, your... sir."

"It's a long story," Sael said.

"I see," Lance said. And that was that.

Lance was like that. He took things as they came, filed them away, and moved on. He was steady and carried himself with a quiet discipline that Sael respected. The problem was the reverence. Lance treated Sael the way a soldier treats a general he'd die for without question, and Sael had been trying — gently, then less gently, then with outright insistence — to sand that down into something more human. He'd made some progress. Lance had started eating at the same table without being told. He'd stopped standing when Sael entered a room, mostly. He'd accepted the tobacco, the brandy and the almonds without trying to refuse them three times first, which was genuine progress.

There was still a long way to go. But Sael had time, that was one of the few things he'd never run out of.

The chariot came to a stop at the base of the path. Sael stood, stepped off, and started up the hill. Margaret was already coming down to meet him, walking at her own pace, which was the only pace Margaret ever walked at.

They met halfway.

"Grandpa Sael," she said, looking him over with sharp eyes. "You're thinner."

"Hmm, that is physically unlikely for me, I'm afraid."

She gave him a long look at first, and then she put her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. Sael held on a beat longer than usual, and hhe let him.

"Well," Margaret said, pulling back, hands still on his arms. "You've brought half the continent home with you, from the look of that chariot."

"Gifts."

"Mage stuff."

"Gifts, Margaret."

"Mm." She looked past him at Robin and Lance. "And you've brought someone new."

"This is Lance," Sael said. "He'll be staying with us."

Lance bowed to her, just slightly. "Lady Eryndor. It's an honor."

Margaret smiled at him. "Lance. I'm glad you're here." She tilted her head. "Tell me honestly, did he speak more than ten words a day out there? Or was it all pipe smoke and long silences?"

"He was — no, Lady Eryndor, the Great Archmage was — there was never any issue, he was perfectly —" Lance had gone rigid, the words stumbling over each other.

"I'm joking, dear."

Lance closed his mouth, and Margaret patted his arm once, lightly, then looked back at Sael. "He's a special one, my grandpa Sael. I'm sure you've figured that out by now."

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Sael smiled awkwardly, and fiddled with his pipe.

Robin stepped up, ears forward, tail swaying. "Lady Eryndor. It's good to see you."

"Ah, Robin." Her face softened. "How have you been? Eating properly? You always look like a strong wind could carry you off."

"I eat plenty," Robin said, a little defensively.

"Mm. We'll fix that. I've got a stew on."

The front door opened. Ilsa stepped out, squinting against the sun, and then she saw him and her whole face changed.

"Grandpa Sael!"

The girl was already moving down the path, boots loud on the stone.

"Orion!" she called back over her shoulder. "He's here!"

There was a clatter from inside — something being set down in a hurry — and then Orion came through the door. He saw Sael and broke into a run. They reached him at almost the same time. Ilsa got there first by half a step and threw her arms around him without slowing down. Orion skidded in a second later and grabbed on from the other side.

Sael chuckled and put a hand on each of their heads. "Hello, children."

"You were missed, master," Orion said, still holding on.

"So much," Ilsa said. "You really should have taken us."

"To Darransh? No."

"We would've been fine."

"Mm."

"We would have."

"I brought gifts."

Ilsa went quiet. Orion pulled back and looked at him.

"From Darransh?" Orion said.

"From Darransh, and from here. Merchants came early for the tournament and... I may have spent more than I should have."

"He bought an unreasonable amount," Margaret said from somewhere behind them. "Come, you lot, let's eat inside!"

***

A few hours later, in the early afternoon, after they'd eaten Margaret's stew and the others had settled inside, Sael sat on the porch with his pipe. Margaret sat near him in a new chair and for a while neither of them said anything. That was one of the things he loved about her. She understood quiet. She'd always understood it, even as a girl.

Then she straightened.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, I completely forgot."

Sael watched her face shift. "Is everything alright?"

"I had robes made for you," she said. "A tailor near the fountain square. Weeks ago. I was supposed to pick them up three days past and it slipped right out of my head until now."

Sael looked down at himself. "Hmm," The robes he was wearing were fine. They'd been fine for a long time, and he didn't see the issue, but he also knew better than to say that.

"Could we go now?" she asked. "Before I forget again and the poor man thinks I've abandoned the order."

The sun was still high. The house was warm behind him. He'd only just arrived, and there was something appealing about sitting on the porch and doing nothing for hours, letting the road settle out of his bones, but Margaret was looking at him with that particular patience that wasn't really patience at all.

"Alright," he said.

"Good. We can fly, I suppose. It's not far."

Margaret smiled at him — that one smile of mischief she had — and Sael chuckled as set his pipe down, convinced.

A few moments later, they were in the air.

Margaret held onto his arm with both hands and made a sound that Sael had not heard her make in decades. A high, breathless "Whoooooo!" that carried across the rooftops and startled a flock of pigeons off a chimney below them. The wind caught her grey hair and threw it everywhere but she didn't seem to even care.

Sael brought them down gently near the fountain square, on a quiet stretch of cobblestone where the crowd thinned out. This part of the city was older, the buildings closer together, the foot traffic sparse. A few people glanced up as they landed but looked away quickly. With the tournament coming, flying mages were not uncommon in Orlys

Fortunately, they found the tailor's shop was still open, a warm light glowed behind the glass, and a clear 'open' sign was hanging on the door. Margaret let go of his arm and laughed so much it crinkled her whole face.

"That," she said, "was terrifying."

"Really? I used to take you on flights all the time."

"I know. I thought I still had a hang of it." She pressed a hand to her chest, still catching her breath. "I have not."

"Oh. We'll walk on the way back, then."

"Absolutely not! We're flying!"

Sael looked at her. "You just said it was terrifying."

"Yes. And very fun." She straightened her shawl, which the wind had twisted halfway around her. "The thrill is in being just afraid enough, knowing there's a little fear in it, but also knowing you won't fall. That's the good part. If you're not a little scared, what's the point?"

Sael was not sure he understood that logic. Fear had rarely been something he'd thought of as having a good part. He was about to ask her to explain it further when he felt a small tug at the hem of his robe.

"Mister?"

He turned around and looked down.

A familiar little face looked back up at him. Round cheeks, dark eyes, a smudge of something on her chin that might have been jam.

"Oh," Sael said. "Isn't it little Mira?"

He smiled. He couldn't help it.

It was the little girl he met in Gatsby, with her family. Good people. And he was glad to see the pendant still hung at her throat, gleaming faintly in the sunlight. She'd kept it. The jam smudge on her chin was new, though.

"Mister, you remember me?" Mira asked, tilting her head up at him.

Before he could answer, a voice came from around the corner.

"Mira! Mira, get back here this instant—"

Her father came around the bend first, her mother close behind, her brother trailing. They saw Sael and immediately stopped.

"Oh!" The mother said.

Mira spun around, pointing at Sael with a triumphant fury.

"See!? I told you it was him in the sky! I told you! I said that's the mister from Gatsby and nobody believed me!"

"You said it was a bird at first," Her brother muttered.

"I corrected myself!"

The father was already stepping forward, that same easy grin spreading across his face. He extended his hand and Sael took it.

"Edric," Sael said. "Mara. Young Jonn." He nodded to each of them in turn. "And little Mira."

Mira beamed, and Edric blinked. "You remember our names?"

"I rarely forget names."

Which was true. It was also true that he rarely completely forgot anything at all, on account of having a Wisdom stat that made permanent memory storage more or less involuntary, but that seemed like too much to explain.

"Well," Edric said, shaking his head with a laugh. "I'll be honest, I wasn't sure you'd remember us. It was one conversation."

"It was a good conversation."

Margaret, who had been watching the exchange with quiet amusement, stepped forward and offered a warm smile. "Hello there. I'm Margaret. I'm this one's —" She gestured at Sael and seemed to consider several words before settling on, "— oldest friend."

"Pleasure to meet you," Edric said, shaking her hand. "Edric. This is my wife Mara, and our children, Mira and Jonn."

"Lovely family," Margaret said.

Mara was still looking between Sael and Margaret as if trying to work out what the odds were. "This must be fate," she said. "Running into you here, of all places, of all times."

"We came for the tournament," Edric explained. "There've been rumours. You know how it is, word travels, even to Gatsby. People saying Sael the Great has returned and that he's been seen." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Probably nonsense, but... well. The children would not let us hear the end of it."

"He's here!" Mira said, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"She had her bag packed before we'd even decided," Jonn added, and for once his tone wasn't mocking. He was trying to look indifferent about the whole thing and failing exactly the way he had at the festival.

Sael glanced at Margaret and found she was already looking at him with that knowing smile. He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Last time we met," Edric said, his expression turning thoughtful, "we never did get that meal together. Remember? We'd invited you, and then, well, there was the whole business with the dragon."

"A necro dragon," Mara said quietly. "Came down on the very same day. We left that day with everything we could carry. Everyone did."

Edric nodded. "We heard afterwards that a powerful mage dealt with it. The authorities said so, anyway. Never did learn who." He shrugged. "But Gatsby's still standing, so someone did the job right."

"I see," Sael said, and did not elaborate.

Margaret's knowing smile intensified slightly.

"So," Edric clapped his hands together. "What do you say? Fate's given us a second chance. Come eat with us this time. No dragons to get in the way."

"Unless there are," Jonn said.

"There won't be," Mara said firmly.

Sael looked at them. "It would be a pleasure," he said. "I just need to pick something up from this shop." He gestured at the tailor's window behind him. "Then I'm all yours."

"We'll wait," Edric said. "No rush."

"Oh," Mara said, as if something had just occurred to her. "I don't think — last time, did you ever give us your name? I've been trying to remember and I don't think I ever caught it."

Sael opened his mouth.

"I'm —"

"SAEL THE GREAT!"

The shout came from above. Somewhere high, past the rooftops, a voice enormous with projection magic that rolled across the skyline like thunder. Every head on the street turned upward. Mira gasped. Jonn's mouth fell open. Edric and Mara looked to the sky with wide eyes, searching.

The echoes bounced off the old stone buildings and faded into silence as Sael looked up.

A man hung in the sky like a second sun.

He looked early forties at most. His dark hair was slicked back and threaded with a single streak of white that ran from his left temple like a scar of lightning, held in place by an ornate crown of black and gold, jade-studded, with strings of pearls cascading from either side. A groomed beard framed a hard jaw, and his grey eyes — pale, sharp and utterly still — swept the street below.

He wore layered robes of deep emerald and gold, the fabric rippling in wind that didn't touch the streets below. Eastern dragon motifs coiled across his chest in gilded relief while gold and jade ornamental plates covered his shoulders and forearms, set with pearls and tassels that swayed gently as he hovered.

Everything about him gleamed.

He pointed directly at Sael.

"I AM DAEREN OF HOUSE SHO, THE GREEN DRAGON," the voice rolled across the skyline, and the cobblestones vibrated beneath their feet. Windows rattled. A cart somewhere behind them tipped over. "I AM THE JADE EMPEROR. SOVEREIGN OF THE EMERALD THRONE."

People were already spilling out of shops and doorways — the tailor, the blacksmith across the street, patrons stumbling out of taverns — all drawn by the voice and the sight of a man in the sky. The street filled quickly. Every face turned upward while the man's armoured finger still pointed directly at Sael.

"SAEL THE GREAT. I CHALLENGE YOU." A sword lifted from his back on its own, drifting to his side. "LET US SETTLE, ONCE AND FOR ALL, WHO TRULY DESERVES THE TITLE OF GREATEST ARCHMAGE TO HAVE EVER LIVED. WHAT SAY YOU?!"

The street had gone silent. Completely, utterly silent.

The Jade Emperor hung there. Waiting. The sword turned slowly at his side, patient as a predator and every eye on the street was on the sky.

Then, slowly, they began to fall. One by one. Down from the floating figure, along the line of that outstretched finger, and to the man standing in front of a tailor's shop with an elderly granddaughter and a family of four.

Edric turned to look at Sael, and so did Mara. Then Jonn. Then Mira.

The girl's mouth was open. Her eyes were wider than Sael had ever seen them as the slow, dawning, world-rearranging weight of understanding settled.

Sael looked up at the Jade Emperor.

He sighed, quietly.

"Hmm."

This hmm meant no.