Magus Reborn [Stubbing in Seven Weeks]

Killian immediately moved toward the window overlooking the street. He pulled the curtain aside and leaned forward slightly, trying to see what had happened.

All he could make out were people running—merchants abandoning stalls, citizens rushing toward something farther down the street. Whatever had caused the explosion was out of sight, hidden beyond the curve of the buildings.

Still, he already had an idea.

There was only one reason an explosion would happen inside Veralt.

He let out a quiet sigh and stepped back from the window, turning toward his father.

“Ignore it,” his father said at once, waving a dismissive hand. “Must be something small.”

He paused briefly, studying Killian before continuing, his tone shifting into something more serious.

“You need to listen to me, Killian. You have made me proud. You have become a Count.” He exhaled slowly. “And honestly, I know I made a mistake trying to push you toward that incompetent first prince who met such a miserable end. But understand this—I have spent my entire life planning for our house’s ascension into nobility. My plans will help you.”

For a moment, Killian felt the urge to argue openly, to tell his father that he would never allow his position to be used for personal ambition.

Instead, he chose to speak calmly.

“I’m not going to marry anyone you choose,” he said, emphasizing every word clearly. “And as for the Enforcer Academy, there’s no way it’s being moved outside the Sylvan Enclave. If you have anything else to say, I’ll listen, but in the end, the decision is mine.”

His father shook his head slowly, rubbing at the lines on his forehead as though trying to ease a growing headache.

“No, just listen to me,” he said. “You don’t understand. You don’t have the experience to lead.”

Killian met his gaze without hesitation. “You don’t either, Father.”

The words hung heavy between them as his father frowned.

“I might not be a perfect Count yet,” Killian continued, his voice steady, “but I know what you’re trying to do. Aligning with nobles who secretly resent Lord Arzan is the worst thing our house could possibly do.”

“It’s not resentment,” his father said firmly. “They are afraid. Afraid of King Arzan’s power. Even you might be.”

Killian’s jaw tightened.

“Having all the Enforcers under our house would give us a massive advantage in this kingdom,” his father pressed on. “You know how fast everything is changing.”

Killian opened his mouth to answer, but another explosion tore through the streets.

This one was louder.

The entire building seemed to shudder, and dust fell faintly from the ceiling.

Killian didn’t hesitate this time.

He moved back to the window, peered outside quickly, then walked toward the door.

“What are you doing?” his father demanded sharply.

“I need to see what’s going on,” Killian replied without looking back.

He opened the door and strode into the hallway, descending the stairs two at a time. His boots struck the steps quickly.

At the bottom, Nora stood near the entrance, eyes wide from the noise.

“I’ll be back soon, Nora,” Killian said briefly, not slowing as he moved past her and out the front door.

The street was already in chaos.

People were pouring toward the source of the explosion instead of away from it, curiosity and fear mixed together in their expressions.

Killian slipped into the flow of bodies and moved through it, weaving between shoulders and sidestepping stumbling figures without breaking pace.

Halfway through the crowd, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Killian!”

He glanced back and saw his father following roughly ten paces behind, coat flaring as he pushed through the mass of people.

Killian slowed abruptly, turning toward him. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s rude to leave a conversation in the middle,” his father shot back. “And what exactly are you planning to do here?”

“I need to see what’s happening first,” Killian replied tersely.

He turned away again and continued forward.

The crowd thickened near the intersection ahead. People had formed a loose ring, some standing on crates or steps to get a better view. The smell of smoke hung thickest in the air here.

Killian pushed through another line of onlookers, and then he froze.

Just as he had expected.

The explosions had been caused by a Mage.

A man in dark mage robes stood in the middle of the street, looking all rigid and proud, a blazing fireball hovering above his palm. Its light flickered across the cobblestones as he looked down at a trembling teenager who couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

The boy knelt on the ground, arms wrapped around himself, shaking so badly his teeth audibly clicked together.

Around them, buildings were scorched black. Windows had shattered from heat, and a merchant wagon lay tipped to one side nearby, its wooden frame still burning as flames crawled hungrily across spilled cargo.

Smoke drifted upward.

Even though the gathered crowd were whispering among themselves, no one stepped forward or interfered with whatever was going on.

Killian tried to push past the final line of people in front, but as he did that, eyes widened at the sight of his armour—the crest of the king unmistakable across his chest. The crowd instinctively parted, bodies shifting aside until a clear path opened before him.

When he reached the front, the Mage spat at the boy’s feet.

“Bloody thief,” the man sneered. “I’ll make sure you receive the worst punishment possible for daring to steal from me.”

The fireball flared brighter on his palm.

“Do you even understand the crime you committed by touching my robes?”

The boy shrank further, shoulders curling inward, unable to respond.

Killian’s gaze swept the surroundings once, piecing the situation together almost instantly, especially when his eyes landed on the burning wagon.

If he was right, the man was a travelling Mage heading toward the Sorcerer’s Tower.

Since the war ended, surviving Mages from across the kingdom had begun arriving to register themselves under the new order. Many had fought on the wrong side but escaped execution unless their crimes were unforgivable.

This man seemed to fit that category perfectly. Strong enough to survive the war. Arrogant enough to believe himself untouchable.

Peak second circle… perhaps even third, judging by the stability of the flame in his hand.

Killian’s eyes shifted back to the boy and onto his dirty clothes, thin, fragile frame, and calloused hands. A wagon helper, most likely. Someone hired cheaply to assist the journey.

And somewhere along the way, desperation had won over caution.

He had tried to steal. And the Mage had decided to make an example out of him.

The wagon driver was nowhere to be seen. He had either fled at the first sign of danger or was somewhere in the crowd, too afraid to step forward.

Killian did not have a particular softness for reckless teenagers. But this one was barely more than a child. And what was happening was not justice—It was humiliation.

The Mage was not detaining him.

He was enjoying terrifying him.

Killian could see the fear lodged deep in the boy’s wide eyes, the kind that did not fade easily. If this continued, the child would carry it for the rest of his life.

The Mage leaned forward, flame still burning in his palm. “Why don’t you say something now?” he taunted. “You had courage when you tried to steal from an esteemed Mage like—”

“Why don’t you leave the kid alone?” Killian’s voice cut through the street cleanly as the whispers died down in an instant.

The stopped mid-sentence and turned sharply.Mage

His brows furrowed, irritation flashing first, then hesitation as his eyes fell on Killian’s armour.

The man took a slow step closer, squinting slightly as though trying to place him.

“You’re a Knight,” he said carefully.

“I am Knight Killian,” Killian replied evenly. “First Sword of the King. Answer me, why are you threatening a kid?”

The murmurs behind him swelled instantly.

Even the boy on the ground lifted his head, only to go even paler looking at his armour.

Even the Mage took several seconds to compose himself.

“I’m glad you are here, Knight Killian,” he said, adjusting his tone. “I was just about to request that this imbecile be punished and sent to His Majesty’s dungeon.”

Killian did not react. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said calmly. “Why are you threatening him?”

The Mage frowned, clearly displeased. “He’s a thief. I believe everyone in this kingdom has the right—not only to threaten—but to whip a thief.” The man paused, then added loudly, “He tried to steal my pouches. You know that’s a crime.”

Killian nodded once. “I know it’s a crime.”

His gaze flicked toward the burning wagon and the scorched stones beneath their feet.

“But you displayed your spells to threaten him,” Killian continued calmly. “And you burned that carriage when you could have simply restrained him and handed him over to a patrol. There was one here not long ago.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Why the need for an unnecessary display of strength?”

The Mage’s jaw tightened.

He clearly did not appreciate being questioned, especially not in front of a crowd that had begun whispering louder by the second. Still, he forced his expression back into something composed.

“Knight Killian,” he said, ever so slowly, “I am Artheon Malis, Third-Circle Mage. I served under Count Halren during the civil war.”

He drew himself up slightly.

“I am not at fault here. This thief is. You questioning me like this—publicly—is nothing but mud on my honour. You are a man of high standing. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying.”

Killian said nothing at first.

Count Halren.

It took him a moment to recall the name. One of the nobles who had supported the third prince. Imprisoned briefly after the war, and released after paying heavy reparations.

Killian’s eyes returned to the Mage, but instead of answering him, he stepped past him.

He walked toward the boy.

The teenager immediately tried to scramble to his feet, panic flaring in his eyes, but Killian raised a hand gently.

“Stay still,” he said.

He crouched down in front of him.

Up close, the boy looked even younger. Dirt streaked his face. His hands trembled violently, and he refused to meet Killian’s eyes.

“Tell me what happened,” Killian said quietly and waited for him to answer.

There was a long pause.

Then, in a shaky voice, the boy whispered, “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.” “I wasn’t stealing coins,” he added quickly. “Or food.”

Killian’s gaze softened slightly.

“What were you stealing?” he asked.

The boy swallowed. “…A health potion.” He lowered his head further. “I don’t have any money to buy one,” he said, voice breaking. “I thought… one potion wouldn’t matter much.”

His fingers dug into the dirt.

“I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Killian studied him carefully.

Aside from fresh bruises—likely from being thrown to the ground or struck by debris—there were no serious wounds or signs of prolonged injury.

“Who was it for?” Killian asked quietly.

The boy hesitated. “My sister.” He quickly added, “Not my blood sister… but we grew up together.”

He swallowed hard.

“We came here from the south looking for work. She got sick on the way. Even with food and water, she hasn’t gotten better.” His voice trembled again. “I asked the master Mage for a potion, but he refused. I had no choice.”

Killian’s eyes shifted to the mage. “Did he ask you?” he said evenly.

Artheon scoffed. “My potions are precious. I brewed them myself. I cannot simply hand one over because some street rat begs for it. You know how valuable those are.”

Killian exhaled slowly, then looked back at the boy.

“What about the carriage?” he asked.

“I got a job with the driver,” the boy replied quickly. “He transports people from Verdis to Veralt. It pays well. He had nothing to do with this. I swear.”

The desperation in his voice sharpened.

Killian placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything will be alright.”

He reached to his belt and pulled out one of his own health potions. The liquid inside shimmered faintly. The boy’s eyes widened at once, shining with disbelief as he cupped it carefully in both hands.

But he hesitated instead of drinking it.

Killian gave him a small, reassuring smile.

“Drink a little,” he said gently. “There will be enough left for your sister.”

Hearing that, the boy’s shoulders loosened slightly. Some of the rigid fear left his posture as he carefully held the potion close.

Killian rose slowly and turned back toward the Mage.

The man looked stunned, eyes flicking between the potion and the boy as though the scene offended him personally.

“What are you doing, Knight Killian?” he demanded. “He’s a thief.”

Killian exhaled. “And he will face consequences. But for now, both of you are coming with me.” He glanced briefly at the boy. “First, we’re checking on his sister.”

“Huh?! But why should I come with you? I need to report to the Sorcerer’s Tower.”

“That can wait,” Killian replied evenly. “You need to answer for your own actions first.”

“My actions?” Artheon snapped. “What crimes? I did what any righteous Mage would do. I put a thief in his place—on the ground, kneeling in shame.” His voice sharpened. “You cannot put me on the same level as him.”

Killian pointed calmly toward the burning wagon and the scorched storefront behind them.

“You did that,” he said.

The flames crackled softly as if to emphasize his words.

“That is unlawful destruction of property. You threatened someone with lethal magic when you could have restrained him physically or handed him to a patrol. I’m not saying a thief shouldn’t be punished, but not like this.”

His gaze turned colder.

“You will receive punishment just as he will. The law is the same for everyone in King Arzan’s Lancephil.”

“That’s not fair!” the Mage burst out.

Mana flared outward from him in a visible ripple, heat radiating in waves. The crowd instinctively recoiled.

“You don’t understand how to treat a Mage,” he continued, voice rising. “I respect your standing and what you’ve done for the kingdom, Knight Killian, but this is no way to respect one of us. You are making a grave mistake.”

Killian’s expression did not change. “I’m not,” he said quietly. “I’m doing my job.” He took one step forward. “You need to follow me.”

Artheon stood silent for several seconds, glancing around at the growing crowd. Whispers traveled through the air like wind through dry leaves.

Then he shook his head. “No.”

“Then, Mage Artheon, I’ll have to drag you.”

At once, twin fireballs bloomed in the Mage’s palms, bright and volatile. Heat washed over the intersection.

“Try me, Knight Killian,” he said. “I’ve fought in many duels. Enforcer or not, Mages do not lose to swords.”

Killian sighed faintly, hand lowering toward the hilt at his side. Before he could respond—

A sharp intake of breath came from the side. He turned to see his father staring at him with a pale face.

“Killian… don’t do this.”

***

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