The Exalted Mage - Chapter 17: Assassins

The leftmost figure rushed at her, but Veronica was already prepared to intercept. A single mage wing appeared behind her hand.

Just as the would-be assassin reached halfway, their dagger drawn and ready, Veronica cast her spell.

Perfect, with swift execution, Veronica held her hand out, palm sideways. A sudden flick—Veronica snapped her wrist downward; a spell activated instantly; a powerful fiery blade slashed down vertically, cutting the assassin in half. The heat melted and seared flesh, cauterizing the split wound instantly.

No voice came from the hooded fighter; they had died before a single word could escape their lips. Their body dropped to the ground with a lifeless thud.

It was a simple spell, a wind cutter. One with wind, but combined with fire affinity. Although it was a weak Tier-1 spell, she was using the mana of a Tier-2 mage to power it. Even the weakest and most beginner of spells would be useful later down the line.

But this simple spell had also confirmed something important: they didn’t use magic.

They weren’t mages, and they didn’t use mana or lifeforce to fight like swordsmen or martial artists. They were just regular thugs. Killers seeking power as demonic cultists.

Veronica refocused her gaze back up at them as the body fell.

The remaining three adjusted their stances and slowly shifted their formation. They no longer moved with casual arrogance; they dropped into lower forms, blades drawn and angled to cover each other's flanks. Whatever hesitation they’d entered with was gone now.

“Damn bitch,” spat the leader. His voice was harder now, laced with irritation and something else—disbelief, maybe. He hadn’t expected to lose a man this quickly.

“So you can cast a spell fast enough at this range?” His glare was sharp behind the cloth, though still guarded, his footing shifting slightly on the dirt. “You’re better than most Tier-1 mages. Who the hell are you?”

Veronica didn’t answer.

Instead, she read their spacing. Judged the angles around her. The forest around them was dense, but the glade they stood in gave her just enough room to fight without restriction. That was all she needed to fight comfortably. Her mana simmered just beneath her skin, coiled like a waiting storm.

Time stilled, as both sides stared at each other.

The assassins were the first to move.

The one on the right darted wide, vanishing into the treeline to flank. Another veered left, fast and low, already speeding up into a dash that would close the distance in seconds. The leader didn’t run. He walked with a careful, cautious gait, as if every pace forward was a countdown to something inevitable. Both blades drawn, held reverse-grip, glinting in the low moonlight as he advanced.

Veronica stood her ground, standing still. She didn’t need to move. Not yet.

She watched the leftmost assassin break into a full sprint toward her.

Her palm rose without hesitation. From her mana core, mana flowed through her with the precision of a veteran spellcaster, weaving through her fingers. A single, body-sized fireball roared to life and launched forward, illuminating the glade in a flash of molten orange.

But the assassin had expected it. They had all seen how fast she could cast, and they weren’t stupid enough to ignore it.

They dropped low and rolled beneath the fireball’s path with unnatural speed, the blast searing past them harmlessly. Dirt kicked up in their wake as they came out of the roll on one knee, already moving again.

Veronica’s eyes narrowed at them. It didn’t matter if they dodged it.

Another mage wing flickered into existence behind her wrist; a Tier-2 spell would be enough.

Veronica clenched her fist—and the fireball detonated.

The explosion tore through the glade behind the assassin. Flame surged outward in a wide, blistering arc, catching them mid-step. Their scream was ragged and sharp, cut off as the fire overtook their cloak and skin alike. A moment later, they dropped to the ground, rolling; they twitched and writhed as the fire burned them alive, charring the grass around them.

Veronica turned fast.

The other flanker was already on her.

A blur in the corner of her eye became a blade, and her instincts screamed. She leapt backward, air hissing past her ears as the steel blade narrowly missed her ribcage. Her feet barely touched the ground before her arm snapped backward, mana already forming behind her shoulder.

A spear of pure, burning light manifested beside her.

It hovered for the briefest heartbeat, crackling with pressure—then she thrust her hand forward, and it shot like a bolt from a divine crossbow.

The assassin raised his sword, trying to deflect it with the flat of his blade.

It was a good move. But it also didn’t matter.

The spear struck with enough force to shatter the weapon on impact, the fractured steel screeching as it split in half. The remaining force carried through, punching into the man’s shoulder. His scream this time was clearer—shrill and furious—blood painting the bark as he writhed and stumbled around in pain.

Then she felt it.

The sudden rush of footsteps behind her. Heavy and controlled, killing intent palpable.

The leader was coming in.

Veronica twisted halfway, already preparing to throw up a barrier—but stopped.

[I shall defend the attack.]

Veronica hesitated for the briefest of moments. She didn’t respond. Instead, the mana she had prepped to form a barrier transferred to a different spell. She felt it before. The slow and steady hum of mana around her, the supposed barrier that Sage maintained.

She just had to believe that there truly was a mana barrier ready to intercept.

The man’s hood fell backward as he rushed forward, both blades pointed out, aiming straight for her abdomen.

It struck center mass, a force that would have propelled it enough to kill.

However, it didn’t break skin. Instead, the blades chipped at their tips, small metal shards exploding outward.

A transparent shimmer, like the crack of glass forming, spread around her several inches from her body. A concussive force erupted as the mana shield formed, shattering all momentum of the attack.

“What?!” he shouted.

His face was hidden beneath the mask, but Veronica could almost imagine the man’s expression.

She didn’t blame him.

It seemed he was at least knowledgeable about mages. How regular mages would have already died. He realized Veronica was a much faster spellcaster than the norm. But if he knew that—then he knew the other basic thing about mages.

Mana barriers.

Mana barriers were their main way of defending against attacks.

But most mages didn’t learn or have the capacity to use it until they reached Tier-3.

“How do you—!” he barked, retracting his blades, his hands trembling from the negation of force. It was as if he had just struck a stone wall.

But before he could leap away—

Veronica had already cast her spell.

Two wings flashed on the back of her hand; mana flared out from her palm as it condensed; bright energy gathered in an instant, igniting a bright flash, blinding him right before—the explosion.

A massive wave of kinetic force burst free, striking the man center mass. He was lifted, knocked off his feet, and sent flying backward. His body crashed into a tree with a powerful bang, shaking the leaves violently, while splintering bark.

A cough led to a pained groan, mind dazed and spinning. His head tilted forward and back, trying to fight the battle for consciousness. With his vision still twisted, he saw the mage walk towards him.

“Alright. I hate giving second warnings. Either explain what is going on, or die,” Veronica said, eyes sharp as a violent gale.

He lifted his head to face her. His eyes wandered left and right. Both of his remaining subordinates were incapacitated. One was kneeling, clutching at their bloodied arm, gritting their teeth. The other was flat on the ground, shivering from the burn scars that singed their flesh.

A chuckle came with bated breath. It wasn’t one of amusement, entertainment, or even content.

But one of knowing defeat.

“Damn mage bitch… you’re not like any beginner mage I’ve ever seen mentioned,” he said, huffing a breath as he tried to keep upright from collapsing. “Fine. I‘ll tell you. Just… let us go after. We… we will pretend none of this has happened.”

Veronica crossed her arms. “I’m listening.”

He leered at her, but spoke anyway. “How much do you already know?”

[Deceptiveness lies within the question.]

She paused for a moment.

“Good try,” she said softly. “Fishing for information before giving any.”

Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t harden. It simply existed—sharp, smooth, cold as the edge of a practiced blade.

“Start from the top.”

The man’s jaw clenched. A flicker of frustration tugged at his brow.

“Tch.”

He drew in a breath, steadying himself against the shaking in his limbs. Blood still dripped somewhere beneath his cloak.

“My name is Jameson,” the man said finally. “And no—we ain’t with the Ronswicks.”

Veronica didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. She simply waited, letting the silence stretch between them like a tightening noose.

Jameson swallowed and continued.

“We’re with the Ashen Covenant. All of us. We believe the world needs to be reforged. Burnt clean before it can rise again.”

Veronica tilted her head slightly.

“Sister Virellia,” she said. The name tasted like ash.

“Of the Veil,” he snapped. “Sister Virellia of the Veil.”

Veronica rolled her eyes—small, irritated, utterly unimpressed. “Fine. Add all the dramatic titles you want.”

He bristled at the dismissal.

“If you know her name,” he muttered, “then you know what we’re fighting for.”

“I know what she’s doing,” Veronica replied. “Killing everything in her path. Calling it salvation. Trying to summon the Demon King because death and fire make her feel important.”

She stepped half a pace closer, the torchlight shifting, so that shadows crawled across his face.

“She’s a witch who preys on desperation. She tells people they matter just long enough to use them. Then they die for her.”

Jameson burst.

“What do you know!” he roared, voice cracking. His body trembled—not from fright, but from something jagged and desperate.

Veronica remained still.

Her voice, however, lost any trace of warmth.

“I’m done talking in circles. What are you doing in Greystone? Why take villagers? Virellia doesn’t bother with small towns unless she wants something. So what are you—splinter cultists trying to win her favor? Playing with rituals you don’t understand?”

Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Jameson’s jaw clenched. His breathing turned rough.

“You talk like someone who’s never suffered,” he spat. “Mages. Swordmasters. Spiritfarers. You’re all born above us. Blessed. You stand on towers while the rest of us claw through mud. You think you know what it’s like to start life powerless?”

His words dripped with bitterness. But beneath that bitterness was something else.

Hurt. Desperation. A hunger for meaning.

Veronica’s expression didn’t change. Inside, however, something twisted hot behind her ribs.

Power? Blessed?

He had no idea.

No idea of the years she spent fighting a curse that turned her own skin to stone.

No idea of studying until her vision blurred because knowledge was the only thing keeping her alive.

No idea that every spell she cast carried a risk of killing her.

But she did not say any of that aloud.

“What are you even talking about?” she said instead, arms crossed. “Magic isn’t some divine blessing. Anyone can study. Anyone can learn. You earn it. And no amount of misery gives you the right to cut corners.”

Jameson spat on the ground. “Spoken like someone who’s never had dirt under their nails. You rich?”

“No,” she replied flatly.

He laughed once—a harsh, broken sound. “Then you’re blind. The people in my village worked themselves raw just to eat. Magic? Books? Training? All out of reach. Unless you steal. Or starve.”

He groaned as he shifted, bark scraping behind him.

“Tell me something,” he rasped. “Out of a hundred villagers… how many do you think become mages?”

Veronica considered. “Twenty. Some people don’t have the talent to go far, but anyone can start.”

Jameson stared at her as if she’d just spoken a foreign language.

Then he laughed.

A dry, bitter, flame-crackling laugh.

“Gods,” he whispered. “You really don’t know how lucky you are.”

His eyes rose to meet hers—filled with anger, blood, and ugly conviction.

“We weren’t lucky. We had nothing. No coin. No teachers. No future. Just… rot. Every one of us waiting to die nameless.”

His voice grew sharper. “Sister Virellia offered a way out. A world where the powerless rise. Through fire. Through pacts. Through demons. Why spend our whole lives studying scraps”—his lip curled—“when we can become strong now?”

Veronica’s fingers curled.

Shortcuts. Cheating power. Throwing lives away for speed. It was everything she hated.

Because shortcuts didn’t exist.

Because she had bled for every inch she ever gained.

And because demons always took more than they gave.

Jameson didn’t notice her growing anger. He was too lost in his own belief.

“She showed us it worked,” he whispered fiercely. “Acolytes controlling demons. No corruption. No loss of self. Just power. Real power. Finally.”

Veronica stared at him, silently furious in a cold, controlled way.

Because she knew what the truth looked like.

Because she knew where this path ended.

And because in her future… the Ashen Covenant’s “freedom” ended with cities burning.

This time, she would not let them reach that far.

“I don’t pity you idiots. To resort to demons to better your lives. It’s despicable.”

Veronica prepared another spell, flashing before her palm.