Supreme Magus

Chapter 3660: Talent and Mana (Part 1)

"Good. Now disappear from my sight, worm." Jorl threw the wheezing Jormungandr on the ground and Orpal Warped him hundreds of kilometers away, where Akhton the Bastet was waiting for their latest recruit.

"Don't think I didn't enjoy the show, but why did you do that?" The Dead King asked.

"Why did I do what? Kick his ass? Man, you're even dumber than you look, which is a lot." Jorl sneered.

"No, why did you say I'm stronger than you? Why did you praise me like that when we both know you don't believe a word you said?"

"I stand corrected." The Storm Griffon nodded. "You are less dumb than you look, but not by much."

People assumed Jorl was young due to his deep violet core, but he was over one thousand years old. He had been stuck at the bright blue until he accepted Orpal's offer, but not because he had spent his time idly.

In the attempt to break past the blue core, Jorl had trained his body and magic to their utmost limit. He had learned everything he could about the power of Life Maelstrom and Light Mastery, even begging his siblings for guidance when needed.

He had discarded his pride and devoted his soul to the task. He had failed, but the results of his constant efforts were undeniable. Even Night doubted that many Griffons even thrice his age could best Jorl.

They had spent their time building themselves a life, whereas he had lived for his ambition. It made his defeat at Sylpha's hand a humiliation that the Storm Griffon would die rather than admit.

Orpal had met Night just a few years ago and had discovered his powers as a Vurdalak recently. Without the assistance of the Horseman or Moonlight, he had no way to stand against Jorl, not even with his Davross equipment.

"Answer my question." Silence followed, and Meln found himself saying, "Please" with honesty for the first time in his life.

"Because you needed it, Meln." Jorl replied. "We needed it. Thrud has destroyed your reputation and without it, reaching our goals will be hard. Yet if even your 'generals' don't respect you, it will be impossible.

"I acted that way because I needed to nip Erion's attitude in the bud, or it would have spread to our troops. We need to present a united front and show everyone what you got if we want to have a chance of success.

"Don't bother denying your past failures because they are recorded in high definition and everyone on two continents has watched them several times. What you must do is show our potential allies that you've changed, even if we both know it's not true.

"You know how they say. It's not about the setbacks, it's about the comebacks."

"This still doesn't answer my question." Orpal replied. "Why are you helping me? Why do you care what others think of me? I don't remember bonding with you during our training, nor developing any feelings of brotherhood."

"Ah! Good one, Meln!" Jorl laughed with sincere amusement. "If you ever treated me like a brother, I would trust you even less than I do now. I know your history with your blood brothers and what you've done to them."

Orpal couldn't deny such cynical words, but he didn't lower his gaze either.

"Fine! I'm doing this for us. Or rather, for me." The Griffon raised his arms and rolled his eyes in frustration. "You are a piece of work, Meln Narchat, there's no denying that. Yet your powers are the real deal.

"I got a taste for them, and I plan to make the changes to my body permanent. Don't get me wrong, I'll never become one of your 'Chosen', but I'm not afraid to discover what I'll become after becoming a Vurdalak, Upyr, or whatever it is.

"Yet, as always in life, there is a catch. Even if I were to ditch you, the next time I stumble upon one of my siblings, they'll ask me how I retrieved my treasures, since my imprint and arrays are unbroken.

"They'll ask me how I can escape my mother's detection, and I have no plausible answer to offer. On top of that, even a Griffon cub is a Healer skilled enough to recognize the alterations to my body.

"There is no point in gaining these powers if I have to hide like a rat and pretend I'm just like any other Griffon. And this, Meln Narchat, is where you come into play. You do your thing right, and I'll ride your coattails.

"Conquer the Undead Courts, the Griffon Kingdom, the whole Garlen, or just one of the free counties, I don't care, as long as there is a spot for me to live peacefully."

"So you are using me." Orpal snarled.

"No more than you are using me." Jorl countered. "And probably less than whatever you plot against me whenever I turn my back on you. Now, enough with the mushy talk. You've gotten your teachers, it's time to find you an army."

***

Griffon Kingdom, Distar Marquisate, White Griffon Academy, a few days later.

'Everyone loves summer, but I hate its guts!' Zogar Vastor, Professor of the Healing Arts and Head of the Light Department, stabbed at the paper with his quill.

He had mastered water magic when he was a little older than a toddler and could have used it to write, but he loved to hear the screeching of paper against his pen.

The report cards sounded like they were suffering just as he was.

He spent so much of his day signing documents and research grants that the last time Zinya, his wife, had handed him a napkin, Vastor had put his autograph on it before realizing he was supposed to use it to clean his mouth.

'Summer is when the weather is hot and those numbskulls of my students realize the final term is approaching. They come to my office at all times, asking for explanations, support, or denouncing those who try to sabotage their studies.

'Not to mention the mock tests, grading the papers, and then organizing the make-up classes for those who failed. I barely have enough time to eat, and my office becomes a prison.'

"I love winter, when the academy is empty and I can stay home. When there isn't so much gods-damned noise that I can barely listen to my own thoughts!" Vastor said the last part out loud in a snarl, replying to one of his many assistants trying to get his attention. "What is it now, Number Three?"

"I'm sorry, Professor, but my name is-"

"I don't care about your name. My time is precious and I won't waste it remembering what all my jailers are called!" Vastor cut the terrified postgraduate short and signed the lunch menu he was holding. "You are the third new assistant, so you are Number Three. Now, speak!"

"Your children are here to visit you, Professor." Number Three looked more awkward than scared, which was unusual.

Postgraduates' default emotion was terror since their future depended on their ability not to anger the professor to whom they were assigned. The lucky ones would become Assistant Professors and start their academic careers.