Chapter 355

The Mage Tower Exchange was an ancient tradition that had persisted for centuries.

It was an event where mages from different towers gathered to share knowledge, debate theories, and showcase their abilities—a supposedly “elegant and dignified” affair, according to its proponents.

The exchange often provided rare opportunities for the otherwise reclusive mages to learn from other disciplines. Yet, over time, such events had become less frequent.

The primary reason was the inherent stubbornness of mages. Most were reluctant to share their own knowledge while eager to hoard others’.

What began as an event with noble intentions eventually dwindled due to the arrogance and competitive nature of the participants.

Particularly among rival mage towers, the exchange had become an increasingly rare occurrence. Towers from the same school of magic often outright refused to interact, viewing each other as potential threats.

Such was the case between the Red Tower and the Crimson Tower. Relations between the two had been strained for decades, if not centuries.

Now, Delmuth, the master of the Crimson Tower, was proposing an exchange between the two hostile factions.

Glenn, one of the tower’s elders, frowned at the suggestion.

“Would they even agree to something like this?”

“They’ll have to,” Delmuth said coldly. “If they refuse, harass them until they have no choice but to accept.”

Delmuth’s insistence on the exchange wasn’t born of goodwill. His real motive lay in the competitive duels that were an inevitable part of such events.

Traditionally, these duels were reserved for the disciples of the towers, with tower masters and elders abstaining to avoid risking the tower’s reputation.

However, this was merely tradition, not a rule. Delmuth planned to exploit this loophole by participating himself—and taking the opportunity to eliminate his rivals.

“Organize the exchange, no matter what it takes,” Delmuth commanded. “If we don’t act now, we’ll be crushed before the civil war even begins.”

The prestige of a mage tower was often tied to the rank of its leader, but its influence depended on other factors: the quality of its artifacts, potions, and the strength of its disciples.

The Red Tower, with its long-standing tradition, had superior craftsmanship and more disciples, including numerous 5th-circle mages.

“In terms of finances, we’re no longer in a dominant position.”

Delmuth’s rise to the 7th circle had been crucial, but their financial edge was largely due to the support of Count Desmond, who had controlled the northern rune stone trade.

Now, Count Ghislain of Fenris, the wealthiest lord in the North, was backing the Red Tower. The Crimson Tower, though still supported by the Ducal faction, was at a disadvantage due to the logistical challenges of transporting resources from the South.

This disparity gnawed at Delmuth, prompting him to grind his teeth in frustration.

“What is Amelia of Rayfold even doing?” he growled.

With Count Desmond’s downfall, Amelia, the new ruler of Rayfold, was expected to step in and support the Crimson Tower.

Despite Rayfold’s harsh northern terrain, it remained a large territory with the capacity to provide financial aid. Yet, Amelia had sent nothing but excuses.

Glenn clicked his tongue in irritation.

“That foolish girl only inherited her title by luck. She’s too busy trying to stabilize her territory to see the bigger picture. She doesn’t understand what truly matters. Tch.”

“No updates from her?”

“None. Every meeting ends the same way: complaints about the rebellion and requests for patience.”

Glenn had visited Amelia multiple times, asking for resources to bolster the Crimson Tower. Each time, he returned empty-handed, his frustration mounting.

Delmuth’s expression darkened as the series of setbacks weighed heavily on him. Everything seemed to be unraveling.

To make matters worse, Raul from the Ducal faction continued to pressure him to neutralize the Red Tower as soon as possible.

“Nothing is going right because of that damned Fenris Count,” Delmuth muttered bitterly.

Amelia’s negligence was infuriating, but the root of all their problems was Count Ghislain. Ever since he defeated Count Desmond, every plan had gone awry.

Despite the dwindling support, they couldn’t defy the Ducal faction. Delmuth owed much of his success, including his rise to the 7th circle, to their backing.

With a heavy sigh, Delmuth resigned himself to the last resort he had hoped to avoid.

“If they refuse the exchange, disrupt every trade deal and merchant connection they have. Kill a few mages if necessary. They must agree to this.”

The other elders grimly nodded.

Attacking the Red Tower directly wasn’t an option. Such an overt act would draw the ire of Count Ghislain and the Royalists.

However, they were running out of time. The Red Tower had to be eliminated before the civil war erupted.

“If we go through with this, the Royalists will undoubtedly retaliate. Glenn, secure Amelia’s support. We’ll need her backing to withstand any fallout until the war begins.”

“Gather everyone. I want a report on the state of the territory.”

“Ugh, fine,” Claude muttered, still sniffling.

The retainers were quickly assembled, but some seats remained conspicuously empty.

“Where’s Alfoy? And why are others missing?”

Everyone exchanged awkward glances until Claude finally spoke up, scratching the back of his head.

“Alfoy’s been... busy lately. You’ll see soon enough.”

“Busy? Alfoy? That doesn’t sound right.”

Despite his skepticism, Ghislain let it go for now and began reviewing the reports.

The territory was running smoothly, as expected, but one detail stood out above the rest: the astonishing stockpile of potions.

“Wow... This is faster than I thought.”

The potion production facilities near the magic research institute had expanded rapidly. Fenris’s engineers, dwarves, and skilled workers had created dozens of facilities almost overnight.

Ghislain’s territory was now a powerhouse of construction, second to none.

“The number of mages has increased too?”

The magic research institute now housed nearly 70 mages, thanks to Claude’s relentless recruitment efforts. Every mage who set foot in the territory was promptly lured into staying.

Though inherently self-centered, the mages tolerated the influx of new faces. The workload was so overwhelming that extra hands were a welcome relief, despite the usual territorial disputes.

As a result, the institute now resembled a small mage tower, and potion production had skyrocketed.

“At this rate, we’ll be able to issue every soldier a potion. Maybe even meet the two-per-soldier goal soon.”

The progress was impressive, even exceeding expectations. Curious about the methods behind this efficiency, Ghislain decided to inspect the facilities himself.

“Alfoy must really be working hard. Potions are piling up, and he’s too busy to even attend meetings.”

“Y-yeah... He’s working... hard,” Claude said hesitantly.

When Ghislain arrived at the research institute, the sight that greeted him was surprising.

“Ugh, I’m dying here...”

“This insane territory... treating mages like this...”

“I just want to run away... Please, someone help me escape...”

The mages looked utterly miserable, muttering complaints as they worked.

Ghislain raised an eyebrow in amazement.

“How are they managing to keep mages working this hard?”

Mages were notoriously individualistic, and while generous compensation could motivate them, such abject misery usually resulted in strikes, not productivity.

‘Did Vanessa figure out some method?’

The idea seemed plausible but unlikely. Vanessa was a brilliant scholar but not a great administrator. Something else was at play.

As Ghislain pondered, commotion erupted near the entrance.

“Hey, you idiot! Who told you to run? You want to die? If you don’t finish your quota today, I’ll report you to the research director and have you punished! Got it? Everyone else, hurry up! If you don’t meet the quota, you’re all dead!”

The source of the booming voice was none other than Alfoy, dragging a trembling mage by the collar.

To Ghislain’s shock, Alfoy was wearing a distinctive armband, one adorned with ominous designs of chains and symbols resembling slave marks.

Behind him, five other mages, similarly outfitted, followed closely.

“Alfoy...?” Ghislain muttered, blinking in disbelief.

“Ah, Lord Ghislain, you’re back,” Alfoy said nonchalantly, his demeanor vastly different from before.

He exuded an air of menace, his posture commanding and his presence overwhelming.

Not only that, but the five mages behind him—once captives from the Crimson Tower—now wore matching blue armbands.

It was clear. In Ghislain’s absence, Alfoy and his crew had formed their own rogue faction, wielding unofficial authority and enforcing brutal efficiency.