李淳罡死了还是飞升了

Oddly, he wasn’t wearing a sword. Perhaps this was meant to show he didn’t need weapons, but to Arran’s eyes, it just looked like a silly affectation.

"You’re late, newcomer," the novice said sharply. "What’s your House?"

"I’m with the House of Swords," Arran replied calmly, ignoring the young man’s hostile tone.

"The House of Swords?" The novice sneered. "A barbarian come to learn magic? What’s next, dogs learning to speak?"

Some snickers sounded from the group of initiates.

"You have a problem with my House?" Arran asked.

It was clear the novice meant to cause trouble, but he might as well take the bait — he had no intention of training with what were obviously the least-skilled initiates in the House of Flames.

"A problem? Not at all." A thin smile formed on the dark-haired youth’s lips. "It’s inspiring to see savages try to uplift themselves," the novice mocked. "Of course, aspiration won’t compensate for your lack of skill."

"So it’s a fight you’re looking for?" Arran had no wish to exchange insults with the arrogant little git. If the young man was desperate for a beating, he would gladly administer one. "Very well. Step up."

His response seemed to take the novice by surprise, and a look of puzzlement flashed across the young man’s face.

"You think you can stand against a novice of the House of Flames?" Despite the confident words, the novice’s tone carried a hint of hesitation. It seemed he had expected the insults to go unchallenged.

"Let’s find out," Arran replied. "Or do you lack the confidence to face an initiate?"

The novice stepped forward. Though he seemed reluctant to fight, he could not back down now — not against an initiate who had directly challenged him.

"You have made a grave mistake," he said. Expression grim, he began to gather Essence for an attack.

Yet before he got a chance to attack, Arran launched a Flamestrike, thick as an arm and shimmering with power. He had prepared for the attack the moment he saw the novice’s attitude, and now, grabbing Essence and launching it at the young man in front of him only took an instant.

His opponent hastily created a Wind Shield when he Sensed Arran’s attack, but the sloppy defense was torn apart by the force of the impact, and he staggered backward in shock.

Before the young man could recover from the impact, a second attack struck — a Battering Force spell that sent his body flying. With a loud thud, the novice crashed into the wall three dozen paces behind him.

As the House of Flames novice slumped to the ground, some gasps sounded from the initiates who were watching the fight.

Suddenly, a woman’s voice sounded from the side of the hall. "Efrin, go check on him!"

At once, another novice rushed forth from the group of initiates, coming to a halt neat to the motionless young man. After a short inspection, he visibly relaxed — Arran’s opponent was injured, not dead.

Arran turned toward the woman who had spoken. Her presence was no surprise — he had noticed her the moment he stepped into the hall, sitting quietly as she observed the initiates.

And if he had guessed correctly, she was an adept rather than a novice.

She walked over to Arran unhurriedly, and as she approached, he gave her a studious glance.

She wore the crimson robes of the House of Flames, though unlike the novice, there was a sword at her side. At a guess, Arran thought she was of age, though perhaps a year or two younger. With long brown hair and a calm but confident expression, she was attractive, though not unusually beautiful.

"An impressive display," she said when she reached him, sounding slightly amused. "Initiates who can best our novices in a contest of magic are rare — and ones from the House of Swords all the more so."

Arran shrugged. "I knew he was weak."

She gave him a curious look. "How so?"

"The House of Flames wouldn’t have talented novices train other Houses’ initiates," Arran said, glancing at the group of initiates. More than a few looked at him and the woman with nervous expressions, though none of them spoke. "Not the ones who haven’t shown any potential, at least."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Why do you believe this group hasn’t shown any potential?"

"If they had, you wouldn’t have them train under a little shit like that," Arran replied with a shrug. "But that’s the reason you’re here, isn’t it? To spot initiates with talent, and lead them to greener pastures?"

"And they say the House of Swords is filled with mindless brutes." She laughed, then said, "I’m Anthea — Adept Anthea, to you. Come with me."

She headed for the door, ignoring the novices and initiates behind them. Arran followed her, though not before casting a last glance at the injured novice. The young man had awoken and was now groaning in pain, doubtless having suffered a broken bone or two.

As they stepped onto the road, Anthea gave Arran a studious look. "So what’s your name? And why aren’t you a novice yet? You have obviously learned the Flamestrike spell well enough to become one."

"I’m Ghostblade," Arran said. "As for my rank... my teacher wants me to build a stronger foundation before I advance."

"Curious," Anthea said. "Very curious. The House of Swords doesn’t usually value magic that much."

Arran shrugged. "My teacher is unusual."

"Clearly." Anthea looked around for a moment, then began to head up the road. "Follow me. I’ll find us a vacant hall, so I can test your skills for myself."

It didn’t take her long to find an empty hall, and after she led him inside, she gave it a quick inspection, then nodded. "Good enough. Now, show me what you can do."

"Show you?"

"Cast some spells," she said. "Not at me, please. Aim for the far wall."

Arran turned to face the wall, then quickly gathered Essence and began to launch spells. First a Flamestrike, then Battering Force, then a Windblade. With a thought, he added a fireball as well — it was a simple technique rather than a spell, but he didn’t exactly have a large repertoire.

When he finished, he turned to Anthea. "Enough?"

"Keep going," she replied, gesturing at the wall. "Don’t stop until you run out of Essence."

With a nod, Arran turned back to the wall, then began to cast his spells once more. For over half an hour, he cast spell after spell, battering the wall with a barrage of magic. None of his spells managed to damage the wall in the slightest, and he understood that, as he had suspected earlier, it was somehow strengthened against magic.

As he cast his spells, Anthea observed him quietly, her expression betraying neither satisfaction nor disappointment.

When Arran finally finished, she nodded thoughtfully. "Your skill is lacking, but your strength is good and your Essence reserves are amazing. How long have you been using magic?"

Arran thought for a moment, then said, "About six years, although I spent most of that time focusing on swordsmanship and Body Refinement."

"Six years?" She raised an eyebrow, and for several seconds she said nothing, merely looking at Arran as if she were appraising a horse. Finally, she said, "Very well, I’ll take you as a student. Give me your badge."

He did as she said, producing the small flame-shaped badge Brightblade had given him. She put the badge away, then took out another one that was almost identical to the first, except colored bright crimson. This, she handed to Arran.

"With this, you hold the privileges of a novice. An outsider, mind you — so don’t start any more fights with any members of our House. Not unless I give you permission."

"All right," Arran said, surprised by how smoothly everything had gone.

"Since we have an empty hall all to ourselves, I will start your training immediately." Anthea frowned. "First, I’ll teach you some spells — having just three offensive spells is pathetic, even for an initiate."

At this, Arran felt some excitement. "You’re going to teach me new spells?"

Anthea nodded in response. "We’ll start slowly — for today, I think twelve is a reasonable target."

Arran’s eyes went wide with shock at her words. "You want me to learn twelve new spells? In a day?!"