Originally, Roland fighting him in this manner had already given the loser plenty of face. Who would have thought the guy still wasn't satisfied? It could only be said... he truly lived up to being a spoiled rich fool.
The ice shield suddenly shattered.
Just as Thomas felt a surge of joy, his face froze again.
At this moment, the distance between the two was less than two meters.
However, hovering between them were countless ice spikes, and ice was attached to his feet, greatly reducing his mobility. As long as the ice spikes launched, he would be pierced through in an instant, turned into a sieve. Thomas, who had never suffered hardship or fatigue since childhood, did not dare to imagine the pain of those ice spikes puncturing his skin.
“Stop... I yield... I... I yield!”
Thomas hurriedly shouted.
At this point, he could no longer care about noble dignity.
As his words fell, the ice spikes slowly dissipated, and the ice attached to his feet gradually melted. Thomas dropped directly to his knees, his back drenched in cold sweat. If he had surrendered any slower, Roland really would have continued casting. A mere son of a Count was nothing in his eyes.
Forget Thomas—even if Count O'Connor were here in person, it would make no difference.
“I actually lost to a Mage?”
Thomas stared blankly at Roland. Under the sunlight, Roland appeared even taller and exuded an indescribable sense of oppression. His golden eyes were utterly calm, without the slightest joy of victory, as if this were merely a trivial matter.
The humiliation in Thomas's heart grew even stronger.
Philip walked over and patted Thomas on the shoulder.
“Alright, stop kneeling on the ground like a fool. Losing to Roland isn't embarrassing. Forget you—even if I went up, it'd be useless. You didn't actually think Roland was like the rumors, did you?” Philip chuckled, showing no surprise whatsoever. “By the way, seeing as we're both nobles of Lucifiel, I'll let you in on a secret: Roland isn't just a First-Rank Mage, he's also a First-Rank Warrior.”
Thomas looked at Roland in disbelief.
Horror filled his eyes.
“If you're this strong, why didn't you before...”
He did not say the remaining words out loud.
“It's meaningless. Besides, I wasn't the one spreading rumors. What does it have to do with me if they talk?” Roland spread his hands and said, “People's mouths belong to them; they can say whatever they want. How could I stop them?”
“Don't you want to prove yourself?”
“My father is the Duke of Lucifiel. What meaning is there in winning or losing? If you have the skill, go duel my father. Why not compare fathers? A Ninth-Rank Demigod—even if I really were useless, so what?”
Roland said casually, his words half-true and half-false.
Most importantly, the former Roland believed that dueling such trash would practically lower his own status. Rumors were just gossip after all, not to be taken seriously; but if he actually agreed to a duel, that would truly lower his status.
“...”
Thomas was at a loss for words. Looking at the youth's genuinely indifferent demeanor, he let out a self-deprecating laugh, a touch of desolation on his face. In terms of family background, he was far inferior to Roland. In terms of looks, well... there was even less need to compare. And now, even in talent and aptitude, he was no match for Roland.
Yet right before this, he had held a completely different view.
He was the one who loved turning such matters into a laughingstock the most.
He had lost count of how many Northern Territory nobles he had told that the Duke's son was definitely inferior to him. Looking at it now, it was all a joke. Those truly smart people had probably mocked him behind his back countless times, merely complimenting him to his face.
The thought of those rumors falling upon himself terrified him.
The thought of other nobles laughing at him because of it was unbearable.
Thomas felt intensely ashamed.
Yet how did Roland act?
From start to finish, he remained calm and unruffled.
He didn't take any of this to heart at all.
Suddenly, a thought flashed through Thomas's mind. Looking at Roland in disbelief, he thought: This guy probably never viewed our group as opponents from the very beginning... The truly arrogant one is him. Perhaps only those top geniuses who are already famous could catch his eye.
Thomas looked at him with a fervent gaze.
Roland felt a wave of disgust.
What the hell is this idiot fantasizing about over there?
“Sigh, I concede. I can only say you truly live up to yourself, Roland.” Thomas sighed, as if he had realized the ultimate truth, even dialing back a bit of his noble arrogance. “I'll take my leave first, gentlemen. See you at St. Romanvia. Next time, I'll be stronger!”
“...”
Roland continued to look at him as if looking at a fool.
Philip simply gave a soft response.
After Thomas left, Philip was the first to speak: “Thomas grew up in the palm of Count O'Connor's hand, and the Countess doted on him even more. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Besides, Count O'Connor is stationed in Lucifiel year-round, doesn't go to the front lines, and has no military posts. His family culture is different from ours.”
“He's... a standard noble child, so to speak.”
After a long pause, Philip offered this assessment.
“...”
“But he's not stupid. Today was quite a blow to him, though it shouldn't be a bad thing. I see he adjusted pretty well just now.”
Philip continued to act as a buffer.
After chatting for a while, Roland returned to the Duke's Mansion.
Today was August 13th, Year 35806 of the Eternal Calendar.
The Eternal Calendar was the globally recognized standard calendar.
He had agreed with Philip to depart for St. Romanvia on the twenty-fifth.
As for this half-month or so, he would treat it as a small vacation for himself. The powerhouses' remains in the treasury had not been used yet; taking advantage of this period, he would go through every single forbidden ritual recorded in the treasury, and then slip away nicely to the imperial capital, St. Romanvia. By the time his cheap old man returned, everything would be too late.
This plan was wonderfully similar to Philip's.
Drinking the tea Philip gave him, Roland gave Count Wayne's taste a thumb's up.
Beside his desk, several spellbooks below the Fifth Rank were stacked.
A sip of tea, a turn of a page.
...
“Calculating the time, you've reached the age to go to school.”
“But I don't want to go.”
Rhys Marshall frowned and scolded coldly, “This age of yours is prime time for school. What's more, only there can your talent truly be unearthed. In my life, the Third Rank is my limit, but you're different, Eleanor. Your fire-attribute affinity is a full 8.9; your future is limitless!”
“Furthermore, you're already a First-Rank Mage and a First-Rank Warrior.”
“With this kind of talent, there are probably very few to be found in the entire world.”
“But...”
“There are no 'buts.' In the future, you can definitely become a genius above a Sixth-Rank Grand Mage.” Rhys Marshall spoke with firm, unquestionable resolve. “Only in this way can you truly fulfill your ideals, and only then can you... take revenge, seeking vengeance against those scamps of the Church of the Fallen Mother Goddess.”
“...”
She strongly disliked those nobles.
Hearing this, Eleanor still nodded.
Painful memories gradually became her motivation to push forward.
The confusion in her eyes turned into determination.
At the same time, a figure reappeared in her mind.
It was a figure with golden pupils filled with pride.
“He... will be going too, right?”
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