SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

Chapter 982: Prove Your Worth!

“Did the king do right by letting his son walk into death, knowing he had other children?”

“Was it the prince’s duty to obey and die?”

“Or was this all an injustice masked by sacrifice?”

Kent inhaled deeply.

The tale stirred something in him. The weight of loyalty, the pull of destiny, and the balance between duty and love. He had once promised to protect others by giving his life. He knew what such a vow cost.

And so, he answered:

“The king’s heart was torn, as a father’s should be. But he asked, not commanded. That alone gives weight to the decision.

The prince chose not out of obedience, but out of purpose. His silence was not weakness—it was a waiting strength. When the moment came, he voiced not sorrow but truth.

And so, it was not injustice. It was dharma—his path. Selfless will in service of many.

A ruler does not only lead by sword or speech, but by sacrifice when needed.”

Silence.

The beast’s glowing eyes narrowed, then softened.

It bowed its head.

“Well spoken. You see not just with eyes but with balance. Go forward, O scaled one.”

The staircase shifted, and the stone beneath Kent glowed. The next step emerged in a burst of light ahead.

Before leaving, Kent asked, “Was that tale true?”

The beast tilted its head. “True in spirit, whether or not in flesh.”

With a flick of its claw, it faded into mist.

Kent rose and stepped onto the glowing platform, the words of the tale still echoing in his soul.

And thus, the first step was passed—not by might, but by truth.

The path grew dimmer as Kent climbed higher. Cold mists swirled in thick layers, carrying soft, echoing voices—like forgotten prayers drifting in the sea.

He stepped onto the second platform. The moment his foot landed, the sea around him became still as stone.

Another creature emerged—different from the first. This one had a lion-like mane woven from kelp, with eyes like pearls filled with lightning storms. Two wings—coral and bone—sprouted from its back, and it hovered silently.

“You have passed the trial of judgment,” it said in a thunderous yet sorrowful tone. “Now, face the second wisdom: the test of choice. But beware. The heart may bleed when given too many roads.”

It raised a claw, and light erupted, forming a memory-illusion in mid-water.

“Now hear the tale.”

—

Once, in the time before oceans had names, there was a mighty kingdom ruled by a just Empress named Ravanae. Her power was immense, her wisdom praised across realms. But her greatest concern was not war or enemies—it was the succession of her two sons.

The elder, Prince Thalos, was a master of law, diplomacy, and logic. He could calm armies with a word and balance budgets with precision.

The younger, Prince Eiran, was loved by the people. Brave, compassionate, and full of the fire of youth, he had a warrior’s heart and the laughter of spring.

The Empress declared, “On the last moon of the red tide, I shall name my heir.”

But the night before the ceremony, disaster struck.

A strange fog rolled in from the western sea. It carried whispers, illusions, and then—the Shatter Plague. The palace was attacked by shadows that screamed in broken tongues. Only the Empress and her sons survived.

Ravanae, gravely wounded, summoned her remaining ministers.

“The empire is split,” she said weakly. “The eastern cities now follow Thalos. The western lands stand with Eiran. If they clash, we fall.”

And so, she proposed a test: a journey of unification. The brothers were to leave all they owned behind, wear only humble garb, and travel to the Five Broken Cities to rebuild them—without revealing their identity.

Whoever won the hearts of the people, would inherit the crown.

The journey began.

Thalos used reason and structure. He rebuilt courts, solved disputes, and established trade between warring tribes. But he spoke little, smiled less, and never stayed long enough for the children to remember his face.

Eiran, meanwhile, lifted stones with villagers, sang songs by firelight, and stood guard at night against pirates. He taught local boys how to fish and grieved with widows. But he forgot the ledgers. He missed meetings with nobles. His lands remained poor but joyous.

After three years, they returned to the capital.

The ministers were torn.

Some said, “Thalos is order—he brings structure to chaos.”

Others said, “Eiran is soul—he breathes life into stone.”

The Empress, aged and dying, called for both sons and offered them one final test.

A city in rebellion.

The rebels demanded independence, led by a once-loyal general. They held hostages and burned food stores. If the sons could resolve it, they would be crowned.

Thalos chose to negotiate, but also prepared archers in secret.

Eiran went alone, with no guards, only trust.

But the rebels, corrupted by old greed, took Eiran and executed him before the city.

The people rioted. The soldiers stormed the gates.

The Empress lived just long enough to see her army return the rebel general’s head.

She died grieving.

Thalos ruled for fifty years. The empire was vast. Efficient. Feared.

But never loved.

And each year, on the anniversary of his brother’s death, he stood before a simple statue of Eiran… and wept.

—

The beast’s voice grew quiet.

“You’ve heard the tale,” it said. “Now I ask you…”

“Who was worthy to rule?”

“Was the Empress wrong in asking them to prove themselves?”

“Was Thalos righteous in preparing archers—and bearing the crown that came by blood?”

It leaned forward. “What is the weight of a choice, Scaled One?”

Kent remained silent for a long time.

The images still floated in his mind: Thalos weeping, Eiran’s kind eyes, the broken city, the mother torn between peace and empire.

Then he spoke:

“The Empress was not wrong to test them. A crown earned is stronger than one given by birth. But… she misjudged the time. The world was crumbling. Her people needed unity—not a gamble.

Eiran’s love was pure, but love without caution can be fatal. He forgot that not all hearts are good. His end was noble, but it shattered many.

Thalos made a hard choice. Preparing archers was not betrayal—but preparation. Yet ruling by survival does not mean one was right. It means one carried the burden others left behind.

In truth… both were worthy. But the crown often goes to the one willing to carry guilt, not just joy.”

The beast stared into Kent’s eyes.

Then it spoke:

“Your answer bears sorrow—and wisdom. You do not seek to glorify one at the cost of the other. You saw the fracture in the mirror, and did not flinch.”

The second step glowed.

“You may pass, Scaled One.”

Before Kent moved, he bowed low to the beast.

“Thank you… for the tale.”

The mist thickened. The fire died. And the path to the third step appeared.

–

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