Chapter 192: Speeches

  The auditorium was hushed, heavy with anticipation.

  Master Stone stepped forward from the trio of Magians, his gray-and-gold robes trailing with a whisper across the stage floor. The light above shimmered faintly off his stone crown, and the weight of his presence seemed to still the very air.

  When he spoke, it wasn’t just a voice but deep, grounded, resolute.

  “Today,” Stone began, “we mark the beginning of a new era.”

  His words echoed through the auditorium, firm and unshakable.

  “Not just for the Towers. Not just for the Apostles. Not just for the nobles. But for Bask itself.”

  Eyes turned toward him, even the skeptical ones.

  “For too long, we were bound to a world that forgot us. Shackled to the distant decisions of a continent that barely acknowledged our soil, our people. Then the earth tore apart—and we were left to stand on our own.”

  A silence fell. Stone’s eyes slowly swept across the room, from nobles in ornate robes to apostles bearing scars and pride.

  “And we did. We stood.”

  A few apostles began to nod. A spark had lit in the room.

  “We did not crumble. We did not flee. Instead, we built. Reclaimed. Protected.”

  His voice rose with slow intensity.

  “This is our era of unity. Of collaboration. Of rebuilding a nation with our hands, with our knowledge, with our will. The institutes are not just buildings—they are beacons. The towers are not just power—they are purpose.”

  Murmurs of agreement began to spread. Abel found himself leaning forward, caught in the momentum of Stone’s conviction.

  “To the noble families,” Stone said, voice shifting slightly in tone, “I thank you. For putting aside the weight of the past and walking forward into the unknown. This path is uncertain—but it belongs to all of us now.”

  A few of the family heads nodded. Others maintained neutral expressions, but even they listened.

  “And to those who rejected this vision—who slithered away into the Deep South, to escape unity and carve out their own kingdoms in the dark—you will feel the wrath of the new Bask.”

  That line struck like a hammer. A thunderous wave of cheers broke out from the Apostles’ side. Fists rose, feet stomped. Some clapped. Some simply shouted in fierce approval.

  But on the noble side? Silence. Stillness. Stone did not wait for their reaction.

  “The world is a hunting ground,” he continued, quieter now, but no less intense. “Civilizations rise and fall beneath the claws of those who descend from beyond the skies or crawl up from beneath the earth. This reality is not kind—it is a battlefield. It always has been.”

  He paused, letting the truth settle.

  “But do not forget what makes us human. In the end, it will not be towers or bloodlines that save us. It will be each other.”

  The words felt like stone pressed into flesh. A truth that could not be ignored.

  “When they come—and they will come, be it monsters, invaders, or races we do not yet understand—we will not ask where your family came from. We will not ask which tower you climbed or which badge you bear.”

  His eyes moved through the crowd again.

  “We will only ask: Are you with us?”

  The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was sacred.

  Then slowly, like a tide returning to shore, the apostles rose to their feet. It wasn’t coordinated. It wasn’t planned. But one after another, chairs scraped back and bodies stood upright.

  Abel was among them.

  His hands were trembling—not from fear, but from something else. Awe. Inspiration. Conviction.

  Stone raised one hand. He didn’t need to yell.

  “This is Bask. This is our age. And we will stand strong.”

  The chamber erupted in thunderous applause, and this time, even a few nobles joined in. Perhaps reluctantly. Perhaps out of understanding.

  Abel sat back down slowly, heart pounding. That fire in his chest… it wasn’t just anger anymore. It was purpose.

  And then, just as the applause began to settle, Magian Duskfang stepped forward.

  There was a shift in the room immediately.

  Where Stone’s presence was weighty and steady, Duskfang’s was sharp, almost volatile. His ember-colored eyes scanned the crowd like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

  And then… he spoke.

  If Master Stone's speech had been a mountain—silent, unmoving, and profound—then Duskfang was the fire that erupted from beneath it.

  He stepped forward with a swagger that drew attention, his robes dark with streaks of silver and crimson, his gaze burning with intensity.

  His presence crackled in the air like static before a storm. A natural orator, not because of grace, but because of conviction.

  When he spoke, his voice boomed.

  “Enough waiting for others to save us. Enough looking to the skies with fear.”

  He took a breath, arms behind his back as he paced the stage like a general addressing his troops.

  “We’ve crossed the line where ignorance can be an excuse. Magic is no longer reserved for towers, for nobles, or gifted bloodlines. If it’s in our world, it belongs to all of us.”

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  The room buzzed with energy. A few gasps came from the noble side, but the apostles of the Duskfang Bastion let out a small cheer. Proud. Bold.

  “Bask is changing—and it's about time.”

  Duskfang gestured behind him, toward the great hall and the crowd within.

  “The institutes are only the beginning. We will train not only the apostles of tomorrow, but the people who will protect their homes, their streets, their towns. The days of relying on strangers to arrive from the tower when danger strikes? Gone.”

  More cheers now—louder.

  “They say the world is dangerous. That we live on a planet hunted by beasts and empires and mysteries we can’t even comprehend. Good. Let it be dangerous. We’re building a generation that bites back.”

  The applause roared again. Even some of the quieter apostles from the Stone Tower clapped. Abel found himself smiling—not because the words were gentle, but because they were true. Raw. Real.

  “We’ll explore the Far South. We’ll descend the Hole and map what no one else dares. But we won’t send cowards. We’ll send explorers. We’ll send those who know the risks and still move forward.”

  He stopped pacing, turning toward the apostles once more.

  “That’s what the new Bask is made of.”

  Then his tone shifted—lower, quieter. Almost personal.

  “To my apostles, you are not just warriors. You are seeds. And the stronger you grow, the more Bask flourishes. That’s why to our Rank 4s and 5s, we, the Magians will begin guiding you all—mentoring, not just commanding. Helping you understand your final runes, choosing your paths. Helping you get to where we are, and beyond.”

  He paused for effect, then added:

  “And when the day comes for you to face your Malediction, we’ll protect your ground. We'll make sure no coward or rival interrupts you. Because it’s your trial. Not theirs.”

  That drew massive cheers from the apostles of Duskfang Bastion. They clapped, roared, and stomped. They howled. There was a thunder in the room now, different from Stone's speech. This was fire in the blood.

  Even Abel couldn’t deny it. The passion was infectious. He wasn’t built like them, but he admired them. Duskfang had lit something in everyone.

  The Magian turned and lifted one hand in a firm salute to his apostles.

  “To survive, we must be bold. To thrive, we must be wild.”

  The applause felt like a wave crashing over the entire auditorium.

  Abel looked around, noting even some of the nobles had expressions of reluctant approval now. The tide of the room had changed. Morale was high. Hope was contagious.

  Then, as Duskfang stepped back, the room quieted—not from exhaustion, but in anticipation.

  From the trio at the front, the last to speak was a calm, serene figure.

  Clad in green and gold, eyes like moss-covered stone, Magian Verdant stepped forward.

  Where Stone had been stoic and Duskfang was thunderous, Verdant exuded stillness—the eye in the storm.

  The room hushed as the voice of the forest prepared to speak.

  The energy from Duskfang’s speech still lingered in the air like heat after a lightning strike, but the moment Magian Verdant stepped forward, the room settled into a quiet hush once more.

  Where Stone had been like bedrock and Duskfang a wildfire, Verdant felt like the voice of time itself—ageless, contemplative, and deeply rooted.

  His calm presence seemed to cool the room. Even the most exuberant apostles leaned forward with a strange reverence as the final Magian began to speak.

  Verdant’s robes shimmered with living green threads, shifting like wind through leaves.

  When he spoke, it was like listening to water trickle through mossy stone—measured, thoughtful, yet impossible to ignore.

  “The past several months have tested us,” Verdant began, voice steady. “They have revealed weakness… but also strength. In these trials, true heroes were forged. Not for glory, not for coin, but because it was necessary.”

  He scanned the crowd slowly. “And so, we recognize those whose actions rose above the chaos, who did not waver when the world cracked open beneath our feet.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then he lifted a hand. A shimmering green badge floated above his palm. It was shaped like a leaf cast in emerald, surrounded by a ring of soft golden light. Its energy pulsed gently—a mark of acknowledgment not just from the Tower, but from Bask itself.

  “These are not simply ornaments. They are tokens of gratitude. And reminders that, even when the Tower cannot see everything… we are watching. We remember. We reward.”

  He began calling names.

  One by one, the Apostles rose and ascended the stage from across all three Towers. A fiery-haired woman from Duskfang Bastion. A quiet, silver-eyed man from Verdant. A stoic, robe-wrapped apostle from Stone.

  There were both gifted and non-gifted. Rank 3s and Rank 4s. A beautiful mix of magic’s many paths. And Abel found something quietly satisfying about that. The divide was real, but here, at least, there was recognition across the board.

  Then came a shift.

  "Apostle IceQueen."

  The room shifted. Conversations stopped. Even the nobles—some of whom had seemed bored or indifferent—leaned forward in their seats, eyes narrowing with interest.

  From the aisle marked by the Stone Tower’s emblem, a figure emerged. She moved like falling snow—silent, deliberate, and chilling in her grace. Every step was a statement of poise and absolute control, the atmosphere around her sharpening with a cold that wasn’t physical, but spiritual. The aura of someone who had climbed to the very summit of apostleship.

  Her hair was a brilliant white, not aged, but radiant—like it had been kissed by frost. Her eyes, pale and unblinking, scanned the stage with distant indifference. Abel could feel it the moment she passed—an invisible pressure, like walking beneath a looming glacier.

  Rank Five.

  He swallowed. So this was her—the IceQueen. A name spoken with awe even in the far reaches of Bask. He remembered hearing whispers that she had been a gifted apostle once wielding the water affinity, until she’d turned toward forbidden methods, reshaping her path into one of glacial dominance.

  She’d taken risks few dared, and the result was clear: terrifying power.

  Her badge glowed faintly as she approached the front, its soft blue light responding to her like an obedient hound recognizing its master. She accepted her commendation without a word, face unreadable, and then returned to her seat, as cold and composed as when she’d arrived.

  Then another name rang out through the chamber.

  “Apostle Bolt.”

  This time, the shift in the room felt more like a spark—light, volatile, electric.

  From the section reserved for Duskfang Bastion, a man stood. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with spiked black hair that jutted out like static in motion.

  Thick eyebrows and a long, wiry mustache gave him a wild but unmistakable presence.

  There was something about his posture that radiated untamed confidence—like a storm that had chosen to walk upright.

  Abel’s eyes widened. He recognized him, too. Bolt’s mastery over lightning was near-legendary—tales told of how he could call down thunder without casting, his affinity so honed it responded to his emotion alone.

  He sauntered up to the front, crackling with charisma, accepting his badge with a smirk and a wink to the crowd before striding back to his seat—his robes faintly singed at the edges from residual sparks.

  Two rank fives, as different as ice and lightning, yet equally powerful.

  Abel’s heart beat just a little faster. This was the league he would one day walk among. And these were the giants whose shadows he’d have to one day grow beyond.

  And then, “Apostle Stargazer.”

  His name echoed through the great hall.

  There was a moment of stillness around him. He felt a dozen gazes shift in his direction—some curious, some surprised, others calculating.

  Abel stood slowly, adjusting the robe Stone had given him. His feet felt heavier than usual, not from exhaustion, but from the moment. He walked calmly down the aisle toward the stage, passing apostles much older, far more seasoned.

  But none of them had what he carried.

  As he approached the three Magians, Verdant gave him a respectful nod.

  Duskfang offered a grin. “Well done, Stargazer. You showed teeth.”

  Stone simply nodded with pride. “You’ve walked far, Abel. Keep walking.”

  The badge floated to Abel’s hand—this one different than the others. It wasn’t emerald or sapphire. It looked like a miniature celestial map, engraved with shifting constellations only visible when tilted under light.

  He accepted it with both hands, bowing his head.

  It wasn’t just a badge. It was a symbol of everything he had gone through—his broken village, his hard-earned runes, the friends he'd made, and the futures he wanted to protect.

  When he turned to walk back, the room erupted into applause—not the rowdy cheers Duskfang had drawn earlier, but something steadier. Like a slow thunder, building with every step he took.

  He returned to his seat, fingers tightening around the badge.

  This is just the beginning, he thought.

  The ceremony wrapped up with closing words, final blessings from the Magians, and a shared toast to the new era of independent Bask.

  People began to move—nobles gathering to speak, apostles clustering in their Tower groups, officials preparing for private conversations.

  But Abel remained seated for a moment longer, staring at the glowing badge in his hand. The world was watching now. And for the first time in a long time, he welcomed it.