The Glitched Mage-Chapter 91: Riven’s Rage

Riven moved through the crowd, his steps controlled but his breath deepening, his chest rising with the force of something raw and untamed. The anger inside him wasn't sudden—it never was. It started as a small ember, barely noticeable, before growing into a wildfire that burned through every rational thought.

He had felt this before.

When Damon and Mal ignored his summons, their disobedience a stain against his authority.

When Cole and his lackeys ambushed him, thinking their numbers would make him falter.

When he stood in the Void, surrounded by suffocating nothingness, fighting against the abyss itself with nothing but his will to survive.

Each time, the rage had built, crawling beneath his skin, whispering for release. To punish. To break. To dominate.

Now, it clawed at him again, demanding an outlet. Demanding blood.

Riven strode toward the Power Rankings near the training grounds, his gaze sweeping over the names etched into the massive stone. His abyssal flames simmered beneath his skin, coiling with restless energy, eager—hungry—for release.

He didn't care who it was.

If he had to fight every damn student in this Academy, then so be it. He would carve his way through them, one by one, until he stood at the top—until every name beneath his was nothing more than a reminder of his dominance.

And when that happened?

No one would dare question him.

No one would challenge him.

They would crawl to him instead, desperate to curry favor, to beg for his recognition.

Riven's gaze dropped down the Power Rankings, his fingers flexing slightly as he found his first target.

Aaron Rickford. Rank 179.

Perfect.

Turning on his heel, he strode toward the overseeing Elder, his presence cutting through the usual noise of the training grounds. A few students nearby took notice—recognizing him, whispering to one another. A fight was coming.

"I challenge Aaron Rickford, Rank 179," Riven announced, his voice steady, unwavering.

The Elder glanced up, startled, his brows raising slightly as he took in the young man before him. "You just fought yesterday," he said, as if trying to make sense of Riven's relentless pursuit.

Rivens expression didn't change. "And?"

The Elder hesitated before clearing his throat. "Challengers in this rank must provide five rare mana beast cores to issue a summons."

Before Riven could even move, Nyx was already at his side. Silent, swift—efficient. She pressed the required cores into the Elder's palm without a word, her obsidian gaze gleaming with anticipation.

The Elder examined the payment, then nodded. "One moment."

Raising a hand, he began forming a glowing yellow magic circle in the air, the lines pulsing with communicative magic as he sent word to Aaron Rickford.

Nyx stepped in close, her fingers grazing Riven's arm before giving it a firm squeeze. "Show no mercy, my liege."

Then, with a knowing smirk, she turned and disappeared into the forming crowd, taking her place among the growing onlookers eager to witness the carnage.

The duel platform was set. The moment the Elder completed his communicative spell, the training grounds buzzed with restless anticipation. Students murmured among themselves, speculation spreading like wildfire.

"He's fighting again?"

"Didn't he just beat Cole yesterday?"

"What the hell is he after?"

Riven ignored them. His focus remained locked on the glowing teleportation sigil at the center of the arena, waiting for his opponent to arrive.

Then, with a pulse of mana, Aaron Rickford materialized onto the dueling platform.

The young man was taller than Riven by a few inches, broad-shouldered with short blond hair and a confident smirk that didn't quite reach his icy blue eyes. A faint mist curled around his hands as he stepped forward, mana already rippling off of him in controlled waves.

An ice mage.

Aaron's gaze flicked over Riven, assessing him with thinly veiled amusement. "You again? Didn't get enough from your fight yesterday?"

Riven's smirk was razor-sharp. "Oh, I'm just getting started."

The Elder overseeing the duel stepped between them, raising a hand. "This is an official ranking challenge. The victor will claim the loser's spot, and as per the Academy's rules, the fight will continue until one side concedes, is incapacitated, or I intervene."

His gaze swept between them before he lowered his hand. "Begin."

Aaron was fast.

He immediately dashed forward, a trail of ice forming beneath his feet, accelerating his movement. With a flick of his wrist, jagged shards of ice erupted from the ground, racing toward Riven in a staggered formation meant to trap him from multiple angles.

Riven didn't move at first.

Then—

Flames roared to life.

Dark, abyss-blackened fire burst along his arms, licking at his skin. With a single step forward, he released a controlled wave of heat, melting the incoming ice mid-air, turning the shards into harmless droplets of water that hissed as they evaporated instantly.

Aaron's smirk faltered.

Riven was already moving.

He closed the distance in a blink, twisting his body as he swung a flaming fist toward Aaron's ribs.

Aaron barely managed to react in time, throwing up a thick ice wall between them. The impact sent cracks webbing through the frozen barrier, but it held—for a second.

Riven's second punch shattered it entirely.

Aaron staggered back, ice forming along his arms as he conjured a series of sharp projectiles. He sent them flying toward Riven in rapid succession, each shard honed to a razor's edge.

Riven didn't bother dodging.

Instead, his flames surged. A pulse of abyssal fire erupted outward, engulfing the ice mid-air and reducing it to nothing before it could even reach him.

Aaron's confidence wavered.

Good.

Riven rushed forward again. Aaron tried to slide away, his ice giving him an unnatural speed advantage, but Riven anticipated it. He twisted sharply, driving his knee into Aaron's gut before he could escape.

The impact forced the air from Aaron's lungs in a choked gasp.

Riven didn't stop.

He followed up with a brutal elbow to the side of Aaron's face, then another strike—his knuckles cracking against Aaron's jaw with a sickening snap. Aaron reeled back, blood spilling from a split lip, but Riven didn't give him the chance to recover.

A punch. Then another. Then another.

Abyssal fire clung to Riven's fists as he struck again and again, heat distorting the air around them. Aaron raised his arms in a feeble attempt to block, but it didn't matter. Riven's blows came too fast, too relentless, his strength fueled by the unchecked rage coiling in his veins.

The world around him faded, narrowing to just the sensation of impact—knuckles meeting flesh, bones cracking beneath his strikes.

More.

More.

He could feel something clawing at the edges of his mind, something dark and insatiable. The same thing that demanded to consume, to dominate, to destroy.

His breaths came ragged, his vision red-tinged.

He barely noticed the way the crowd had gone silent.

Barely registered the muffled shouts from the overseeing Elder.

Aaron's body hit the stone floor with a dull thud, his arms limp at his sides, his face bloodied and bruised beyond recognition. He wasn't moving.

He wasn't fighting back.

But Riven was still hitting him.

His fist lifted again—flames roaring around it, his body ready to strike again—

A hand caught his wrist.

Cold. Steady. Unyielding.

Nyx.

Her grip was firm, her expression unreadable as she stared at him. For the first time since the fight started, sound filtered back into his awareness—the gasps from the spectators, the Elder calling for the match to end, the hushed murmurs of those too afraid to speak louder.

"Enough," Nyx said softly.

Not a command. Not a plea.

Just a statement.

Riven exhaled sharply, his body tensing—before he slowly uncurled his fingers.

The abyssal flames flickered, then died out.

He straightened, stepping back, his breath evening out. Aaron didn't move.

A healer rushed forward, the Elder calling the match. "Winner—Riven Drakar!"

A hush settled over the crowd, a mix of awe, fear, and something else.

Riven barely acknowledged it. He turned sharply, stepping off the stage, his blood still humming with the lingering embers of rage.

Nyx fell into step beside him, watching him closely. "Feeling better?"

Riven rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly. "…No."

Nyx smirked. "Good."

He kept walking. He wasn't finished yet.

Riven didn't pause. Didn't revel in the victory. He barely even registered the murmurs of the crowd as he stalked toward the ranking board again, his eyes blazing with something raw, something unrelenting.

"Wait—he's—"

"Is he seriously—?"

The whispers escalated, disbelief rippling through the students as they realized what was happening.

"He's not stopping."

"He's challenging another one?!"

"That's insane! Even top-ranked students don't fight twice in a row!"

Riven ignored them, his abyssal flames simmering just beneath his skin, the embers of his anger refusing to settle. His gaze swept upward, past Aaron Rickford's name, past the newly claimed Rank 179—until it landed on his next opponent.

Deacon Voss. Rank 159.

A wind mage.

Perfect.

Riven turned, striding straight toward the overseeing Elder without hesitation.

"I challenge Deacon Voss," he said coldly.

The Elder's brow furrowed, glancing toward the unconscious form of Aaron being carried off the dueling platform. "You just fought. Are you sure—?"

Riven's stare silenced him.

A tense beat of silence stretched between them.

Then Nyx sighed dramatically, already pressing the required mana beast cores into the Elder's palm before he could even ask for them. "Just summon him," she said lazily, though there was a sharp glint in her dark eyes. "Before he gets too impatient."

The Elder hesitated for only a moment longer before sighing and lifting his hand again, golden runes forming in the air as he activated another communicative spell.

The crowd grew louder.

"He's really doing it."

"Two fights back to back—"

"Who the hell is this guy?!"

Nyx tilted her head slightly, lips curling into a smirk. "They're finally asking the right question."

A pulse of magic surged through the arena as the teleportation circle flared once more.

Then, in a gust of wind, Deacon Voss stepped onto the stage.

Riven's gaze locked onto him immediately. Deacon was taller, broad-shouldered, his sharp green eyes already narrowed in irritation. His short, dark brown hair was tousled from what had likely been a training session before he was suddenly pulled into this fight. He flexed his fingers, wind currents swirling subtly around his hands.

He looked between Riven and the Elder, his brow furrowing. "You're joking."

"No joke," Riven said smoothly, stepping onto the platform. "You accepted the summons."

Deacon let out a sharp scoff, dragging a hand through his tousled hair as he eyed Riven with thinly veiled disbelief. "You're absolutely insane."

Riven's smirk sharpened, a glint of fire flickering in his eyes. "Perhaps… but I'm still going to destroy you."

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Deacon's expression darkened. The air around them shifted, the faint pull of his mana bending the wind currents in his favor. A storm was brewing, and Deacon was its center.

The Elder exhaled and raised his hand again. "Standard rules apply. The match ends when one fighter is incapacitated or surrenders."

A brief pause.

"Begin."

Deacon disappeared.

A sharp burst of wind sent dust flying, his figure blurring out of sight.

Riven barely had time to react before a powerful force slammed into his side.

Fast.

Faster than Aaron.

Riven gritted his teeth, skidding back as the impact rattled through his ribs. He twisted his body instinctively, ducking just in time to avoid another crushing blow as Deacon reappeared behind him in a gust of air.

Then Deacon was gone again.

A blur. A flash of movement.

Then—pain.

A strike landed against Riven's shoulder. Another against his ribs. A third—this one aiming for his jaw—but he barely managed to tilt his head, the attack grazing past.

Deacon wasn't just fast— he was relentless.

The crowd roared as they watched, students rising to their feet in shock.

"He's toying with him!"

"He can't keep up!"

"He actually might lose—"

Riven shut out the noise. Focused. Calculated.

The abyssal flames coiled beneath his skin, restless, but fire alone wouldn't be enough.

Deacon was fast—too fast. He relied on speed, weaving through openings, striking in quick, precise bursts. But he was too confident in it. Too reliant.

Riven exhaled sharply, absorbing another hit to his ribs. Letting the pain ground him.

Then—

He moved.

A sudden explosion of heat erupted from his body, an outward pulse of abyssal fire—not an attack, not meant to wound—but a burst of sheer force.

The air warped. The oxygen burned away.

And Deacon—who had relied entirely on the wind—stumbled.

That was all Riven needed.

He struck like a predator.

A vicious punch to Deacon's gut—flames scorching on impact.

Deacon let out a choked gasp, his footing faltering.

Another punch—this one to the ribs.

Another—to the jaw.

Harder.

Faster.

Stronger.

The world narrowed to the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the scent of burning cloth, the way his fists slammed into Deacon's body again and again.

But Deacon wasn't done.

Even as Riven's blows landed, even as abyssal fire scorched through the wind barrier he desperately tried to conjure, Deacon's hands flicked upward.

The momentary lapse in his speed had forced him into a corner, but he wasn't planning to go down without a fight.

Above them—sharp, glistening icicles had been forming the entire time.

They hovered high above the arena, barely noticeable through the haze of battle, and now they dropped all at once.

Riven's senses screamed. He twisted, dodging the first wave, then the second—his footwork precise, weaving through the barrage. But there were too many.

One jagged spike caught him.

Pain lanced through his shoulder as the icicle buried itself into his arm.

The impact jolted through him, forcing him to stagger for the first time since the fight began.

A lesser man would have gasped. Cursed. Panicked.

Riven?

He grinned.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, his breath coming in ragged, heated exhales. The pain—it didn't slow him. It sharpened him. It cut through the haze of his rage, grounding him back into something clear.

Blood trickled down his arm, dripping onto the dueling platform.

With a flick of his wrist, flames surged to life. Abyssal fire devoured the ice, melting it in an instant. The lingering burn singed his wound, but Riven barely flinched.

Deacon hesitated. Just a fraction of a second.

But Riven caught it.

He moved.

Crimson Mirage.

His form flickered—once, twice, thrice. The heat distortion created flickering afterimages, each one indistinguishable from the real Riven.

Deacon's breath hitched, his gaze darting between the shifting figures.

Too late.

Riven was already there.

His fist drove into Deacon's ribs with crushing force. A loud, sickening crack echoed through the arena.

Deacon coughed—blood spraying from his lips—but before he could react, Riven's knee slammed into his gut, sending him sprawling.

Scorching Chain.

Dark flames whipped around his arm, coiling and snapping forward. The fiery chain wrapped around Deacon's ankle, yanking him back before he could retreat.

Riven pulled.

Hard.

Deacon hit the ground face-first.

The crowd winced. Some students cheered, others whispered in horror.

Riven wasn't listening.

He didn't let go.

He dragged Deacon across the stone platform, the heat from his abyssal flames leaving scorch marks in its wake.

"Stop—!"

Riven barely registered the Elder's voice. His grip tightened on the chain, his eyes gleaming with something primal.

But with a sigh, he finally dissolved the chain and crossed his arms.

The Elder overseeing the duel finally cleared his throat, shaking himself out of the heavy silence that had settled over the training grounds. His gaze flicked between Deacon's unmoving form and Riven's still-burning aura before lifting a trembling hand.

"The winner is Riven Drakar," he announced, his voice carrying across the stunned audience. "He now claims the rank of 159."

The words sent another ripple through the gathered students.

"He's climbed forty ranks in a single day," someone whispered.

"Two fights back-to-back, and he still looks like he could keep going…"

"He's going to tear through the entire ranking at this rate."

Riven barely acknowledged them. He had already turned back toward the ranking board, his body coiled with anticipation, his next challenge forming on his lips.

But before he could speak, before he could even step forward—

A new voice rang out.

"I challenge Cassiel Vaigne, Rank 1!"

The words rang through the air like a war drum.

For a brief, suspended moment, the entire training grounds fell silent. Then chaos erupted.

Gasps, frantic whispers, and excited shouts spread like wildfire as students flooded in from all directions, drawn by the challenge like moths to flame. Riven stood beside Nyx, arms crossed, his gaze unwavering as he turned toward the dueling platform.

A heavy-set figure stepped forward, the weight of his footfalls shaking the stone beneath him. He was massive, a towering wall of muscle, his thick frame rippling with tension. His wild mess of brown hair gave him a feral edge, and his sharp eyes gleamed with unrestrained anticipation.

"That's Rank 2—Hardren Cull!"

"The top two tankers are actually fighting?! Someone go tell everyone!"

More students surged forward, the crowd expanding until it felt as if the entire second-year class had gathered. The air crackled with anticipation, a charged current of shock and exhilaration rippling through every spectator.

The overseeing Elder lifted his hands, forming the familiar glowing communication circle. But this time, the runes pulsed even brighter, their golden light surging outward in powerful waves.

And then—

A burst of radiance erupted across the platform.

A pulse of something heavy, suffocating.

Riven's breath hitched. His chest tightened. His pupils trembled.

From the center of the arena, a lone figure emerged.

Draped in flowing black robes adorned with intricate golden embroidery, Cassiel Vaigne stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate. His long golden hair swayed in the soft breeze, catching the dying sunlight like woven strands of divinity itself. His face, sculpted and unreadable, held an effortless confidence—an assurance that needed no arrogance.

But it was his eyes that struck Riven the most.

Deep, dark honeyed irises, warm yet unyielding, sharp yet distant. Cassiel's gaze flicked toward Hardren, unimpressed.

"Challenging me again?" His voice was smooth, almost amused.

Then, with a casual grace, he lifted his palm to the side.

Light coalesced at his fingertips, twisting and bending, until—

A blade formed.

It materialized in an instant, a radiant sword forged of pure gold and condensed sunlight, its form shimmering with celestial energy.

A Divine Weapon.

The sheer presence of it sent ripples through the air, heat and light intermingling in a way that felt unnatural—otherworldly.

Sweat beaded along Riven's skin. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Now he understood.

That suffocating weight. That deep, primal threat clawing at his instincts.

Cassiel Vaughn was a Divine magic user.