Awakening: I Became The Supreme Mage In Another World

The salty tang of the sea filled Caelith's nostrils as he emerged back onto the deck. The cool night air was a relief after the stuffy, dim confines of the lower levels.

Around him, survivors huddled in small groups, their voices muted, their gazes distant. The horrors of Velisgard lingered like a dark cloud over them all.

The wiry man from earlier sat cross-legged near the railing, sharpening his dagger with slow, deliberate strokes.

The blade caught the moonlight, reflecting a sharp glint in the gloom. Caelith hesitated, then approached, his curiosity outweighing his apprehension.

The man glanced up as Caelith sat beside him. "Find what you were looking for down there?" he asked, his voice dry.

Caelith shrugged. "More questions than answers. You were saying something earlier… about Mages and this war. I think I need to hear the rest."

The man set his dagger aside, his expression darkening. "You're serious, aren't you? You really don't know any of this."

"I told you, I'm… new." Caelith avoided elaborating. He wasn't sure how to explain his situation without sounding insane.

The man sighed. "Fine. I'll spell it out for you. First thing you need to understand is how magic works here. Every Mage has a core — that's the source of your power. But not all cores are created equal. They come in ranks, from the weakest, D Rank, to the strongest, SSS Rank. Your rank determines how much raw magical energy you can channel and how potent your spells are."

Caelith leaned forward, intrigued. "And how does someone know their rank?"

"When you awaken as a Mage, you'll feel it," the man said. "It's like an instinct. There are ways to test it officially — rituals, special artifacts — but most Mages figure it out through training. You'll know pretty quickly if you're out of your depth."

"And the ranks above D?" Caelith asked.

The man held up a hand, ticking them off one by one. "D, C, B, A, S, SS, SSS. Each step up is exponential. A B Rank Mage might be able to take down a dozen D Ranks without breaking a sweat. An S Rank? They're practically walking natural disasters. Anything above that, well…" He shook his head. "You'll see them in the history books — or in your nightmares."

Caelith frowned. "So it's all about raw power?"

"Not entirely," the man admitted. "There's more to being a Mage than just blasting things to ash. Each Mage has an affinity — fire, water, wind, earth, light, shadow, and a few rarer ones. Your affinity shapes how you fight, but how you use it is what sets the great ones apart."

Caelith considered this. "What about the Mages who fought back in Velisgard? The ones protecting the city? What rank would they be?"

"Most of them? Probably B or C. They're strong enough to keep the smaller dragons at bay and hold the line for a while, but against the real monsters? It's like throwing pebbles at a hurricane."

"And Sir Aldrin? The knight who killed that dragon?"

The man smirked. "Aldrin? He's not even a Mage. Just a damn good knight. But if you're asking me to guess, I'd say he fights on par with at least an A Rank Mage, maybe higher. That sword of his isn't normal. Probably enchanted with some ancient magic."

Caelith's head spun as he absorbed the information. The idea of a system of power and ranks wasn't entirely unfamiliar — it reminded him of video games he used to play back in his old life. But the stakes here were real.

Before he could ask another question, the girl from earlier approached, clutching the edge of his sleev. "Mister," she said softly, her eyes wide. "Is it true? Are you a Mage?"

Caelith hesitated. "I… don't know."

She studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. "You look like one. Like a hero from the stories."

He chuckled awkwardly. "I wouldn't go that far."

The man smirked. "Careful, kid. If people start thinking you're some kind of savior, you'll have a lot more problems than dragons."

As the ship swayed gently beneath their feet, Caelith let his thoughts drift.

He didn't know what rank his magic might be, or even what his affinity was. But the strange power he had felt during the chaos in Velisgard, the fire that had burned without heat, told him he wasn't ordinary.

The moment of quiet was shattered by the faint creak of a door behind them.

Caelith turned his head, but no one seemed to notice. He brushed it off as the ship's movement until a figure slipped into the shadows near the mast, moving with unnerving grace.

The man beside him stiffened slightly. His hand moved toward his dagger, his eyes scanning the deck with practiced caution.

"You feel that?" he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Caelith nodded, his senses suddenly on edge. "Who is that?"

"No idea," the man replied, his tone grim. "But they don't belong here."

The figure moved silently through the crowd, cloaked in darkness. For a moment, Caelith caught a glimpse of a pale, angular face and sharp eyes that seemed to gleam like a predator's.

The figure paused, their gaze sweeping over the survivors before settling on a group of soldiers near the bow of the ship.

"Stay here," the man hissed, rising to his feet.

Caelith ignored him and followed, his curiosity piqued. The assassin made their move, slipping closer to the soldiers with a blade glinting in the moonlight.

Before they could strike, the man threw his dagger, the blade slicing through the air with pinpoint accuracy. It embedded itself in the wood near the assassin's feet, stopping them in their tracks.

"Not so fast," the man growled, stepping into the light.

The assassin turned, their face calm but their eyes cold. "You should have stayed out of this," they said, their voice smooth and chilling.

Caelith felt a pulse of energy radiate from the assassin, a dark, suffocating aura that made his skin crawl.

The man drew another dagger, his stance relaxed but ready. "I don't know who you're after, but you picked the wrong ship."

The assassin smirked. "We'll see."