Chapter 166. Island

"Whoa!"

Adom pitched sideways on the narrow deck of the fishing boat, windmilled his arms frantically, and managed to step off the sword before he could fall off it and into the ocean. Which was probably the most dignified way to handle nearly face-planting into saltwater, but still not exactly what he'd been going for.

The sword clattered to the wooden planks beside him, looking innocent and metallic and completely untrustworthy.

"Right," he said to the empty ocean around him. "That went well."

He could fly under his own power, of course. [Flight] had become one of his more reliable spells, and it would certainly be faster than trying to figure out how to balance on a piece of enchanted cutlery. But he had a long way to go, and burning through his mana reserves on transportation seemed wasteful when he had three perfectly good flying swords sitting right there.

Well. Presumably good. He'd find out soon enough.

The plan was simple: use the sword to cover as much distance as possible while conserving his own magical energy, then switch to personal flight for the final approach when precision mattered more than efficiency. It would let him arrive at his destination with most of his capabilities intact, which seemed like a sensible precaution given that he wasn't entirely sure what he'd be walking into.

He'd never gotten used to brooms back at school.

Something about standing on a thin piece of wood while it hurtled through the air had struck him as fundamentally unwise, even when everyone else seemed to manage it just fine. His earlier instructors had been understanding about it, mostly because his other magical aptitudes were strong enough that nobody wanted to make an issue of his transportation preferences.

Swords, apparently, were even worse.

For one thing, they were narrower than brooms. For another, you had to stand on the flat of the blade rather than straddling something, which meant your balance point was maybe six inches wide instead of however wide your stance happened to be. And for a third thing, the sword kept trying to rotate under his feet like it wanted to present its edge to the world rather than its flat surface.

Also, it was sharp. Which seemed like an important consideration that the sword's original owners had somehow overlooked.

The fishing boat rocked gently in the swells, and Adom had to grab the mast to keep from stumbling. At least he wouldn't have to worry about takeoff space—there was nothing but open ocean in every direction.

He picked up the weapon and studied it more carefully. The blade was enchanted, he could feel the magical resonance humming under his fingertips like a tuning fork that had been struck very gently. Runes ran along both sides of the fuller in precise, flowing script that looked vaguely familiar but not immediately readable.

Well. Time to figure out how this worked.

He channeled a small amount of mana into the sword, watching to see what happened. The runes flared with soft blue light, and the weapon immediately tried to leap out of his hands.

"Okay," he said, tightening his grip. "Responsive. Good to know."

The trick, he reasoned, was probably similar to broom flight but with different control mechanisms. Brooms typically had a simple direction-and-speed interface; you leaned where you wanted to go, you pushed mana in to go faster, you pulled it back to slow down. Intuitive enough once you got used to trusting a piece of wood with your life.

Swords might work differently.

He tried channeling mana into different sections of the blade. The tip made it want to dive forward. The hilt made it want to rise. The middle section seemed to control lateral movement, though in a way that felt less like steering and more like the sword was trying to interpret his intentions and translate them into motion.

Which was either very sophisticated magic or very dangerous magic, depending on how good it was at reading minds.

After several minutes of experimentation that mostly involved the sword trying to drag him in various directions while he clung to it like a particularly stubborn anchor, Adom thought he had the basic principle figured out. The enchantment responded to both mana input and physical balance, using his center of gravity to determine which direction he wanted to go and the amount of magical energy he was feeding it to determine how quickly he wanted to get there.

Simple enough in theory.

In practice, it meant he had to stand on a narrow, sharp piece of metal while simultaneously maintaining perfect balance and careful magical control, all while moving at speeds that would turn any collision with the ocean into a very unpleasant situation.

"Well," he said, looking out at the endless expanse of water. "Time to see if this works."

He stepped onto the blade.

Immediately, the sword began to rise. Slowly at first, then with increasing confidence as the enchantment responded to his mana input and interpreted his standing-upright posture as a desire to achieve altitude.

This was the tricky part.

Adom had to keep his weight centered while gradually increasing the magical energy he was feeding into the runes, all while the ground fell away beneath him.

The sword wobbled. He shifted his weight slightly to compensate, and it overcorrected in the other direction.

For a moment, he was considering using [Flight].

Then the sword steadied.

Partly because he'd managed to find the right balance point, and partly because the enchantment seemed to have some kind of stabilization built into it. Like training wheels, but for people who were trying not to die while standing on flying cutlery.

"Huh," Adom said, surprised by how much steadier the flight felt once he stopped fighting the sword's natural tendency to stay level. "That's actually not terrible."

He experimented with leaning slightly forward. The sword responded by moving in that direction, smooth and controlled. Leaning back slowed them down. Shifting his weight left or right produced corresponding turns that felt natural once he stopped overthinking them.

The mechanics were actually quite elegant. The runes were reading his intentions through a combination of magical resonance and physical cues, translating his desired direction of travel into appropriate thrust and lift. More sophisticated than a broom, which basically just went wherever you pointed it and hoped for the best.

Also faster. Much faster.

Adom pushed a bit more mana into the enchantment and felt the sword respond with a surge of acceleration.

This was definitely cooler than a broom. Karion was going to be insufferably jealous when he found out.

*****

The sun was rising for the second time since Adom had left the fishing boat behind.

He'd been flying for almost two full days now, which should have left him exhausted. Standing on a narrow sword blade for hours at a time, maintaining constant magical input while fighting wind and weather and the occasional seabird that seemed personally offended by his presence—it should have been miserable.

Instead, he felt surprisingly good. Tired, yes, but not the bone-deep exhaustion he'd expected. His legs ached from maintaining balance, and his back had a persistent crick from holding the same posture for so long, but overall he felt like he could keep going for several more hours if necessary.

[Primordial Body] was proving its worth, apparently.

Though the skill itself remained stubbornly stuck at the same level it had been for the better part of two years. His theory was that the higher the skill level, the more difficult it became to improve further. Like trying to climb a mountain that got steeper with every step.

Oh well. At least it was keeping him functional.

The ocean stretched endlessly in all directions below him, an endless expanse of blue-green water broken only by the occasional whitecap. Flying over water was hypnotic in a way that made it easy to lose track of time. No landmarks, no variation in terrain, just the rhythmic pattern of waves rolling toward horizons that never seemed to get any closer.

According to the map Oberys had provided, he should be close now. Very close.

Adom slowed the sword and began descending, scanning the water below for any sign of an island. The coordinates were right—he'd checked them multiple times over the past few hours. This was definitely the location.

But there was nothing here.

Just ocean. Empty, endless ocean stretching in every direction like a liquid desert. No island, no ships, no sign that anything had ever existed in this particular patch of water except fish and seabirds.

He brought the sword to a hover about a thousand feet above the waves, high enough that he'd be just a speck to anyone looking up from sea level. The view from this altitude should have shown him everything within a dozen miles.

Nothing.

Had Oberys made a mistake? It didn't seem in character for the ancient merchant to provide inaccurate information, especially when he had so much invested in maintaining his reputation for reliability. Which meant...

Magic. Had to be.

Adom reached into his inventory and pulled out his glasses—the ones with [Riddler's Bane] embedded in the right lense. If there was magical concealment involved, these should cut right through it.

He slipped them on and looked down again.

There it was.

The island materialized below him like a mirage snapping into focus, sudden and startling in its completeness. It was larger than he'd expected—maybe three miles long and two miles wide, with rocky cliffs rising from deep water and a natural harbor carved into the eastern shore.

Dark volcanic stone formed dramatic spires and ridges, creating a landscape that looked like it had been carved by giants with a taste for the dramatic.

Three towers rose from strategic points around the island, each one crackling with visible magical energy. The concealment field, probably. Sophisticated work—it wasn't just hiding the island visually, it was masking magical signatures as well. No wonder he hadn't sensed anything.

And there was the fleet.

Twenty-something ships anchored in the harbor and spread along the coastline. Fast attack vessels with sleek hulls designed for speed and maneuverability. Heavy transports that looked like they could carry hundreds of soldiers and their equipment. And dominating the center of the formation, a flagship that was easily twice the size of anything else in the water.

From this height, people looked like ants moving across the docks and beaches. Tiny figures loading supplies, conducting drills, going about the business of preparing for war. There had to be thousands of them down there.

Morgana had been busy.

This wasn't just a base of operations—it was a fortress. The kind of installation that took years to establish and serious magical expertise to conceal. She'd gathered competent mages, experienced military minds, and enough resources to outfit what looked like a professional army.

Impressive. And deeply concerning.

Adom was still processing the scale of what he was seeing when a bright flash caught his attention. A point of light rising from one of the towers, growing larger as it climbed toward him.

He banked the sword hard to the right just as a fireball the size of a cart screamed past his previous position, close enough that he could feel the heat wash over him.

Another flash. Another fireball, this one aimed at where he was now rather than where he'd been.

Adom dove, pushing the sword into a steep descent that made his stomach lurch. The second fireball missed by maybe twenty feet, close enough that the magical discharge made his hair stand on end.

A third flash. They were getting his range now, adjusting for his speed and direction.

He pulled up sharply, trading altitude for a sudden change in trajectory that sent him skimming parallel to the water's surface. The third fireball detonated somewhere above him, probably where he would have been if he'd continued his dive.

... So much for stealth.

Adom dove toward the island's rocky shore, the sword responding to his urgent mana input with a burst of acceleration that made his eyes water. Lightning crackled past his left shoulder, close enough to leave afterimages burned across his vision. Another fireball bloomed somewhere behind him, the heat wave catching up seconds later.

The towers were tracking him now, magical energies building at their peaks like storm clouds preparing to unleash hell. He could see muzzle flashes—no, spell flashes—erupting from defensive positions carved into the cliff face. The entire island had become a weapons platform aimed directly at him.

Fifty feet above the ground. Thirty.

Lightning split the air where he'd been a heartbeat before, ionizing the atmosphere until it tasted like copper coins. A fireball detonated against the rocks below, spraying molten stone fragments in all directions.

Twenty feet. Ten.

The moment his boots touched volcanic stone, Adom felt something fast approaching from his left. His combat instincts kicked in before conscious thought could catch up.

[Shield].

The magical barrier snapped into existence just as a steel mace crashed into it with enough force to crater the ground where he'd been standing. The impact sent shockwaves up his arm, but the shield held.

No time for words. No time for explanations or diplomacy or anything resembling civilized conversation. They were trying to kill him first and ask questions later, which meant he had exactly the same priorities in reverse order.

The knight– because he looked like on –swung again, a horizontal strike aimed at taking his head off. Full plate anti magic armor, professionally fitted, with the kind of enchantments that made the metal gleam with inner light.

Star Knight level, easily. Damn.

Adom ducked under the mace and – BAM.

He drove his fist into the knight's solar plexus. The armor absorbed most of the impact, but physics still applied—the knight staggered backward, balance disrupted.

Lightning split the air above them. Adom rolled left, came up in a crouch, and launched himself forward as a fireball detonated where he'd been standing. The knight was already recovering, bringing the mace around in a vertical strike that would have pulverized his skull.

He wasn't there to receive it.

The small orb artifact materialized in his previous position just as Adom appeared three feet to the right, the spatial displacement causing a brief moment of disorientation that he used to drive an elbow strike into the knight's helmet. The blow rang like a bell, probably rattling the man's brain around inside his skull.

Another fireball screamed past his ear. Another lightning bolt turned the sand behind him into glass. The mages in the towers were getting creative now, layering their attacks to deny him movement options.

The knight pivoted with professional smoothness, mace sweeping in a wide arc that forced Adom to backflip away. He landed in a crouch, immediately threw another orb to his left, and teleported just as a concentrated beam of fire cut through the space he'd occupied.

The knight was good. Really good. He moved like someone who'd been wearing armor since childhood, every step calculated to maintain balance and leverage. The mace work was textbook perfect—no wasted motion, no openings, each strike flowing into the next with mechanical precision.

But textbook perfect had limitations.

Adom feinted right, teleported left, and came up inside the knight's guard. His fist connected with the helmet again, this time with enough force enhancement to actually dent the metal. The knight stumbled, mace dropping to a defensive position.

Lightning crackled overhead. Adom grabbed the knight's arm and used him as a pivot point, swinging around to put the armored figure between himself and the incoming spell. The bolt earthed itself harmlessly against enchanted steel.

The knight tried to throw him off with a backward headbutt. Adom ducked, swept the man's legs, and used telekinetic force to amplify the fall. Armor clanged against stone as the knight went down hard.

Three fireballs converged on his position from different towers. Adom threw orbs in a triangular pattern and teleported rapidly between them, the spatial jumps happening faster than the spells could track. The fireballs collided with each other in a spectacular explosion that lit up the entire cliff face.

The knight was already getting back to his feet, which was impressive considering he'd just taken a fall that should have left him stunned.

Time to end this.

Adom stepped forward, caught the rising mace with one hand, and grabbed the knight's breastplate with the other. The armor was covered in anti-magic runes, crystals embedded in the steel that made his magic much less effective on him.

So he'd do this the old-fashioned way.

His fingers found the leather straps holding the breastplate in place and yanked. Hard. The buckles snapped like twigs, metal groaning as he peeled the enchanted steel away from the knight's torso. The shoulder guards came next, then the arm pieces, his enhanced strength making short work of bindings designed to withstand sword blows.

The knight stood there in his padded undergarments, looking down at the scattered pieces of his very expensive armor, then up at Adom with an expression that was probably equal parts shock and indignation.

They looked at each other for a moment.

Adom could see the precise instant when shock transformed into tactical assessment. Without the enchanted protection, he was completely vulnerable to direct magical attack.

He'd either surrender or go berserk.

The knight's stance shifted. His breathing deepened. His weight shifted to his toes.

Berserk it is.

The knight's Fluid exploded outward in a brilliant surge of power, every fiber of his being committed to one final, impossible charge.

"AAARGH!"

He rocketed forward with inhuman speed, Fluid-enhanced strength turning him into a living projectile. The distance between them collapsed in heartbeats. Adom could see the desperate fury in his eyes, the knowledge that this was his only chance—

Then Adom channeled a [Push] spell aimed directly at the knight's now-unprotected center of mass.

The man shot skyward like a sky-spear loosed from the hand of a giant, arms and legs windmilling as he climbed toward the clouds. In seconds, he was just a glinting speck against the blue sky, probably wondering how his day had gone so wrong so quickly.

Lightning split the air where Adom had been standing. He was already gone, orb materializing inside the nearest tower as he teleported directly into the heart of the enemy's defensive position.

A mage woman spun toward him, hands already weaving the opening gestures of what looked like a very unfriendly spell. Dark hair, competent stance, the kind of focused intensity that marked her as a serious threat.

He grabbed her wrist before she could complete the weaving.

Electricity surged through his grip and into her nervous system, an offensive healer spell he'd practiced to be carefully calibrated to disrupt motor function without causing permanent damage. Her eyes rolled back and she collapsed in a twitching heap, alive but thoroughly out of the fight.

Movement to his left. Another mage, this one male, frantically trying to complete a spell that would probably turn Adom into something unpleasant.

Headbutt.

The man's nose made a wet crunching sound as cartilage gave way. Blood sprayed across the tower's interior as he stumbled backward, hands reflexively moving to his ruined face instead of maintaining his spell structure.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Another knight. Steel gleamed in the magical light as he reached the top of the staircase, sword already drawn.

WAM.

Adom's battle gauntlet caught him square in the temple before he could bring his weapon to bear. The enhanced knuckles transmitted kinetic force directly through the knight's helmet and into his skull. His eyes crossed, his knees buckled, and he toppled forward like a felled tree.

The tower fell silent except for the unconscious mage's labored breathing and the distant sounds of shouting from below. Adom looked around at the magical apparatus lining the walls—scrying crystals, amplification circles, the works.

Then he remembered the knight.

The one he'd launched into the stratosphere like a particularly unwilling cannonball.

He moved to the tower's window and peered upward, scanning the sky for any sign of—

A distant scream, growing rapidly louder.

There. A dark speck plummeting toward the rocky ground below, arms and legs flailing in what was probably a very belated attempt at damage control.

[Levitation].

Adom reached out with telekinetic force, catching the falling knight about fifty feet above the ground. The man's descent slowed dramatically, though not gently enough to prevent what was going to be a very unpleasant landing.

He guided the knight's trajectory toward a patch of relatively soft sand near the base of the tower, then eased off the magical support at the last moment. The armored figure hit the ground with a tremendous crash that sent up a cloud of dust and probably rattled every bone in his body.

But he was alive. Probably.

The dust cloud was still settling when Adom heard the sound of running feet, shouted orders, and the distinctive ring of steel being drawn from sheaths. Lots of steel.

He stepped out of the tower to find himself facing what looked like half of Morgana's army.

Soldiers in formation, weapons drawn, faces grim. Archers with arrows nocked, three other mages with spells prepared, knights in armor that gleamed with protective enchantments.

Adom rose into the air, [Flight] lifting him about twenty feet above the crowd. High enough to have a tactical advantage, close enough that they could all see his face clearly.

This wasn't what he'd wanted. The plan had been to land quietly, avoid unnecessary conflict, find Morgana, and have a civilized conversation about world-threatening magical disasters. Instead, he'd fought his way through their defenses like some kind of one-man invasion force.

Maybe that had been poor judgment on his part.

The crowd below was growing larger as more soldiers arrived from other parts of the island. Hundreds of them now, all armed, all looking like they'd very much enjoy the opportunity to express their displeasure with his flying sword technique.

He was fairly certain he could take them all. Area-effect spells, teleportation to avoid concentrated fire, maybe some creative use of the environment to limit their mobility options.

But these were Morgana's people. Her army and allies.

Fighting them felt wrong on multiple levels.

The soldiers were organizing themselves into attack formations, officers barking orders as archers found elevated positions and mages began the preliminary gestures for spells.

Adom made his decision.

He'd incapacitate the lot of them. Non-lethally, but thoroughly enough that they'd stay down long enough for him to find Morgana and sort this mess out. A modified [Gravity] spell, maybe.

He began gathering mana for a wide-area enchantment, the magical energy building around him like static electricity before a thunderstorm.

The soldiers below saw him preparing to weave and responded in kind. Archers drew back their bowstrings. Mages accelerated their weaving. Knights raised shields and began advancing in tight formation.

"CEASE!"

The voice cut across the battlefield with absolute authority. Everyone—including Adom—paused mid-action.

The soldiers froze. Bows remained drawn but arrows weren't released. Spells hung half-completed as mages turned toward the source of the command.

Adom looked down.

The dust cloud around the tower's base was finally settling, revealing the knight he'd inadvertently launched on an impromptu flying lesson. The man was struggling to sit up, his face visible now that his helmet had come off during the landing.

He was older than Adom had expected. Gray hair, weathered features, tired. Paint—no, blood—streaked his forehead, and his left arm hung at an awkward angle that suggested something had gotten dislocated during his aerial adventure.

But his voice still carried command authority.

"Stand down," the old knight said, his words directed at the assembled soldiers. "All of you. Lower your weapons."

"But sir Bedivere—" one of the officers started.

"Lower. Your. Weapons." The knight's voice hardened, taking on the tone of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed without argument. "Now."

There was some grumbling, a few muttered protests, but the soldiers complied. Bows were unstrung, swords returned to sheaths, though hands remained conspicuously close to weapon hilts.

The knight fixed one of the complaining officers with a glare that could have melted steel.

"If this mage had wanted us dead, we would all be corpses right now," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet battlefield. "He had multiple opportunities to kill every man in that tower. He had the advantage of surprise, superior positioning, and obvious magical superiority."

He gestured at the scattered pieces of his armor with his good arm.

"Instead, he knocked us unconscious. He used non-lethal force even when we were trying to kill him. And when I was about to crash, he saved my life." The knight's eyes found Adom, still hovering above the crowd. "That doesn't sound like the behavior of an enemy to me."

Adom felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Finally, someone with sense.

"They attacked first," he called down, his voice carrying easily in the still air. "I came here to talk, not to fight. You and your people started throwing fireballs before I'd even touched the ground."

The knight nodded slowly, wincing as the movement jarred his injured arm.

"Defensive protocols," he said. "Standing orders to engage any unidentified entity approaching the island. We've had... difficulties with unwanted visitors lately."

"I'm not an unwanted visitor."

"Then what are you?"

Adom descended slowly, [Flight] carrying him down until he was hovering just a few feet above the ground. Close enough to have a conversation, high enough to maintain a tactical advantage if things went wrong again.

"A friend, I hope."