Ashton's epiphany didn't immediately shift the momentum of the fight.
It continued how it started, Ashton attacking and the tower master only defending.
It was repetitive. It was Ashton's cunning.
Forcing the grand mage into a sequence, all while still throwing lethal magic at him.
Then it happened, the way his opponent's muscles were no longer twitching in anticipation, the way his eyes were glossed with boredom. The tower master's guard was finally becoming flawed.
Ashton finally flipped the switch, mana became used in a way that doesn't exist in any known spell craft or theory.
Multiple layers of vertexing wind, a tornado with each layer rotating in a different direction.
It was violent and pulling the tower master towards it.
Tower Master Mitchell instinctively retreated from the wind, his curiousness as a mage was suppressed by his magical instinct.
Focused on what was Infront of him, the grand mage almost got caught in the attack behind him.
Cutting off his retreat, the wind behind the tower master was condensed into blades.
A ruthless attack, one that left the spectators and the grand mage feeling the weight of an Invokers potential.
The air within the pits of their battle was hardened into a solid, melted back into a gas, and squeezed into water.
Ashton grabbed hold of the three states of matter and turned them into his own.
This wasn't rare within current magic theory. Water to Ice. Earth to mud. Augmenting the elements could be accomplished even by beginner mages.
But Ashton was now beyond that.
He was freely turning gas to solids. It was alchemy at its pinnacle guided by the peak of magic.
The shock from the crowd wasn't set in yet and the grand mage hadn't gathered his thoughts before Ashton unleashed more of his onslaught.
Tower Master Mitchell pushed backward into a trap, was forced to fly upward. It was the only escape.
Ashton knew this, and had the mist created from the pressurized wind ready.
As soon as his opponent entered the air, the water solidified into ice. Ashton didn't attack with it, he let it hover in the air, allowed his opponent to rush into it.
It happened quick, it wasn't there but appeared quicker than a blink.
It was instantaneous.
The ice cut and drew blood against the unprotected body of Tower Master Mitchell. There were thousands of micro-cuts across his entire body before he could throw up a defensive layer of magic.
It was humbling to the grand mage. Since the day he formed his seventh circle he hadn't experienced the sear of his flesh ripping apart. Nor had he felt the cloud of deaths embrace hover above him. The pain tingling on his skin, the air no longer threatening, but still uncomfortable as it brushed against his wounds.
His body was now the canvas in which an Invoker drew its painting.
The crowd, at the sight of the grand mage boomed. What they were longing for since the moment Ashton called his name, was finally upon them. Ashton had gotten a real hold of his state, and the fight had finally begun.
Master of mana vs mana's master.
But The Tower Master knew it was over. Knowing Ashton could no longer continue, his only thought was... [He, could have killed me... it would have been easy, but he decided not to]
The sight of blood on Tower Master Mitchell's chest, caused Ashton to spit his own.
The sight of the blood staining his white robes was gratifying. It was release.
He had finally reached out and touched what he desired.
But he had gone well beyond the time constraint of his Invocation. It was sheer will and mental toughness that he was still conscious from the strain.
The magic he had Invoked faded, as he falls to his hands and knees, and with him the awe of the battle fades.
His viscous coughing of blood, again grab hold of the crowd. They were realizing what the costly price of such power was.
Even with his consciousness fading, Ashton was satisfied. He finally felt victorious.
The blood he had drawn was his vindication, his irrefutable proof of growth.
And he was now paying the price for his satisfaction.
It was a price he would happily pay a thousand times again, to gain even a small amount of what he had tonight. His magical insight and application had grown leaps and bounds. His mindset was set straight, firm and unshakable.
But these things were gains from the process, not the goal of the process.
His plan to raise the duke's foot, hovering over his house and lands like a guillotine, was complete when Tower Master Mitchell announced... "This is your victory, young count."
The words were monumentous. A nice bow wrapped on top of struggles, but the grand mage continued...
"This young man... no this mage, is henceforth an honorary member of The Pheonix Magic Tower. Whether he decides to completely join us or not, my tower will be your second home."
His statement and claiming of Ashton, was beyond what he anticipated.
It was an announcement that paralyzed the spectators, most of all Ashton's family and Duke Raine.
A simple acknowledgment of his abilities was all Ashton was performing for. That would have been enough to buy himself time. It would have forced the duke into a passive attitude for at least a while.
But this was different. Very different.
Honorary membership to any magic tower in the empire was a big deal. It was a position higher than any regular scholarly mage. They could use the facilities of the tower free of charge for nothing in return. All the while, maintaining autonomy.
At least on the surface that is.
Honorary membership was a way for the towers to associate themselves with talent. It was reserved strictly for the greatest, and the towers were protective of such people.
Honorary membership often was parlayed by its holders into a more powerful position. For commoners this meant possibly earning noble titles, but for nobility it was much more.
It meant having the backing of a force that was hard to offend. It ensured a generation of growth for a noble house.
As Ashton was fading, feeling more than victorious, he heard the sound of swords being drawn and metal scratching against concrete.
It was the knights, sword dancers, and mages of his house. Even his own sisters and other servants, from maids and butlers to stable masters and chefs, along with the southeastern lords, taking a knee of fealty.
"We greet, his grace! We vow our lives to his grace!"
It was said in unison, every member his house reigns over, showing and paying their respects.
It was such promise that kept Ashton conscious long enough to see Chamberlain Olafs boots approaching him.