Supreme Warlock System : From Zero to Ultimate With My Wives

Chapter 82: Sink or Swim (Review Bonus)

Warlock Ch 82. Sink or Swim

Remembering stuff like this wasn't a challenge for Damian—his mind was practically a steel trap.

First up was the warlock thing. Back in the Nullis world, warlocks were typically painted with broad strokes—dark, sinister, often sinister, and always feared. They were the magic rebels, the outsiders, the ones who either broke the rules or laughed in the face of them. Here, though, the book hinted that the truth was more complicated. Originally, warlocks were just mages who'd been kicked to the curb by the Mage Academy. Yeah, banished, tossed out of the magical elite's ivory towers for one reason or another. And instead of sulking, they went rogue, tapping into magic from unconventional sources. They didn't let a little thing like rejection hold them back.

In the early days, society always assumed warlocks were up to no good, and in a way, maybe they had been. After all, with their unorthodox magic and strange new abilities, they looked pretty terrifying. But over time, that stereotype started cracking. Some warlocks began showing up who weren't monsters or dark overlords. They had power, sure, but they used it in ways that actually helped people. And the rest of society finally figured out that, hey, maybe not every warlock was a bad apple. So, slowly but surely, warlocks clawed their way back into the folds of the magical community, earning their place among mages, even if they were always a little on the fringes.

But—and this was a huge but—their path was still vastly different from the mages' training in the prestigious academies with all their ranks and structures. If someone walked into a Mage Academy, he came out with official titles, ranks, and an aura of respect. He trained with the best instructors, and he had the resources and prestige that came with that kind of education.

Warlocks, though? They didn't get any of that. No grand halls, no academic accolades, no official ranks or scrolls of parchment. Instead, they relied on mentors, usually older, more experienced warlocks who'd paved their way through trial and error. A bit like homeschooling but with a whole lot more danger—and way more hands-on practice than dusty books and lecture halls. The warlock system was gritty, unregulated, and by its very nature, more practical. It was the kind of training where if they didn't learn fast, they might not make it to the next lesson.

Meanwhile, witches—well, witches had a foot in both worlds. They had their own academies, often private, shrouded in secrecy, but they also had the option to train under a mentor, like the warlocks. They could go either route, and no one would bat an eye. Witchcraft had its own mysterious prestige, and society, for whatever reason, was fine with their flexibility. There was even a quiet understanding that the strongest witches—those with power most mages wouldn't dare dream of—often came from a mentor-based background. It was less about official ranks and more about real power, earned and proven.

For warlocks, though, it was almost like a rite of passage to train under someone who had seen it all. These mentors weren't just teachers; they were legends in their own right, shaping their apprentices not just with spells but with wisdom that no one would find in any academy curriculum. It was brutal, for sure, but also straightforward—an exchange. Warlocks didn't do it for money. No, they did it for fame, respect, reputation, all those intangible yet undeniably valuable perks that came with having their names whispered in awe. And believe it or not, a warlock's reputation was worth way more in this world than gold. Apprentices flocked to these mentors, hoping to glean even a fraction of their power and influence.

And Cassius? The exception to the rule. He'd somehow managed to carve out a name for himself without apprentices, without followers, and without all the attention. If the other warlocks were beacons, drawing others to them, Cassius was a shadow—a powerful, unapproachable figure who walked his own path. And yet, his name was still whispered across the magical community, even by those who'd never met him.

Damian found himself chuckling under his breath as he thought about it. There was something oddly fitting about Cassius's approach—keeping to himself, no fuss, no frills, just raw power wrapped up in a shroud of mystery. Cassius wasn't the kind of guy who'd give lectures or spoon-feed his secrets to a bunch of eager apprentices.

Hell, Damian doubted any apprentice could survive under Cassius, not with the way he trained. It was brutal, and word was Cassius had all the patience of a ticking time bomb. The man didn't suffer fools, didn't take excuses, and probably didn't care if he learned or didn't. Sink or swim, that was Cassius's method. And honestly? It was a big part of what made his name so infamous.

Just as he was settling into that thought, he heard footsteps echoing down the hall, drawing his attention. He turned toward the sound, and a familiar figure stepped into view.

"Oh, you're home already," Evelyn said, raising an eyebrow as if surprised to see him.

"Yeah," he replied, leaning back, closing his book casually. He almost added, 'Took you long enough,' but stopped himself. It was tempting, though. Here he was in her place, eating her food, using her room, and somehow, despite everything, she'd been... kind. Generous, even.

Instead, he glanced at her, debating for a second. He didn't really know her yet, not really. She was still a puzzle he hadn't managed to crack. And Evelyn didn't seem eager to hand him the missing pieces. But that was fine. He just needed to be patient.

"You eaten yet?" he asked, figuring it was as good a place to start as any.

"Yeah," she replied, leaning against the doorway with a sly little smirk, her arms crossed. "Was about to ask if you wanted some snacks, though."

"Nah, I'm good," Damian said, shrugging. He waved her off, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You already did enough with the laundry, honestly. Plus, you're basically hosting me here, so…." He let the words hang, not entirely sure how to phrase the rest of what he was thinking. It wasn't exactly gratitude—more like an understanding that she'd gone out of her way when she didn't have to.