Chapter 91

Burning autumn leaves dance and fall beneath foot. An old log, nestled in this mountain for ages, crashes against other trees, creating a clamorous din.

The old mage, who had taken refuge beneath the shadow of the trees alongside the soldiers, sensed an eerie presence and swiftly raised his staff, beginning to erect a barrier.

The white-haired boy and the orc standing beside him wore expressions of bewildered incomprehension at the spectacle unfolding before them.

“Torn wounds. Molars forced back behind the neck. A broken tusk.”

The Archduke had begun to chant.

His lungs quivered. An unsettling air crawled through the boy’s nostrils, piercing his lungs. His heart clenched fiercely. The thought of inescapable doom consumed the boy’s mind.

The darkness spewing from Maltiel’s palms continued to swell in size.

‘The incantation’s completion isn’t refined. The ratio of mana wasted is far too high.’

As the boy analyzed, the incantation Maltiel was reciting was indeed far from perfect.

Assuming Maltiel expended 100 units of magical power, only about 30 materialized into the spell itself. The remaining 70 was simply scattered upon the ground.

Thus, academically speaking, Maltiel’s incantation was essentially a ‘failure.’

A result as natural as it was expected. Not everyone is born with the boy’s innate talent.

For Maltiel, it was the first attempt at this particular ‘incantation.’ It would be unnatural if the magic were without flaw.

‘…But this magic is dangerous.’

Even so, the boy couldn’t ignore the chill that had settled in his lungs.

Regardless of whether the magic’s efficiency was good or bad, the sheer absolute value of mana that Maltiel was pouring into it was too high.

Seventy percent of what the Archlord could store within his body.

The boy didn’t know it, but Maltiel was shoving seventy percent of his own mana into this single spell.

A fatally excessive leak of mana, masked by an overwhelming quantity.

Academically, it was an incredibly inefficient and barbaric method, but tactically, it was the best option Maltiel could currently choose.

The boy swiftly moved his stiffened legs and arms, standing before the red-skinned orc.

A ringing in his ears and pitch-black light.

Soon after, a tremendous energy beyond comprehension began to rush toward the boy. At the same moment, a faint blue barrier enveloped him.

The boy’s head was filled with a deafening ringing, throbbing as if it would explode. Irritation surged to the tip of his head, and his hands and feet trembled.

“…”

The orc, who had been cowering, trying to fit within the boy’s protective shield, finally regained his senses. He saw the spectacle that unfolded around them and was rendered speechless.

The entire mountain had vanished. The slope, the trees, the earth.

In its place was merely a vast expanse of land, and at its center rested a tiny sphere, no bigger than a finger joint.

Soon after, the boy and the orc began to fall. They had been standing halfway up the mountain, on the slope. But thanks to the mountain vanishing entirely beneath them, they were now plummeting through the air with a few handfuls of dirt.

Beneath them, a deep pit had been carved, exposing the bedrock.

Even the seasoned warrior orc couldn’t fathom how far they would have to fall before hitting the bottom.

Suddenly, an immense wind roared up from behind them as they fell. Tremendous energy erupted, turning everything around it into nothingness. It was only natural that a massive amount of wind would rush in to fill the vacuum at the epicenter of the explosion.

The boy and the orc were caught in the tremendous aftershock, scattered and torn apart.

Rex, belatedly regaining his senses, reached a hand toward the boy, but the moment had long since passed.

“Janggun!”

Rex called out in a booming voice, but the boy’s ears and eyes had yet to recover their function.

The ‘Blessing of the Spirits’ the boy possessed had shielded him from the immense heat and wind, but it had not protected him from the sheer quantity of light.

The boy was in a state where he couldn’t collect himself, as if he’d been struck head-on by a flashbang. His five senses felt numb and distant, and his brain was incapable of coherent thought.

“…I have won.”

From the deepest point of the crater, in the very heart of the storm, a mocking voice arose.

From a speck of jet-black the size of a fingertip, flesh and bone slowly sprouted, gradually forming Maltiel’s body.

Maltiel’s regeneration rate was noticeably slower. The price of consuming an enormous amount of mana, and being struck by the massive explosion that his own mana had created.

Maltiel tentatively attempted to move his leg, bones starkly visible. All he desired was to tear the boy’s heart from his chest as quickly as possible.

But the warlord’s exposed leg was caught in the swirling storm converging toward the center, breaking again and again.

In the end, the warlord Maltiel was unable to move while his body repaired itself.

“Hmm.”

But after a moment, Maltiel seemed to accept his inability to move in order to finish off the boy, and stilled.

Looking at the boy, it would take more than ten seconds for his eyes and ears to recover. And ten seconds was more than enough time for the boy’s body to smash into the ground.

‘His brain isn’t functioning; using magic is impossible. He can’t even deploy a barrier.’

The boy would fall to his death in a matter of seconds. His fragile body would be pulverized, scattered across the dirt, his bones turning to dust and scattering in every direction.

Maltiel concluded as such, and patiently waited for his body to fully regenerate.

“That orc… he possesses a troublesome artifact. It would be best to eliminate him, as well.”

Maltiel averted his gaze from the boy, and looked towards the orc who was falling towards the ground, an axe and horn in his hands.

* * *

*Crack!*

Rex’s massive feet met the pit’s bottom. The sound of shattering bone echoed clearly, even to Maltiel’s ears, tens of meters away.

“…You, son of a b*tch!”

His leg bones splintered from the unprepared fall, the orc was swept sideways, overwhelmed by the aftershock still swirling into the pit. Maltiel, gingerly, one step at a time, dragged his mostly-repaired body toward Rex.

That was the moment.

“Falling to your death? After all this time finding a toy, I won’t allow such an unamusing end.”

The Origin of Magic.

The First Lightning.

The Bound Transcendent.

A voice, belonging to an existence more ephemeral than a cloud, known by countless epithets and ridiculous legends, echoed.

Maltiel spun around, instantly, at the omnipotent voice resonating from behind him.

“At least die fighting. I’m speechless at this absurdity.”

There, stood the Lightning Spirit, Dajin, a boy with snow-white hair riding on his back.

* * *

“…Well, that’s it, then.”

In the vast, sprawling desert formed in the west of Vallarand.

Where, covered in sand that was at least eighty percent gold dust, it was commonly called the ‘Golden Sea,’ Grand Lord Michael muttered with an empty expression.

“If you’re giving up, why not just tell me the core’s location? I’m a little busy right now.”

Blocking Michael’s path, of course, was the Sword Saint.

“…That cannot be done. To bind your feet until the very end. To save even a single Grand Lord by doing so. That is my duty.”

Mikael began to shroud himself in obsidian ramparts.

With swift and concise magical calculations, he layered more than ten barriers around his body in less than three seconds.

‘I must envelop myself in as many barriers as possible. I have to endure for even a single second longer.’

In any case, the Sword Saint could not leave this desert until he had killed him. Mikael intended to exploit that fact to the fullest.

‘The difference in skill is overwhelming. A clumsy offensive would only be poisonous. What matters now is how long I can hold out.’

“Aren’t you even going to fight?”

Mikael couldn’t answer. His mouth was occupied with incantations, striving to build an even more resilient shield.

Simply firm, simply tenacious.

Mikael’s objective was to postpone his death as much as possible, not to defeat the Sword Saint in battle.

“It’s unsightly to the point of being embarrassing.”

The Sword Saint’s words were filled with a deep loathing, the origin of which was unfathomable.

“Are you not even going to offer the barest minimum of struggle as a living being? You are simply pathetic and disgusting beyond measure.”

The Sword Saint, observing Mikael accepting his death without emotion, slowly began to assume his stance.

“What, in all creation, were you born for? Simply to kill something?”

His legs slowly spread to shoulder width.

“What remains for you after killing other lives in such a way? What do you gain from carrying out the orders of that so-called Demon King so diligently?”

His knees bent slightly, preparing for the impending impact.

“I have never met a demon who could answer even such a simple question.”

Both hands gripped the hilt of his sword, so tightly it seemed he would shatter it.

“You are no different.”

He slowly raised both hands, fingers clenched tight, to the level of his eyes.

The chilling point of the blade aimed precisely where the Sword Saint’s gaze was fixed.

“Repulsive.”

With all his might, he slashed the blade diagonally.

The sword cleaved, cleaved, and cleaved again through the barrier and into Michael’s body. Trapped within the shield, his movements restricted, Michael was butchered into pieces.

Approximately six minutes and twenty seconds after the Sword Saint’s arrival in Valorand.

The third Great Warlord had lost his life.