Chapter 91

Burning leaves twirled and fell beneath their feet. Logs that had stood here on the mountain for a long time knocked against other trees, producing loud noises in the brisk autumn air.

Along with the soldiers, the elderly Mage had taken cover beneath the shadows of trees. Sensing the chilling atmosphere, he quickly raised his staff and began casting a protective barrier.

The Boy with White Hair and the Orc standing beside him wore expressions of confusion as they tried to make sense of the spectacle before them.

“Torn wounds. Molars displaced backward. Broken canines.”

The Grand Marshal began murmuring an incantation.

A cold tremor rushed through the boy’s lungs. The frigid air pierced his nose and lungs, tightening his chest, while thoughts of escape filled his mind. There appeared to be no way out.

Dark energy emanated from Maltiel’s palms, growing larger with every passing moment.

‘The spell’s efficiency isn’t remarkable. The mana being wasted is extremely high.’

As the boy analyzed, the incantation Maltiel was chanting lacked the desired level of precision. Assuming Maltiel consumed 100 points of mana, only about 30 manifested into actual magic, with the remaining 70 dispersing into thin air.

In academic terms, Maltiel’s spell was a failure.

Of course, it was reasonable given that not everyone possessed the innate talent of someone like the boy. It was Maltiel’s first attempt at the particular incantation, and flawlessness would have been unnatural under such circumstances.

‘…But this magic is dangerous.’

Even so, the boy could not ignore the chill seeping into his lungs. Irrespective of its efficiency, the sheer volume of mana Maltiel poured into the spell was alarming.

70% of the Grand Marshal’s total mana capacity.

Unbeknownst to the boy, Maltiel was using 70% of his mana on just this one spell, offsetting the considerable mana leakage through overwhelming reserves.

A method that, while academically inefficient and crude, served as the best tactical option Maltiel had at the moment.

The boy quickly moved his stiffened legs and arms to stand in front of the red-skinned Orc, his mind racing against time.

Thunderous howls and pitch-black lights.

A wave of incomprehensible energy surged toward them. Simultaneously, a faint blue protective barrier enveloped the boy.

His mind was overwhelmed by the deafening roar of the explosion. Frustration surged through him, and his hands and legs trembled uncontrollably.

“…”

The Orc, who had crouched to enter the boy’s barrier, looked up and was left speechless by the spectacle before them.

The mountain had disappeared entirely, as had the slope, trees, and soil.

All that remained was a vast, expansive plain, with a tiny black orb no larger than a fingertip resting in its center.

And then, gravity reasserted itself as the boy and the Orc began to fall. They had been standing on the mountain’s slope, but the mountain itself had vanished, plunging them into freefall along with scattered clumps of dirt.

Deep below them lay a crater where the ground had been peeled back, revealing bedrock. Neither the boy nor the Orc, seasoned warrior that he was, could predict how far their fall would take them.

Suddenly, a fierce wind surged from behind them. The explosion had obliterated everything around it, converting it into ash. The massive void created by the explosion drew in enormous gusts of wind, as nature sought to fill the vacuum.

Engulfed by the powerful aftershock, the boy and the Orc were scattered apart.

Rex realized the situation too late and stretched out his hand toward the boy, but the moment had already passed.

“Rooooong!”

Rex called out to the boy with a booming voice, but the boy’s eyes and ears hadn’t yet recovered their function.

The boy’s “Guardian of the Spirits” had protected him from the immense heat and wind generated by the explosion but had failed to shield him from the overwhelming light.

The boy’s senses were temporarily paralyzed, and his mind could not process any thoughts.

“…I’ve won.”

From the heart of the storm, deep within the crater, a smirking voice echoed outward.

The small black orb began to sprout flesh and bone, slowly reconstructing Maltiel’s figure.

Maltiel’s healing speed had visibly slowed, likely due to his tremendous mana expenditure and the fact that he had caught the full force of his own devastating explosion.

Despite his skeletal legs, Maltiel attempted to move impatiently, driven by his urgent desire to rip the boy’s heart out.

However, his exposed bones were battered by the swirling storm, breaking and fracturing repeatedly.

Eventually, the Grand Marshal Maltiel was immobilized while his body regenerated.

“Hmph.”

Moments later, Maltiel accepted the fact that he couldn’t move to finish the boy and stopped.

Judging by the boy’s condition, it would take more than ten seconds for his eyes and ears to recover, and that amount of time was more than sufficient for his body to crash into the ground.

‘If his brain can’t function properly, he won’t be able to cast magic or erect a barrier.’

The boy would plummet to his death within seconds. His frail body would splatter across the earth, and his bones would be ground into dust and scattered across the plain.

Reaching this conclusion, Maltiel patiently waited for his body to fully regenerate.

“That Orc… holds a troublesome Artifact. I should finish him off.”

Shifting his gaze from the boy, Maltiel looked at the Orc, who was still falling with an axe and horn in hand.

Krrrrack!

Rex’s massive feet crashed into the crater, the sound of shattering bones audible even to Maltiel, who was several dozen meters away.

“Shit… damn it!”

The Orc, caught off-guard and with both legs shattered from the fall, was thrown aside by the residual windstorm swirling inside the crater.

Maltiel, his body nearly fully regenerated, cautiously stepped closer to Rex.

It was then.

“Perish? Not after finding such an interesting toy after so long. I cannot allow for such a dull end.”

The Origin of Magic.

The First Lightning.

The Bound Transcender.

The voice that spoke was as elusive as a drifting cloud, carrying within it countless legends and ear-splitting reverberations.

Maltiel immediately turned around upon hearing the omnipotent voice behind him.

“At least die fighting. Ridiculous to the last. Honestly, I have no words.”

There stood the Spirit of Lightning, Daljin, with the boy with white hair carried on his back.

*

“…It’s over.”

Vast and expansive deserts formed to the west of Valleland.

Covering an area where eight out of every ten grains of sand were gold, these vast deserts were commonly known as the “Sea of Gold,” and here, Grand Marshal Michael murmured despairingly.

“If you’re going to give up, at least tell me the location of the core. I’m busy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Blocking Michael’s path was none other than the Sword Saint.

“…It’s out of the question. Keeping you tied down until you die. That’s the only way I can save even one Grand Marshal. It’s my duty.”

Michael began enveloping his body in thick, black barriers.

With rapid and concise magical calculations, Michael erected more than ten layers of barriers around himself in less than three seconds.

‘I need to cover myself with as many barriers as possible. I must last even one second longer.’

Of course, the Sword Saint would never allow Michael to leave this desert until he was defeated. Michael intended to exploit this fact to the fullest.

‘The gap in power is overwhelming. A clumsy offense would be counterproductive. The key now is how long I can endure.’

“Are you not going to fight?”

Michael couldn’t answer. His lips were busy chanting spells to construct even more robust protective barriers in this very moment.

Just steady and persistent.

Michael’s goal was not to outfight but to delay his inevitable death as long as possible.

“You’re embarrassing to look at.”

The Sword Saint’s voice carried a deep-seated loathing.

“You don’t even put up the minimum struggle one would expect of a living being. You’re just endlessly pitiful and repulsive.”

The Sword Saint started taking up stance calmly as he watched Michael willingly accept his death without any fight.

“For what did you even come to exist? Was it merely to kill others?”

Slowly spreading his legs shoulder-width apart,

“What do you gain from killing other lives? And what do you receive in return for following the Demon King’s commands so fervently?”

With his knees slightly bent in anticipation of the incoming impact,

“In all my years, I have never once encountered a Marauder who could answer such a simple question.”

He clenched the hilt of his sword tightly enough to break it.

“And neither can you.”

Slowly and deliberately, he raised his tightly clenched fists to eye level.

The blade’s edge, pointed exactly where the Sword Saint’s gaze was directed, radiated an ominous aura.

“It’s revolting.”

Mustering all his strength, he swung his sword downward in a devastating diagonal arc.

The blade slashed through the barriers, scoring across Michael’s body again and again. Michael, trapped inside his own barriers, was hacked into countless pieces.

Time passed: 6 minutes and 20 seconds since the Sword Saint arrived in Valleland.

The third Grand Marshal had fallen.