13. Hey, Ak the Adorable Druid, taste the righteous venom of my flying daggers!

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The renowned Principal Akmond’s seemingly assured assassination attempt had failed. It wasn’t due to any flaw in his skills or methods; purely a failure in intelligence work. After overlooking a rather fatal issue, a cascade of worse problems ensued. But now was not the time to debate methods or patch up oversights. For the ambitious Akmond himself, the most pressing matter was simply to survive...

Facing Sachil, who unleashed his full personal firepower in the grand lecture hall, constantly aided by demons emerging from the twisted void, was an immense challenge.

Though the embittered master and apprentice both possessed top-tier spellcasting abilities in the world of Argus and possessed profound studies of the arcane, Akmond was clearly outmatched by Sachil in the warlock’s dark arts.

As the principal of the Arcane Academy, Akmond could not, like the retired Sachil, openly draw from fel energies to refine the power he craved.

Sachil knew all of Akmond’s tricks, but against the eerie spells Sachil cast with nonchalant grace, the principal was hard-pressed not only to counterattack but even to mount a firm defense.

Within the first ten seconds of their clash, Akmond was afflicted with more than six major curses.

Sulfurous fire from the sacrifice burned his flesh; the chill of corruption felt like drinking poison, wracking his innards with pain. The curse of weakness drained his strength, and the curse of tongue-tie stammered his speech, severely slowing his incantations.

Yet the most unassuming elemental curse proved deadly, temporarily nullifying all of this master of the arcane’s energy resistances, turning him into a true “glass cannon” vulnerable to devastating critical hits from every shadow bolt.

If these were mere weakening effects, the doomsday curse personally cast by Sachil at the cost of crushing the skull of a demon artifact was true torment.

It caused no physical or mental harm, but was a life-consuming countdown.

The booming demonic laughter echoed in Akmond’s mind, growing louder as his feeble resistance waned, as if a gate to the twisted void was opening within him.

Sachil had transformed himself into a “living sacrifice” through fel power!

Once the doomsday curse’s countdown reached zero, his life and flesh would become bait to summon powerful demons. When the doomsday sentinels of the dark titan in the twisted void answered this call, his life would reach its final moment.

Akmond had seen this curse described in the Cult of the Awakener’s grimoires, but even with his casting talent, he could not restructure such a potent curse into a quick-cast spell. Yet Sachil wielded it as easily as swatting a wild dog.

This proved that in this magical duel of masters, Sachil had ascended to another realm through fel infusion and the Blessing of the Benefactor.

Perhaps his power now rivaled the legendary “Forefather Warlock Ogurei.”

After all, Akmond had personally measured Sachil’s head circumference; this old madman, once called “mentor,” indeed possessed potential comparable to the Forefather Warlock.

Sachil had realized his “talent” in an even more extreme way.

“Kneel!”

Amid Sachil’s roar, the Manari warlock master who had once moved with elegance cast a fel energy orb. Akmond, bearing terrible curses and employing ventriloquism-like incantations to freeze surrounding demon minions, was struck head-on.

His heavy magical shield shattered, bearing the full fury of Sachil’s wrath. Struck by “Death Coil,” Akmond experienced a vision.

He saw himself dismembered at Sachil’s feet, his skull made into an arcane instrument by this madman, his flesh thrown into sacrificial flames to be devoured by demons.

He saw his soul cast into black flames, scorched for millennia.

Most importantly, he saw his failure.

His pursuit of power, ambition, and influence would end tonight; no means could stave off this moment.

“Ah!”

Akmond knew he was afflicted by the warlocks’ most dreaded “fear” state. He knew he must break free immediately or become a helpless lamb to the slaughter.

Biting his tongue to bear the pain, he forced himself to clear his mind, then crushed a mana-infused gem to call forth arcane energy. In an instant, pure and potent magic swirled around him like lightning, flowing into his weakened body.

Arcane enhancement freed the principal from fear’s grip. Mastering the three phases of arcane change, he blinked precisely to escape, transporting himself to a high platform on the lecture hall’s second floor, evading Sachil’s demon minions below.

But before he could catch his breath, shadows flooded the hall, coming alive.

As Sachil’s left hand swung like a war hammer, the animated shadows pounded Akmond’s body with a furious roar.

This dark wrath struck true and fierce, hitting Akmond squarely while his blink was on cooldown.

With no other option, he raised his shield to withstand the blow, but the hastily conjured ice shield was torn apart instantly. Along with the shield, Akmond’s body ripped open.

Blood sprayed like a water bag bursting under pressure, spurting from the wounds.

Kneeling in agony, Akmond’s blood was not wasted; an invisible hand seemed to swirl it around him. Under Sachil’s formidable mana control, the life force was extracted and transformed into fel energy, marking Akmond with another calamity sigil.

With this sigil, even beyond Sachil’s line of sight, the ruthless elder warlock could precisely track him and rain deadly warlock spells upon him.

When the battle became so one-sided, Akmond realized the cruel truth.

Halfway into “demonic ascendance,” Sachil could have commanded demons to kill this traitor swiftly but did not. Like slicing flesh with a knife, he kept bleeding Akmond dry, inflicting pain.

He regarded this as punishment, a grim solace for his bitter loss.

Clearly, his betrayal had deeply wounded the old warlock’s heart...

Yet this clarity was good news for Akmond.

Though Sachil’s assault was fierce, he had lost the reason expected of a caster. Toying with prey is never wise, old man!

That was something you taught me.

Bloodied and battered, Akmond endured pain as if being cut by a thousand blades. His study of the warlock’s path was shallower than Sachil’s; his gifts of fel far fewer than those who openly “embraced demonhood.”

But Akmond’s progress came not just from sycophantic flattery.

He had his own talent and effort. A thousand years of study had shaped a unique spellcasting logic and insight.

Though unable to wield the endless destruction of fel as freely as Sachil, he had his own understanding of this power, distinct from the arcane...

“Bang!”

Two robust fel lords guarding Sachil hurled heavy enchanted steel axes at Akmond’s refuge simultaneously. The rotating blades struck the second-floor platform like artillery, shattering the sturdy passage connecting it to the main structure.

Amid crumbling stone, Akmond fell with the platform.

He tried to blink mid-air but was struck again by Death Coil as Sachil raised his hand.

Though he had cast mental protection to avoid fear’s grip, the fel impact disrupted his spellcasting. His recently conjured arcane illusions shattered like bubbles.

Attempting retreat under their cover, he was exposed and slammed to the ground in a burst of fel flames.

“Heh heh.”

The old warlock dropped his ruby staff—he no longer needed this symbol of “wisdom.”

Bent from spinal mutations, he limped forward. With a casual grasp, he snatched the crystal bane blade Akmond had forged to assassinate him, spinning in his hand.

Protected by powerful fel lords, Sachil slowly approached the wounded Akmond, whose left leg was injured from the fall.

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His intent was clear.

“You once praised my cranium, comparing it to Forefather Warlock Ogurei. I know it was not praise, but my disciple, I also know your skull is just as perfect...”

In Sachil’s eyes blazed fel fire, like ghostly flames drifting in the darkest crypts. He said with eerie menace:

“I will present your skull to the Benefactor, polish and carve it with the finest skill. Your head and eyes will accompany me through this dark age. I will carry you across these ill-fated stars and witness with you the final moments of the physical universe’s descent into fel doom.

Akmond, my proudest disciple, my child...

My son...”

“No, I beg you!”

Cowering among the rubble, Akmond had never appeared so miserable and desolate.

His injured leg made standing difficult; his spellcasting tools destroyed in the fierce duel, only the academy’s ceremonial staff remained. But this arcane-glowing scepter could not fend off Sachil’s murderous intent.

He wailed:

“Give me another chance! Mentor, father! I was blinded by ambition—just one more chance.”

“I have given you many chances, child. I even wished to leave you the dark glory of the Benefactor’s fading future.”

Sachil commanded fel lords to seize Akmond, lamenting:

“But it was your choice.”

“Then... then...”

Akmond bowed his head, seemingly ashamed, no longer struggling.

Under the cold gaze of high-level warlocks roaming the chaotic land, Akmond struggled to stand with the aid of a stone pillar. It seemed he was ready to meet his fate.

Just as the fel lords approached, Akmond unleashed a spell he had prepared for nearly half a minute, his ferocious glare cutting through the gloom.

“Then die! I will survive!”

Emerald fel energy burst from his bloodied fingertips, but unlike the crude fel casting of others, Akmond constrained it into a delicate yet deadly arcane spell with his superb skill.

Runes pulsed uncontrollably on his arms, indicating even he struggled to control this massive spell, requiring all his mana to suppress its chaos.

This was his unique application of fel, a spell even Sachil had never seen.

As the black beam of compressed fel energy shot forth from Akmond’s fingertips, Sachil’s eyes widened.

He felt the deadly aura of the spell—cold as facing death, roaring with energy. Defying his twisted form, he leapt aside, grabbing a startled high-level warlock as a “human shield.”

The black beam struck the fel lord guarding him, collapsing it like a shattered statue.

But the assault was not over.

Like light hitting a mirror and undergoing lethal refraction, the black beam jumped to the high-level warlock before Sachil, who was shattered utterly before he could react, his soul unable to flee into a soul stone.

The dark beam continued, striking the third, fourth, fifth victims...

Until the ninth fell, the beam finally struck Sachil himself, shielded by a magic blood ward granted by a sacrificed demon guard.

The ward, capable of repelling lethal blows multiple times, shattered instantly; the black beam pierced Sachil’s heart.

However, the many refractions had severely weakened the spell’s power. Moreover, Akmond had not fully completed it—it was a “half-finished masterpiece.”

“Pft.”

The stunned old warlock spat out hideous black blood. His magical armor shattered, and he swayed like a leaf in the wind.

Yet he endured.

Perhaps the Benefactor’s generous blessing endowed him with vitality far beyond ordinary Manari.

Seeing Sachil lean against the wall, raising his hand to cast another fel vortex, Akmond, drained of all mana and strength, broke down.

He had cast his deadliest spell, yet could not defeat his absurdly powerful mentor.

Yet this “Death Finger” spell had cleared away the obstructing foes, allowing Akmond a spiteful glance at his mentor before limping away.

Having taken the Death Finger blow, Sachil needed to rest, but seeing Akmond flee, he swung his crystal bane blade toward his disciple.

Do not think the Eredar mages are frail; their “Jadeni training” is a tradition forcing all adult males into gladiator-like combat, bare-chested, fighting fierce Tabu rams with body and fists.

Men raised under such customs are adept horse archers and fighters.

The thrown bane blade whistled into Akmond’s back, mere fingers from his neck, but ultimately missed its mark.

Sachil watched his disciple scream and crawl away on all fours, then roared at demons emerging from the fel vortex:

“Find him! Capture him! Kill him! Bring me his head!”

“Howl!”

The response was savage roars, but Sachil did not chase.

On one hand, the “renegade’s” last strike was fierce and had wounded him; on the other, Sachil sensed the brewing crisis of the coup and needed to advance it.

Fortunately, the Cult of the Awakener had long prepared.

They had arranged all details; the demon summoning ritual beneath the grand lecture hall was already underway, needing only his presence to preside.

Elsewhere, Akmond fled the main lecture hall area, gasping, trying to pull out the bane blade lodged in his back.

Its position was awkward, and in his condition, it was difficult to remove.

The demons’ howls were close; Akmond forced himself onward like a limping Tabu ram.

He saw his followers hunted by cult warlocks throughout the dark hall, but he had no time to uphold his “great educator” façade.

He had to escape!

His pitiful state was not entirely bad—though the assassination on Sachil failed, the two Archons would trust him more.

The only regret: he would not inherit all of Sachil’s prestige.

But that didn’t matter. Whoever killed Sachil, Akmond would remain the sole candidate for the title of Argus’s greatest spellcaster.

The symbolic seat of wisdom as Archon was still his.

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He only needed to lie low and wait...

Patience is a virtue, and it is the one thing ambitious men never lack.

“Principal! What has happened to you?”

As Akmond fled the trembling passage, a surprised voice called from the side. He turned to see his trusted aides, the sisters Saloras and Oreses, running toward him.

Good.

His confidants remained.

Akmond breathed a sigh of relief, intending to summon them to help and pull out the bane blade from his back.

But in the next moment, his sharp eyes caught the bloodied magic sword in Saloras’s hand.

It was the weapon of his most loyal servant, Garasum...

“Traitor!”

Akmond’s fury exploded.

He clenched his fingertips, squeezing out his last mana to summon flames to burn these two betrayers in this desperate place.

The irony was laughable: the greatest traitor of the Arcane Academy had no hesitation betraying his mentor and “father,” yet when his students betrayed him, he wished to devour them.

Indeed, Akmond, resolved to great deeds, was but a hypocritical double standard.

Exposed, the twins ceased pretense, combining fire and ice to drive the weakened Akmond back into the pitch-black passage.

The towering principal retreated with frustration.

If not for the Death Finger spell draining his strength and mana, how could he be defeated by two young women?

Yet as he struggled to hold his shield against the barrage of flames and ice, a sudden sharp pain erupted in his back, as if something struck his flesh and shattered, inflicting a numb curse.

Surrounded and attacked from behind, Akmond turned to see the supposedly “dead” Diakem Zastins blocking his retreat with righteous posture.

The poisoned assassination throwing knives he hurled pierced Akmond’s chest, waist, and neck as he turned.

These venomous blades shattered upon penetration; the cold numbness robbed Akmond of muscle control. Amid the continuous stabbing, he finally collapsed.

Seeing Diakem’s advancing stance, utterly cornered, Akmond finally understood the full cause and effect.

Why Sachil suddenly knew of his betrayal plan, why the twins sent to execute Diakem had defected in this setting, and why Kil’jaeden’s commander wore that subtle, strained smile when he reported to the Archons...

“So... you were the traitor... the serpent!”

Akmond moaned in pain and despair:

“But Diakem, why?”

“Pft.”

The cursed war sword thrust straight into Akmond’s heart.

As Diakem pinned the principal’s shoulders and pulled out the crystal bane blade from his back, the high-ranking guard whispered:

“For Argus!”

“Hypocrite...”

“Pft.”

The crystal blade swung again, brutally cutting down.

Akmond’s final curse was cut short. Blood splattered as his defiant blue head was grabbed by the hair and lifted.

The blade intended to sever Sachil’s head had, in fate’s sigh, fallen upon another neck.

Tonight, the usually solemn Diakem finally smiled.

Dropping his shattered bane blade, he admired the furious-eyed “Skull of Akmond” as if beholding a supreme gift from fate, then turned to the twins:

“We have won! Children, we...”

“Boom!”

A tremendous roar interrupted Diakem’s words.

He felt destructive power erupt behind him, forcing him to throw the twins to the ground and raise his shield, activated by the Akenite crystal array, to protect them.

Amid the twins’ screams, Diakem saw the entire grand lecture hall collapse under the onslaught of emerald fel beams bursting from below.

Countless demons erupted from the pillars of light, winged fel bats shrieking as they stormed the fel-lit sky, as if the Burning Legion’s invasion had begun.

But then, Diakem saw the bats scatter in terror.

A layer of golden, scorching light erupted from the heights, spreading downward like a wall of radiance, blocking all demons’ advance.

“Do you hear that?”

Amid the falling debris in the lecture hall, he whispered to the protected twins:

“That song...”

“Huh?”

The twins heard nothing.

They looked at Diakem with fear and confusion. He tilted his head, listening.

He heard the familiar ethereal melody and said:

“It’s the song of the Naaru, the song of the Holy Light... They have come! The Light has not abandoned us!”