They ran across the suspension bridge.
Shortly after the winged leader fell, the bridge began to shake violently again. The group—composed of mages, mage apprentices, and guards—heard the sound of flapping wings all around them; beyond their field of vision, the bridge seemed to have been struck by something and began to rise and fall violently. The broken suspension bridge would be repaired soon enough, but they couldn't linger in such conditions for long—just as no one can stay on a bouncing rubber band for long.
All spells cast into the darkness vanished without a trace, and no cries received a response. Realizing that any effort seemed futile, they could only secure another black candle to the bridge deck and keep running forward.
The closer they got to their destination, the more stable the bridge became, its curvature returning to a state nearly identical to when they set out. The light from the black candles continued to move forward, and finally, the survivors saw the end of the long suspension bridge.
As if their trek through the dark cavern had finally come to an end, everyone instinctively quickened their pace. Darkness still lay ahead, and what lay beyond the long bridge remained unknown, but standing on solid ground was certainly better than walking on that precarious suspension bridge with a heart in their throats. At the end of the candlelight, a flat expanse appeared—a vast, empty expanse. What could possibly lie beyond it?
Ever since the undead creatures had been swallowed by the magical traps on the bridge, the crucial task of leading the way with a candle had fallen to a single soldier. The first soldier to step onto the open ground finally put aside the elation of leaving the suspension bridge, regained a measure of caution, and began to move forward cautiously. One by one, the group advanced; some drew their weapons, while others readied their spells.
Paving stones appeared ahead in the candlelight—stones with a rocky texture, engraved with mysterious patterns, as if a palace had suddenly sprung up in the wilderness. They carefully took up their positions and advanced, braced for battle.
At least, they believed they were sufficiently prepared.
The soldier holding the black candle did not rashly step onto the tiles; without the mage needing to remind him again, he had already grasped the importance of watching his step along the way. The entire group was still several meters away from the tiles when the candle's light faintly illuminated something—something that looked like… a chair…
Almost the moment the chair's legs came into view, everyone collapsed.
The strongest soldier and the frailest mage's apprentice all fell to the ground, looking as though they had simultaneously become fanatics, about to perform the ritual prostration. Their eyes widened in horror; some roared and struggled, a strange force pressing down on every inch of their skin, making it difficult even to lift their heads; some cast spells, yet those spells never even left their hands; as that strange force pressed down upon them, a bizarre sense of emptiness smothered every spell in its infancy.
Warriors and spellcasters alike felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness.
The black candle fell to the ground; its flame flickered and suddenly went out. But just before that, a new light flared up ahead, drawing everyone's gaze.
The people on the ground struggled to lift their heads and look forward.
It was indeed a chair—a bone-white, throne-like chair with a soaring backrest, exuding great grandeur. One might find a similar sight in an old royal palace or a storybook. The chair's legs, however, were not the sort a noble would choose—they were the claws of some unknown creature, clinging firmly to the ground as if, the moment they released their grip, they would break into a mad dash. The armrests jutted forward, and a pair of hands rested upon them, one on the left and one on the right, their skin the same color as the armrests.
A wisp of ghostly light floated before the throne, its dim glow illuminating the figure seated upon it. A figure cloaked in black robes sat upon the throne, with only fingertips visible at the cuffs. From a distance, the figure appeared eerily pale and gaunt, so emaciated that it was impossible to tell whether the sleeves concealed a pair of hands or a pair of bony claws. The humanoid's head was hidden beneath a hood, and all they could see were two points of red light glimmering beneath its shadow. When they met those red eyes, everyone felt an overwhelming sense of dread.
"Archmage Lecher…" Miranda said, her voice trembling.
Their hopes were dashed; this was indeed not the top of the Mage Tower. If the unstable teleportation array hadn't sent them to the summit, then who had altered the path? They'd drawn the worst possible lot—the master of the Mage Tower was waiting.
"Yes… yes!" In the silence, only Miranda's voice stood out jarringly. "Such a great ancient mage could not have fallen in silence. You must have transformed yourself into a lich…"
The figure on the throne remained silent, while everyone on the ground turned to look at Miranda in unison.
Ever since the brute force had overtaken them, everyone's tongues had felt glued to their palates; even their roars had become silent. Yet at this very moment, Miranda could still speak.
This black-robed mage could do more than just speak.
She staggered to her feet, her whole body trembling, her pupils dilated, her breathing heavy as if she'd just run several kilometers. She took a few steps forward, looking as if she might collapse back to the ground at any moment, but she was undoubtedly moving step by step toward the throne—not lying prostrate on the ground like the others. The strongest soldier couldn't move; Bruno, the quickest to react, was powerless to fight back; and Rudolf, who had cast multiple layers of protection on himself, fell just as quickly as the rest… Yet it was Miranda, who seemed the least composed, who was able to act. Why?
The same question flashed through Miranda's mind: Why me? Then the answer immediately surfaced: Right, of course it's me. I am the only Black Robe Mage here—the heir who holds both reverence and ambition toward the ancient mages.
The answer gave her confidence, but somehow, her fear only deepened. The Black-robed Mage's back was already soaked through. No crisis in the past, no matter how close to death, had ever filled her with such terror—so much so that her mind struggled to function. Miranda felt as if she were treading through a swamp; the closer she got to the throne, the weaker her legs grew, and a deafening roar echoed in her head.
Why was she so afraid? This was a true ancient mage. Miranda had expected to rush forward with unbridled excitement, like an ant swarming toward honey. But perhaps it was only natural to feel fear—this was the legendary Rescher! He had casually slain dragons, seized divine artifacts in the blink of an eye, slaughtered fellow mages, and laid waste to entire nations… This infamous archmage has been remembered and passed down through the ages; his stories have been whispered among the Black Robes for so many years. For mages hiding in the shadows of the Eryan Empire, his fearsome reputation filled them with awe; his very existence was a microcosm of the glory of ancient mages, a benchmark for the Black Robes. How could you possibly defeat such an iconic figure, shrouded in glory? How dare you show disrespect to the idol in your heart?
Miranda's teeth began to chatter—perhaps because sweat had trickled into her eyes. Even after coming this close, she still could not make out the figure on the throne. A black mist swirled around the sovereign on the throne. Miranda could not make out the face, seeing only skin pale to the point of transparency and red eyes just as described in the records.
When she met those red eyes, she fell to her knees.
Miranda felt a vague sense of shame; she had no intention of kneeling, but her legs seemed unable to support her any longer. The black-robed mage's carefully prepared words were scattered by a wave of chaos. She was rendered speechless, momentarily forgetting the purpose of their journey, forgetting the fallen Contract Holder and her teammates behind her, forgetting all the questions she had intended to ask—leaving only a deep, uncontrollable fear.
The figure on the throne extended a single finger, pointing behind Miranda.
Whether what lay beneath the black robes was a finger or bare bone was of no concern to Miranda; her remaining attention was entirely consumed by the words that followed. A hoarse voice reached Miranda's ears as the figure on the throne said to her, "Kill them."
The black-robed mage mechanically turned her head. In the direction the finger pointed, she saw the people still lying where they had fallen.
They had heard the command as well, and many of them paled. Some guards looked bewildered, others terrified, while still others' eyes darted between the black-robed mage and the other mages. The alchemist in the garishly colored robes moved his lips vigorously, trying to speak but unable to utter a single word; the necromancer remained expressionless; Miranda's apprentice looked at her pleadingly; the white-robed mage sighed helplessly, though not even the sound of the sigh escaped him, while his apprentice glared at Miranda, clearly convinced she would obey.
No matter what expression they wore, they were powerless to resist. A single area-of-effect spell would be enough to send these lambs to the slaughter.
Miranda felt a chill run through her body.
Her lips trembled as she struggled to form words; she felt that casting a spell would be far simpler. Archmage Reichel, the master of this mage tower, an ancient mage who had survived into this era—was he ordering her…?
"You… mean…" she managed to squeeze out a few words.
"Kill them," the other replied mercifully.
That was exactly what it meant—all she had to do was kill them. Those who trespassed into the Mage Tower must pay the price. The Tower Master hadn't strangled them himself; instead, he'd left it to Miranda to finish the job. While this was certainly cruel, it was quite normal—even merciful—for an ancient mage. It suggested he held the Black-robed Mage in somewhat higher regard—otherwise, why would he have spared her to do the deed? This was likely a test of loyalty, or perhaps just the Tower Master's twisted sense of humor. Whichever it was, it wasn't something Miranda should question. She had long since cast life and death aside; for the sake of the possibility of gaining knowledge and power, what was wrong with killing them? Even if she didn't do it, they would still be killed.
But something was off.
Miranda strained her mind, trying to grasp that fleeting, odd sensation that lingered yet eluded her. Perhaps it was merely an illusion—a distraction caused by the tedious camaraderie of the group, for instance. The Black-Robed Mage did not need companions, only pawns to be exploited; the power of the ancient mages proved that solitude was a mage's best friend…
"Your Excellency," Miranda said, straining to keep her voice from trembling too much, "we do not mean to disturb your peace, but the Eryan of today is not the same as the Eryan of the past, Mage…"
"Kill them," His Excellency said.
He cut off Miranda's explanation, using the exact same words as before, even his tone remaining just as steady, without the slightest change. Yet the aura of intimidation radiating from him suddenly grew even more intense, causing Miranda to lower her head instantly, losing the courage to look up. Obey. Just obey. Her fingers began to move unconsciously, slowly tracing the incantation's path; her hands were incredibly steady.
It was terrifying, utterly helpless. Was this how a mouse felt when facing a giant snake? In a daze, Miranda felt as though time had reversed, and she had reverted to a low-level mage whose offensive spells couldn't even take down a single soldier—crawling in the river during the imperial soldiers' search, praying under the pressure of the icy water that they would leave soon; She also felt as though she had reverted to a clumsy apprentice who couldn't even cast a simple Light spell, watching in despair as the raging fire below engulfed her teacher's library, his notes, his own body, and the soldiers surrounding the house. These two most terrifying memories, buried deep within her heart, made her tremble uncontrollably. She felt as if her stomach were filled with ice, as if she were both ravenously hungry and sick to her stomach, and she couldn't help but long for the meals provided by a certain half-elf head chef.
This thought tugged at Miranda.
No, no, this isn't… Miranda strained to grasp the fleeting thought, but she couldn't catch it—and yet it was enough. That subtle, resistant impulse tugged at her fingers, and the mage's usually steady hand began to tremble, causing her spell to fail.
"No," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
What must it feel like to be defied time and again? With her head bowed, Miranda could neither judge nor imagine; uttering that single word had already drained her of all her courage. She heard a voice from the throne say, "Kill…"
A sharp crack.
If Miranda hadn't fallen so deep into fear, she would have heard the flapping of wings a moment ago and seen the sudden gleam in her teammates' eyes behind her. Miranda had been too preoccupied to notice anything else, so the first sound she heard was the clear ring that cut off the command.
Whoosh—! Something was struck.
Crack! Something shattered.
The icy fear weighing on Miranda's chest was suddenly lifted. In her astonishment at the lifting of that burden, she raised her head just in time to catch the final moments of the scene before her.
Bathed in the glow of that ghostly flame, the leader who had previously plunged into darkness returned. Her wings were fully spread; though her garments were tattered, she stood majestic. The long sword in her hand descended from the heavens, striking the indestructible throne directly. The dark figure upon the throne remained motionless. The gleaming blade struck the bone-hard backrest, paused briefly, then fell in vain.
The throne was cleaved in two.
The imposing seat was split cleanly in half; bone shards flew in all directions like a collapsing statue, and the figure upon it vanished the instant the seat split. There was no black hooded robe or red eyes—only a shattered chair, with runes flashing across the backrest, their light tracing the claw-like legs and the floor tiles they had been clutching. The fragments of the bone chair crashed to the floor, and a radiance radiated outward from the center, extinguishing the will-o'-the-wisps along with it.
Shouts of astonishment finally escaped people's throats as the force pressing down on their bodies and tongues vanished without a trace. Miranda jumped at the hand tapping her shoulder, only to hear a familiar voice ask, "How do you light this candle?"
Those who had been pinned to the ground hadn't been groping in the darkness for long before light returned. This time, the source was no longer the dim, flickering ghostly flames, but the black candles they had carried with them. A few meters away, the black-robed mage held a candle in her hand, and Tasa stood beside her, smiling at everyone. The Archon's left eye was emerald green, but both eyes were equally bright.
Cheers erupted.
Voices that had been suppressed for so long burst forth all at once, creating a chaotic din. The guards celebrated their narrow escape, looking as though they wanted to lift Tasa up and toss her into the air. Some of the younger mage apprentices screamed, drowning out the mages' greetings. Rudolph tried to reopen the Antan conference table. The spell, which had been completely nullified moments ago, successfully reformed. Alchemist Gloria, who had been on the channel all along, immediately praised Tasha for saving everyone from the brink of disaster, then turned and unleashed a torrent of abuse at Miranda.
"Are you stupid?" Gloria snapped. "That was just an illusion! You actually let yourself be intimidated by a fear spell cast on an illusion?!"
Miranda stood there dazed, still reeling from the shock and the sudden turn of events, unable to speak for a moment.
"Spells with anti-magic effects, gravity manipulation, a mild fear spell, and suggestion—we were hit the moment we entered the range," Gloria said, counting them off on her fingers as she pointed at the black-robed mage. "If we'd just stayed calm for a moment, we could've spotted the flaw. It would've been even better if someone had been able to move. And what happened? "You, on the other hand, went and gave that shapeless phantom a title, then rashly walked into an area with stronger magical effects, triggering something else. By the God of Magic, you couldn't even see me when I was mouthing the words!"
"Suggestion…?" Miranda muttered, staring at the debris on the seat. "So he isn't actually here…"
"Yeah, disappointed?" Gloria rolled her eyes. "You almost scared us to death!"
The Tower Master wasn't there.
What had frightened Miranda wasn't the Tower Master, but her own fear. Her preconceived notions and the mythologized image of "Archmage Reichel" in her mind had shaped what she saw and heard, trapping her within her own delusions.
"At least Miranda didn't actually lay a hand on him in the end." The white-robed mage stepped in to smooth things over.
"What if the Magistrate had arrived a little later?" the apprentice, Laurien, muttered resentfully.
"So where exactly are we?" Rudolf asked. "The top of the tower, or somewhere else? Is the Tower Master even home?"
"We might have been wrong," Bruno said. "We assumed that the default destination for the unstable teleportation array was the top of the tower, and that it would only send people elsewhere if it was disrupted, but it seems that Mage Reichel didn't set it up that way."
In Reichel's mage tower, the default destination for the unstable teleportation array is right here; the tower itself serves as the disruption array, and only when it is activated are people sent to the top of the tower.
They assumed that if they ended up at the top of the tower, it meant no one was in control, and if they didn't, it meant someone was. The former tower master had likely used this kind of ingrained thinking to trick quite a few people. When those in the know realized they hadn't ended up at the top of the mage's tower, they instinctively suspected they might have run into the tower master, which made the performance of suggestion spells and illusions all the more convincing.
"Did that Pioneer encounter something like this as well?" Rudolf asked.
"Not necessarily. He might not have triggered it at all," Tasa joined the conversation. "Some of the spells here are highly targeted, just like how the Skeletal Guards and I were greeted by magic traps designed for specific types of magic earlier."
Leander was a white-robed mage. A scenario where the black-robed mage in the party kills the others was likely only available to parties that included a black-robed mage. Although this wasn't the tower's pinnacle and there was no tower master, it was still a headache-inducing killing trap.
"What's that?" someone suddenly asked.
The floor tiles parted.
Rather than simply parting, they "dissolved," like soap bubbles left to sit for too long. Beneath the vast expanse of tiles, a square opening was revealed, concealing a door covered in runes.
"A magical lock," Bruno frowned, crouching down to examine it for a moment before his face took on a strange expression. "But this lock has already been picked."
A pioneer had been here before; he had opened the door.
Behind this door lay a vast treasure trove.
A vast quantity of spellcasting materials was neatly stacked, so numerous and well-preserved that the sight was as striking as a freshly excavated Terracotta Army pit. Countless materials—many of which could no longer be found in Eryan—were arranged in orderly rows, yet without any sense of solemnity, as if to their owner they were merely sports equipment casually tossed aside. The bookshelves held a collection of texts that, though not extensive in volume, were of far greater value. In addition to spell tomes, there were many annotated notebooks and reports—yes, just like graded assignments in a teacher's office. These were apprentice notebooks with brief comments from the Tower's master. In an era where a vast gap exists between ancient magic and the spells currently practiced in Eryan, these foundational texts are more effective than any advanced spellbook.
Most remarkably, the Pioneers had been here; all the protective spells had been dismantled.
The guards and Tasa hadn't noticed anything yet, but the mages and apprentices had already begun gasping in shock, their breaths coming in short, ragged gasps that echoed one after another.
"Am I dreaming?" Gloria said shakily. "What is this? A blessing in disguise? No, I won't pretend nothing happened. I hold a grudge—that black-robed mage in the group nearly killed us just now…"
"I'm sorry," Miranda said.
The alchemist turned her head as if she'd seen a ghost, sizing up the black-robed mage from head to toe. She looked more shocked than if she'd discovered a treasure trove, and seemed eager to cast a barrage of detection spells at her. Seeing this, Miranda sighed; had she not been so drained at the moment, she likely would have made a few sarcastic remarks.
"I didn't do it for myself," she explained, continuing under Gloria's indignant gaze, "but because of my own stupidity and blindness."
The black-robed mage paused, shook his head wistfully, and said, "The age of the ancient mages is over."
The storeroom was unlocked, but the Tower Master was not there.
The legendary mage of immense power, the great Tower Master who had shaped this mage tower—whatever he left behind, he himself had not survived to this day. History, after all, is history.
The mages felt a pang of sorrow, while Tasha had already burrowed into the pile of materials. That faint whiff of the Abyss beckoned her, driving her forward at a rapid pace. By the time she reached this spot, Tashan was absolutely certain: the body of a demon lord was here.
...Or had been.
A few minutes later, Tashan stood before a massive platform. The half-shell, made of an unknown material, looked incredibly sophisticated and elegant. Unfortunately, it had already shattered; its contents had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a letter.