The masks were carved by jagged gashes.
The smiles were twisted into downward snarls.
The fangs were yellowed and filth-ridden.
Their emerald eyes burned with an eerie radiance, projecting a raw, undisguised vengeance.
Though they still erupted in high-pitched laughter, it was now a chorus of curses and the foulest profanity. The young magis's sudden mageia strike had severed the final thread of their sacrifice, fueling a furnace of demonic rage within them.
The four clown demons twirled their pipes with the synchronicity of elite acrobats. In a single motion, they pressed the instruments to their lips.
A demonic melody of lamentation began to wail.
The world before him warped and distorted.
The ground beneath collapsed into a sudden abyssal precipice.
A second later, hellish beasts began to crawl from the rim of the void.
Seraph wasted no words on negotiation!
"Flamus Circulus!"
"Flamus Catharis!" the young magis cast without hesitation.
[Boom!]
Flames erupted in a tight mageia circle around Seraph's feet. The fire spiraled upward, surging past his head to form a sanctified barrier where demonic fel could not intrude.
Though the Piperclowns' illusions remained, the corrupted souls and the demonic song could no longer reach the young man.
The Piperclowns leaped and danced in a frenzy of spite. They realized in an instant that their Illusory Fel could no longer breach the defences of the human magis who stood before them as their nemesis.
In that heartbeat, the clown demons let out a shriek that shattered the air. They ceased their piping, twirling their instruments with a violent grace, transforming the demonic pipes into eldritch staves.
As if acting as conductors of death, globes of crimson gore materialized in their palms—Blood Balloons! Each demon could only conjure them in intervals.
Yet, within seconds, the air thickened as four demons summoned dozens of spheres!
When they hurled the Blood Balloons at the human magis simultaneously, it was as if a score of floating mines had saturated the chamber.
Seraph felt his pulse quicken, his hands a blur of motion. The approaching globes were like a mockery of mortality!
"Flamus Sightflare!" Seraph incanted in a desperate rush.
[Fwoosh!]
A wave of flame surged outward, accompanied by a blinding flare. It detonated into a cascade of sparks. Massive embers sprayed in every direction like dozens of pyrotechnic flares.
[Pop! Crack-Bang-Bang!]
While the destructive echelon of the Sightflare spell was not immense, the sheer volume of sparks intercepted the Blood Balloons, triggering their detonation at a safe distance.
The concussive force of the blood-bursts barely grazed him.
The Piperclowns were swept up by the heavy tide of fire. It was as if the subterranean sacrificial chamber had been plunged into a sea of lava. They were reduced to minor demons lost amidst a conflagration. The relentless waves of flame forced them into a frantic defence, severing their ability to maintain the assault.
"Flamus Bulletrix!!" Seraph's voice thundered, echoing through the hollows of the chamber.
Dozens of microscopic fire projectiles materialized, orbiting the young magis in a shimmering ring. Within the lightless room, he stood as a celestial body in a miniature macrocosmic—Seraph was the sun, and the mageia bullets were planets caught in his gravitational pull. The surging tides of flame around the room acted as a nebula, their flickering radiance reflecting the raw authority of his mageia.
Confidence and resolve surged within the young man. Among all the spells he had mastered, the Bullettrix—his own creation—was technically one of the weakest in terms of raw impact!
Yet, this fragile spell was the most effortlessly controlled. With a mere pittance of mana, the young man could manifest an overwhelming volume of fire. Bullettrix required the lowest echelon of energy while yielding the highest density of strikes.
Because this spell was born of his own design, he was its sole master. No demon in existence had ever witnessed its trajectory; none knew how to counter this strange, lethal innovation in the world of mageia.
The symphony of slaughter never ceased. The waves of fire continued to roar. The Piperclowns fought back in a desperate frenzy, hurling Blood Balloons at the young magis.
[Boom! Boom!]
Explosions reverberated throughout the hall, the destructive force threatening to bring the ceiling crashing down. Yet, amidst this violent mageia battlefield, the two forms lying upon the sacrificial altar remained in a deep, undisturbed slumber.
"RELEASE!!!" Seraph's roar shook the foundations.
[Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!]
The mageia bullets tore through the superheated air. The sound of the spell was a metallic rain, a rapid-fire discharge of incantations beyond count.
In the center of the mageia conflict, it felt as though a hail of hidden blades was sweeping through the narrow basement. Streaks of flame cut through the darkness with the speed of light. Dozens of fire bullets pierced the flesh of the clown demons, accompanied by the cacophony of absolute annihilation.
The screams erupted almost instantaneously. The four Piperclowns were hurled backward by the kinetic force, collapsing onto the stone floor like marionettes with their strings severed.
Fire bullets shattered their jaws.
Fire bullets pierced their chests.
Fire bullets crushed bone and splintered limbs.
A relentless hail of mageia projectiles perforated their demonic forms, leaving them no window for defence.
Though they lay broken and drawing breath, the Piperclowns were reduced to nothing more than malevolent rags of flesh.
In a heartbeat, the cacophony died, leaving only a thick, sweltering heat that veiled the basement in a heavy mist. The skirmish reached its end with a single, decisive execution. Low moans of agony from the four demons echoed through the sacrificial hall.
Some lay entirely motionless. Dull green demonic blood seeped out, mingling with the human gore already staining the floor. The stench of iron and demonic miasma became an inseparable, nauseating fog.
The four Piperclowns were scattered into the corners of the room, drowning in their own vitriol.
Seraph bolted toward them to inspect the wreckage. Upon finding those still clinging to life, he immediately cast binding spells to ensure no chance of escape. A living demon was worth infinitely more than a carcass—and he required them for interrogation.
Only then did the young man rush back to the two captives. He reached Rohtas first; throughout the entire conflict, the magis had remained as still as a monolith. His eyes were thrown wide, fixed in a stare as if forced to witness the ultimate horror of his existence.
"Rohtas…" Seraph whispered, his voice barely a breath.
He pressed his fingers against the man's carotid artery, but the world around him seemed to go still. Hope died in that silence. There was no pulse. As Seraph searched for any lingering spark of life, the cold truth settled in. The heart was quiet; the limbs were rigid and cooling. Breath had abandoned Rohtas long ago. The veteran magis was gone—a hollow, tragic end.
"Rest easy, brother. Leave the dark to me." Seraph murmured, his words heavy with a jagged ache. He bowed his head in a final, silent tribute before reaching out to gently close Rohtas's eyes.
For ten years within the walls of Sanctus, Seraph had endured relentless torment. Yet, to him, those years felt like the bitter, twisted squabbles of siblings, no matter how cruel they had become. Beyond the Kambion Group, no one had truly hunted him. He had never wished for any magis to die. He loathed Kambion, yes, and wanted nothing more than to be free of them, but he never craved the death of a fellow caster.