"What in the blazes are you kneeling for? Our task is far from over... Rise, at once!" Seraph commanded with a biting edge.
"Our gratitude, Magister," they chimed in unison, scrambling to their feet.
The sentries felt as though they'd been granted an inexplicable reprieve from a death sentence. Each took a ragged breath, only just realising they'd been holding it in stifled terror.
Many of the sentries had grown familiar enough with Seraph over the past days to converse with a degree of ease; now, however, they dared not meet his gaze. They offered only furtive glances, snapping their heads away the moment he turned.
"My Lord... Lord Seraph... would it incur your wrath if I were to ask but a small question?" Maldrin inquired, his voice wavering with trepidation.
"Have you lost your wits?" Seraph snapped, irritation flaring. "If you have something to ask, out with it! Why this insufferable hesitance?"
Throughout their acquaintance, Seraph had found Maldrin to be a man of grit and grim humour. While most commoners held the Magis of Sanctus in fearful awe, Maldrin had been bold enough to approach him with a certain coarse friendliness. Now, however, the commander was behaving like a bashful maiden—a peculiar shift in temperament that left the young man profoundly unsettled.
"Did you not state, My Lord, that you'd refrain from using demonic fire to raze this valley?" Maldrin asked, his politeness unnaturally stiff.
In truth, Maldrin's concern lay neither with the valley nor the mountain. His anxiety was tethered solely to the wealth within that hollow, now being reduced to ash! Though damaged carcasses could be sold, pristine remains fetched a far handsomer price. To these men, the primary concern was always coin. The proof lay in the collective gaze of the hundred sentries, all fixed upon Seraph with singular intensity. They awaited his response, their hearts thrumming with suspense.
"I did no such thing! I merely—" Seraph began to protest, but the words died in his throat.
Under the scrutiny of the sentries, who stared at him as if he were some monstrous anomaly, he pressed a hand to his temple, nursing a burgeoning headache. He found himself at a loss for a denial. While torrential flames continued to spew from the cave mouth, and a pillar of fire spiralled relentlessly above the valley, any protestation would likely fall on deaf ears.
"I'll endeavour to rectify what's transpired," Seraph uttered with a heavy, resigned sigh as he strode forward.
The young magis approached the dragon's breath spewing from the cave mouth. He levelled his staff at the torrential flames and intoned a sharp incantation.
"Nihilus!"
With the final syllable, a ripple of colourless light lanced toward the conflagration. Almost instantly, the fire that had surged without pause began to lose its potency. It recoiled into the depths, leaving behind only blackened scars upon the earth. Yet, a blistering heat still clung to the cave's interior.
As Maldrin witnessed the young man suppress the fire, he let out a breath of profound relief. "The Goddess be praised; you can still master the beast," Maldrin remarked, casting his gaze skyward as if in silent prayer.
"All of you, stay back! I'm venturing in alone," Seraph declared, marching toward the maw.
"But the interior... it's still scorched!" Maldrin protested.
"Flamus Aura"
As a crimson radiance enveloped his form, the young magis stepped into the cavern's throat once more. The stone walls had turned a visceral scarlet, baked by the intense thermal pressure. Fortuitously, as the mageia assault had lasted but a few minutes, the structural integrity remained uncompromised; no part of the valley had succumbed to a collapse.
Before long, Seraph discovered pockets of lingering flame, forcing him to cast his counter-spell repeatedly.
The Nihilus spell was originally forged to mend natural cataclysms, yet it served equally well to unravel an enemy's mageia. Above all, it was the pre-eminent tool for dispersing one's own mageia when it spiralled out of control. For any who aspired to the rank of warlock or high-ranking magis, mastery over this particular spell was an absolute necessity.
Upon reaching the threshold leading into the inner gorge, Seraph discovered the conflagration within the enclosed valley still raged with a terrifying ferocity—far surpassing his grim prognostications.
He realised then that the Atramentum ink-oil had been an unnecessary catalyst; the valley was already choked with dry brush, fallen timber, and volatile gases that fed the hungry flames.
"Nihilus!" Seraph cast the spell toward the heart of the gorge.
A beam of pale mageia lanced into the primary seat of the fire where the ink-oil pooled. This time, however, the flames refused to yield with ease. He stood like a fireman wrestling against a sorcerous inferno; the resistance within the hollow was formidable. It took several arduous minutes before the blaze finally surrendered and flickered into extinction.
Seraph wiped the sweat from his brow, his exhaustion palpable. Even his Flamus Aura had struggled to fully repel such oppressive heat. His mana had once again been bled dry; unraveling mageia proved far more taxing than the act of weaving destruction. The young man drew another mana potion, drinking it down before the fog of fatigue began to lift.
Once the embers had cooled, he descended into the valley to survey the aftermath. It was as he had anticipated: every goblin lay dead beyond a shadow of a doubt. Faced with such searing thermal intensity, even the thick-hided demons could not endure for long.
Fortunately, their remains were not utterly ruined. While a goblin's hide offered little protection against pure mageia power, it was many times more resilient than human flesh. Only their outer fur had been singed and curled, with scattered scorch marks marring their forms.
Yet, as Seraph traversed the hollow, he realised one presence was conspicuously absent.
"Precisely as I feared... Kogoblins truly know no end," Seraph muttered, peering into a dark, yawning crevice. "That brute has fled into the earth, forsaking a just death."
The young man peered within, discovering the scorched trails and the drag of heavy footprints vanishing into the subterranean gullet. The laboured furrow of those tracks suggested that although the Kogoblin had clawed its way to freedom, it had surely sustained a grievous, near-fatal wounding.
"Hah... there's nothing more I can do! The hide of that roasted swine was far too thick," Seraph mused, dissecting his own performance. "Had I faced the brute in singular combat without a stratagem, the outcome would've been far from certain."
Most demon alphas were as cunning as they were formidable; much like this Kogoblin, which possessed both a harrowing celerity and brute strength. Had he failed to weave his defensive mageia in those final, breathless seconds, it might well have been he who was forced into a desperate retreat.
"Since it's fled, let it be for now... I'll consider it a grand roast held in reserve for a later date. For the present, I must attend to what remains," Seraph remarked, casting a sweeping gaze across the hollow.
The young man moved to seize a goblin whose carcass remained most intact. Gripping it firmly by the scruff, he began to haul the creature out from the shadow of the enclosed valley.
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