The attackers weren't human. Ancient remnants. How had they escaped their underground prison? No time for prisoners now. His fingers found the Lightning Pot at his waist—he hurled it straight at the breach.
Silver flashes. The pot shattered midair, the wall crumbling with it. Strong. Too strong to live. Two against one stretched his limits, but Throne remembered his master's... special tutelage. His hand closed around the long-handled bell. A single shake.
Jingle-jangle. The chime hung in the air as something materialized before him—a meter-long monstrosity bathed in ghostly blue. Every detail grotesquely vivid: elongated limbs, a spine arched like a drawn bow, warted flesh, a dog's snarling head lolling on its neck. First combat summon. No time to admire the craftsmanship.
He pointed at the Nox Swordsman stepping through the ruined wall. "Rotten Stray—kill." The undead lunged without hesitation, plowing through a storm of blade edges. No fear. No pain. It would tear flesh until its borrowed energy burned out.
The swordsman didn't underestimate the charging horror. His Flowing Curved Sword became a silver whirlwind as he met the assault head-on. Twin blades against twisted fangs.
Storm Dance.
Clang-clang-CLANG—steel fireworks erupted. Blade met blade, deflected edges carving the long table to splinters, scoring the walls. Two against one. Speed against speed. The clangor built an impassable wall of sound—until the Rotten Stray barreled through.
Dozens of fresh wounds opened across its rotting hide. No scream. No hesitation. It sank yellowed fangs into the retreating swordsman's calf.
Crack.
Silver blood pattered the floor. The leg held, but Scarlet Rot already crept through the wound. These creatures didn't waste breath on cries. The second swordsman's Flowing Curved Sword reshaped into a crescent scimitar—one brutal slash severed the Rotten Stray's spine.
The bitten fighter staggered back, blade still raised despite the seeping rot. Then he froze. The steel symphony had stopped. His head snapped up—
Where was the enemy?
Starlight coalesced at the breach. Throne materialized mid-swing, Moonveil's edge screaming toward the uninjured swordsman's throat.
Clang!
The bizarre scimitar intercepted—then elongated like liquid metal, slashing toward its own ally. Sparks exploded as the curved breastplate turned the lethal cut into a glancing blow.
"Think armor slows me down?"
Throne gave no opening for fancy footwork. Azure light detonated from his blade—Carian Piercer punched through the swordsman's chest. Silver arterial spray. He planted a boot on the corpse's shoulder, launched upward, and shattered the ceiling with a single thrust.
Whoosh—
A silver serpent grazed his heels.
The other Nox Swordsman retracted his Flowing Curved Sword. He tensed to pursue—then agony lanced through his right leg. The Rotten Stray's jaws still clamped tight, Scarlet Rot now blackening the limb to the knee.
"Call them shameless ashes again." Throne didn't glance back as he vanished through the hole in the ceiling.
The Lands Between had no cure for Scarlet Rot. Why bother with him now that it wasn't a threat? "Already morning?" Throne returned to the rooftop, chaos everywhere, bodies strewn like broken dolls.
By the shattered wall on the right lay a twisted heap—a human centipede.
The Grand Sage thrust his staff. A Night Comet tore through the chest of a Nox wielding a Flowing Hammer. A short blade jutted from the Grand Sage's shoulder, Scarlet Rot creeping through his veins. Throne appeared, ending the stalemate.
The Grand Sage swung sideways, forcing Campore back. He clutched his shoulder, bending double. "Stop him!" His face flushed crimson, feverish as the rot spread. Throne opened his mouth to question the loss when a muffled boom cut him off. A Night Sorcerer exploded, spraying fetid blood in all directions.
A sage caught in the blast screamed, tumbling off the roof. Brutal. A new magic born from the Kindred of Rot? "Your pursuit of knowledge, paired with self-sacrifice—you're no match," Campore sneered, mistaking Throne for academy reinforcements. His hand rose toward the candlestick, cold and arrogant.
"You've lost. As a reward, I'll make you raw material for the first Star Seeds."
He didn't need to kill. Just light the final candlestick. The Grand Sage was driven back by suicide bombers, the end within reach. "My teacher didn't mold me into a ball. You think you can?"
Throne tilted his head. Before he spoke, blue flames ignited in his eyes, his mouth widening in realization. "You bastard. No rules, huh?" Reality had no script. Any villain with half a brain saved the trash talk for after the deed. Wasting time was a crime.
Three clusters of blue flame ignited in Sellia. Silence. Then the distant mines buzzed, a shivering tide of magic washing over the land, hearts racing. Lusat and Azur—written as Masters, read as Butchers. No Primeval Sorcerer was kind.
If he'd fully turned inorganic, fine. But he still had consciousness. How much power remained? How much could he use? Throne's thoughts shattered as Campore laughed. "What were you saying? Feel free to chat." His gesture was elegant, composed. "Chat my ass."
Throne stared at the five Night Sorcerers lined before the spire, expression unreadable. A hand patted his shoulder. "It's over. Retreat." Edred stepped forward, shielding him. "Tell the General to grind these rebels into paste." "I can't leave." Throne turned, sensing the violent energy.
"Lusat's magic awakens. Gather forces, Grand Sage. He can't escape." Edred's eyes widened in disbelief, but Throne's gaze held no jest. "Fine. It's on you." He gritted his teeth and left.
No one in Sellia could defeat Lusat. Even if it meant filling the gap with bodies, he had to be stopped. The aftermath would be endless. "Futile. You can't hold me. He can't stop the Master." Campore shrugged, staring at the strange swordsman with interest. "And you? Planning to die?"
This wasn't logical. Master Lusat could snipe him from a thousand meters away—no chance for hide-and-seek. Throne reached into his collar, and Campore's brow furrowed slightly. What was he doing?
The doubt froze in Campore's mind the moment he saw it. A talisman. Infamous in the outside world. Impossible. The sage's composure shattered—more shocked than if Radahn himself had appeared. Throne smiled silently, lips moving. Sorry, I'm the real Primeval Sorcerer.
Sellen once said Primeval Sorcerers who've condensed a primeval glintstone can sense friend from foe by aura. Approaching the origin taints you with causality. Throne didn't understand the principle, but the blue-robed sage's plan confirmed two things. First, Lusat's consciousness was gone. Second, as the strongest Primeval Sorcerer, he could discern allies from enemies somehow. Easy. Sellen was Lusat's direct student. Throne was Sellen's only apprentice.
That made him Lusat's grand-apprentice.
In status and knowledge, wasn't he better than these wild-background fools? I spent months studying Primeval Sorcery with a foolish teacher. I even know how to make a primeval glintstone. What do you have to compare with me?
Throne's smile lingered as Campore drowned in horror. "I've been fighting a Primeval Sorcerer?"
"No. Not just any Primeval Sorcerer. Even I don't have that Graven-Mass Talisman—only the original disciples of the two Masters are worthy of it." "You… why…" "You're a direct-lineage Primeval Sorcerer, and you're fighting me? Do you enjoy killing allies?"
This wasn't magic. Campore scrutinized Throne's appearance, searching for a personal vendetta. Nothing. The sage stood dumbfounded as Throne raised his sword. Cannon of Haima! The magic projectile arced through the air, growing larger in Campore's vision. The shameless sneak attack snapped him back to reality. "Disperse!"
The group scattered just as the roof beneath them collapsed. Dust billowed. Campore landed on the adjacent roof, staff raised without hesitation. Gravity Repulsion! A purple wall of light expanded, and Throne's sword pierced it.
Throne gritted his teeth, bloodshot eyes locked on the sage meters away. Gravity pushed him back. What kind of Almighty Push is this? Gravity Magic was stronger than he'd imagined. Exquisite control left him trapped—no advance, no retreat. This sage was far stronger. Killing him wouldn't be easy.
Campore didn't press the attack. "Why are you my enemy?" The question burned brighter than Throne's life.
"Because you dregs aren't worthy of the origin." Throne took a deep breath, his raised right foot gathering a silent storm. "By the order of Master Azur, I'm executing you all!"
"Master Azur??" Campore's confusion deepened. A Primeval Master as famous as Lusat, long vanished from history. Had he survived? Splintered a new sect among the Primeval Sorcerers? Fake trash talk is laughable. Real trash talk makes the enemy doubt themselves.
Throne's foot came down like a hammer. The air screamed. The roof of the three-story building exploded into splinters. "Not good!" Bricks and tiles shot skyward, propelled by the force. The purple barrier flickered and vanished. Campore dropped like a stone.
Throne's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and deliberate. "Stop!" His hand shot up, halting the advancing puppets. His eyes narrowed, scanning the swirling dust. Campore coughed, gritting his teeth against the filth clinging to him. He hated dirt, hated disorder, but his mind stayed cold and calculating.
This man had tricks, sure, but his strength was middling at best. No match for him. Still, killing him wasn't an option. Master Azur was a valuable asset, a piece in the larger game. Primeval Sorcerers were rare enough without thinning their ranks further. "Let's make a deal!" Throne's voice boomed, echoing off the shattered walls. "Our paths diverge, but together, we're stronger. Why spill blood when we can unite?"
Footsteps crunched through the debris. Throne moved like a predator, his grin wide, his eyes gleaming. "Fool actually believes it. No, wait—I'm a Primeval Sorcerer. I didn't lie."
Throne's blade flashed, slicing through the dust. "The Pureblood Faction doesn't bargain with dregs!" Campore's brow furrowed. "The Pureblood Faction? What's that?" The Lands Between were vast. Had others already risen, organized, divided?
The words hinted at something deeper, something structured. Gravity Repulsion! Campore's hands moved faster than his thoughts. A wall of force slammed into existence. The sword tip slowed, strained, and stopped a meter from his chest.