Anzu severed the blood magic with a twist of his left hand, forcing the crimson streak to evaporate into mist. His hand immediately pulled another potion from the belt slot. This time, he was going for one of the spiked ones Itarus had supplied him with this morning. The vial already felt different due to the special decorations on its surface, and the glass felt hot against his bloodied palm.
He uncorked it and drank.
Fire scorched down his throat, as if he'd swallowed a strong spirit combined with the most potent of eucalyptus extracts. The sensation spread through his chest, his limbs, crawling beneath his skin like living flame. His mana pool surged, rising to 100% in less than a second.
Anzu raised his staff hand and traced the geometry of a glyph for [Major Heal] through air thick with blood and screams.
White mist descended over him like fresh snow, coating his torn skin, his bleeding nose, and the deep lacerations across his hand. The wounds sealed themselves in tiny flashes, flesh knitting together and blood vessels mending. The pain receded to almost nothing.
In the meantime, the fake Hero managed to stagger upright across the stage.
His staff rose and water gathered around him in glittering spheres, each one pulsing with a blueish compressed energy, and his mouth moved in a rapid incantation.
In quick succession, the spheres burst, zipping away from the caster, and crashed into Anzu with loud splashes.
Water coated him instantly with each impact hitting like a hammer with coldness and precision. It was [Water Barrage] this time. Again, a clever choice against a blood mage, as it would dilute the fresh wounds Anzu had just inflicted on his left hand with the [Heart-pricker].
But the damage barely registered. Anzu's [Level 120] resistances deflected most of it, making the water splash harmlessly against invisible barriers. Some of it seeped through, though, wetting both his hands.
Anzu extended his left hand toward the fake, and cast [Corrupt blood]. A single-target spell, which was more than enough for this last fight.
"Umun!"
The spell required a little more work than expected. The water contamination forced him to push harder and channel more mana with his staff into his left hand. But this was the only speed bump. The spell roared through him, forming a thin red line that zipped directly onto the stage.
The fake Hero's body convulsed. There were no lacerations now, but his blood was being poisoned inside his veins, which essentially weaponized his own vitality against him. He managed to trace one desperate glyph with his staff, causing white mist to descend over himself in a final [Timely Heal].
Then he collapsed, holding himself up only with his two hands pressing against the stage's floor.
His scream tore through the square, as he squirmed on the blood-soaked stage with his hands clawing at the chest as if attempting to tear the corruption out.
Anzu walked forward slowly with his left hand still extended, rendering the red current a connecting tether between them. The fake's health dropped to 20%, then bounced to 22% as the heal fought back, then dropped to 18%, climbed to 20%, and again fell to 16%.
Now, it was at 15%.
Anzu pinched the mana flow, reducing the damage to its minimum threshold. The wide crimson beam narrowed to a slim thread that was barely visible in the morning light.
Things were gradually slowing down and Anzu's mind wandered to the battle's aftermath as he kept choking the mana with pure instinct. The guards would need to be summoned, for a proper arrests, trials, and all the accompanying bureaucratic nonsense. But did Larsa even have a Sage in their station anymore? With how rare the class had become, probably not. They'd need Anzu's help to properly restrain a mage.
He climbed the stage steps, sloshing around in the pooled blood with his boots. The fake Hero's health continued to ticked down steadily: 13%, 12%.
He'd been lucky so far. No damage spikes had occurred this time, making him in control of the situation. He squeezed the mana current to the lowest possible amount now: 11% health, which was nearly at the threshold.
The notification exploded in the back of his mind:
DING! [Blood spike] for 54% damage triggered.
He spoke too soon. Much too son.
The fake Hero's body jerked once, violently.
His health bar plummeted: 0%.
The red thread connecting them vanished. The fake Hero lay still with eyes open and empty, as the pooled blood slowly moved beneath him on the wooden planks.
Dead.
Anzu stood frozen with his hand still outstretched, staring at the corpse at his feet.
This blasted build. Glitchy and uncontrollable.
The spikes were entirely unpredictable. They seemed completely random. He'd braced himself for another devastating blowback at the end, as the pattern suggested one was overdue, but instead? There was nothing. Just silence and the vacant stares of the crowd watching him stand over a dead man.
No logic. No consistency. Just chaos wrapped in arcane mathematics that refused to follow any discernible rules.
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A 54% damage spike? That would've killed the fake even if he'd been at 50% health. It was as if the system itself was mocking him for being a ritualist practitioner.
The crowd held its breath, inviting an awful silence, which Anzu wasn't sure he even wanted to break.
Then someone shouted from the back.
"All hail the true Hero of Larsa! The era of the Archsage has returned!"
Others seized the cry, joining in sporadically.
"All hail the Hero of Larsa!"
"Long live the Archsage!"
The chant rippled through the crowd and grew louder with each repetition.
Anzu looked down at the stage. There was blood everywhere. It was pooled in the grain of the wood, splattered across the fake Hero's robes, and even coating his own hands and sleeves. Mercenary corpses sprawled in grotesque positions.
Some hero.
It annoyed him. His jaw clenched.
Crowds. Performing. Two things he'd despised in both lives, whether as Anni, the historian, or Anzu, the legendary sage. Standing here, bloodied and exhausted, playing a role for an audience went against every private instinct he possessed.
But it was necessary.
They needed this. These people had lived under false promises and under the weight of Mardukist oppression creeping south. They needed to believe a better future was possible. That someone with power actually gave a damn about them. An he did give a damn. Except that now his social battery had depleted almost fully.
He would rather be anywhere else. Inside his tower most of all.
Anzu stepped forward and raised his hand.
The chanting faltered, then died. Every eye was fixed on him.
"People of Larsa." His voice carried across the square and it was steady despite the exhaustion dragging at his bones. "Who among you is the best runner?"
There was brief silence during which confused glances were exchanged.
Then a young dark elf near the fountain stepped forward, seeming quite eager.
"I am, my lord."
"We have a dozen Elamite mercenaries here, all unconscious." Anzu gestured at the bodies scattered across the stage and square. "Please fetch the guards so they can deal with the situation accordingly."
The young elf bowed quickly, too quickly in fact, almost stumbling, and then sprinted toward the administrative district.
Anzu turned back to the crowd, forcing himself to stand tall. The performance wasn't finished yet.
He walked to the fake Hero's corpse and knelt beside it, hovering his fingers over the blood-soaked robes. The inventory interface appeared, a translucent turquoise shimmer in the air visible only to him.
There were 5,523 silver coins in his inventory, ripe for looting.
Anzu's mouth tightened. The fake had earned a small fortune, apparently. And judging by the mercenaries' equipment and numbers, a substantial portion of the funds had already disappeared into Elamite coffers.
Transferring the coins to his own inventory with a mental action, he stood and faced the crowd.
"People of Larsa." He paused until every murmur died. "Yes, I have returned."
The cheer erupted immediately and was ecstatic, relieved, and deafening.
Anzu raised his hand to silence the crowd again.
"This stage and everything associated with it will be dismantled. Please, spread it around town that I have never sold any kind of indulgences and never will."
The enthusiasm dimmed slightly. A few nervous glances exchanged. It made sense, as many had bought those worthless clay tablets, believing they offered protection or blessing.
"Please consider the fact that this is a private residence. I generally take visitors only if they announce themselves in advance." Anzu softened his tone fractionally. "Of course, if anyone is in desperate need of healing, I will always be happy to oblige."
The murmuring started again, but was quieter now and less certain. Obvious disappointment crept into faces that had moments ago been jubilant.
Anzu raised hi hand again before the mood soured completely.
"But you are owed some kind of recompense for the damage the fake Hero has done to you."
The murmuring stopped.
"For this reason, any money that he had will be redistributed among you fairly."
The cheer that followed shook the square.
Anzu turned and gestured to Itani, who climbed the stage steps carefully, avoiding the worst of the blood. He kept his voice low.
"Can you count the people in the crowd and distribute the money to them?"
He transferred the silver to her inventory with a quick gesture.
"I'll deal with the guards. They should arrive any moment now. They'd probably heard the commotion anyway."
Itani blinked at the amount, then looked up sharply.
"But Anzu, wait. How are we supposed to know that all of these people are actually owed money?"
Anzu shrugged.
"It doesn't really matter. There's no way of knowing that."
Itani's expression shifted, first to surprise, and then to understanding. She nodded.
"Right. Fair enough."
The clatter of boots and armor echoed from the street, interrupting their discussion. He was right. The guards were already here.
A dozen figures rounded the corner at a jog, spears held ready, the young dark elf messenger leading them. They stumbled to a halt at the edge of the square, staring at the carnage.
The guard commander was a scarred Sumerian with strands of grey threading his beard. He went pale as soon as he saw the blood.
"What in Utu's name…"
Anzu descended the stage steps, minding not to slip on the blood-slicked wood.
"This Sage was impersonating me. When I confronted him, he ordered these Elamite mercenaries to attack."
He gestured at the nearest unconscious body.
"They're alive. You'll want to arrest them properly."
The commander spat on the cobblestones.
"We'll do that alright. We don't like these buggers hanging around our town."
His men moved immediately, kneeling beside the incapacitated mercenaries to disarm them first. One guard prodded a body tentatively with his spear, then relaxed when it didn't move.
Anzu continued.
"The fake didn't survive. You can haul his corpse away."
The commander's gaze shifted to the stage, where the robed figure lay in a pool of blood. He pressed his lips together and then looked back at Anzu.
"Wait a minute, though. Are you saying that you are the true Hero of Larsa?"
The crowd erupted.
"Yes!"
"He has returned!"
"The real Archsage!"
The commander raised a hand to silence them. The shouting subsided reluctantly.
"Hm, well." His eyes tracked over Anzu's legendary gear: the bloodstained [Robe of Mululil], the [Staff of a Hundred Deaths], and the [Heart-pricker]. "You sure look like him. And all the blood here… it does fit."
He crossed his arms.
"But can you prove it somehow?"
Anzu lifted his left hand, extending the finger bearing his wooden ring, which gleamed dully in the morning light.
"Certainly. There is this. The [Clay Spewer]. A unique casting ring, fashioned from red Sumerian oak." He met the commander's gaze steadily. "This, and only this, is the key to the tower, which, as you well know, is magically sealed."
As the commander glanced at the enthusiastic crowd, worry creased his weathered face.
"Alright. Let's see this ring in action."
Anzu turned toward the tower entrance.
He walked slowly and deliberately, being fully aware of every eye tracking his movement.
Approaching the entrance, he stopped at the twin lion statues that flanked the tower door, stone guardians weathered by centuries. He reached out to pat one massive head and its stone felt warm beneath his palm, almost familiar. He was nearly home.
He climbed the three shallow steps to the door, which was in itself a masterpiece. Solid oak, carved with protective cuneiform glyphs that pulsed faintly with residual magic. His right hand pressed against the wood. It was cool and smooth.
Anzu raised his left hand and positioned the ring against a small indentation set into the door's centre, surrounded by gleaming bronze. The metalwork formed interlocking geometric patterns that consisted of ancient Sumerian symbols of protection and binding.
He pressed the ring into the slot.
Yellow-white mist erupted from the contact point, swirling around him. The magic wrapped around his body like welcoming arms that were familiar and warm. The glyphs carved into the door flared brilliant gold, spreading outward in cascading waves.
A deep thunk echoed from within.