Chapter 98: Uprooting the Root

  Bishop Ronis's body was laid to rest in the great cathedral by the priests. From the moment he was discovered until now, the white magic bestowed upon him by the grief-stricken priests would have been enough to heal a thousand dying men. But the horrific gash on his neck, and the wound on his back that nearly reached his heart, had already been turned a ghastly blue by potent poison and a strong curse. These all forcefully declared that this revered old man was truly, completely dead; even ten thousand times the magical power would be futile.

  “It was him?” Captain Roland’s slender brows furrowed. The empire’s greatest swordsman possessed none of the rigid sharpness typical of a warrior, but the light flashing in his star-like eyes now surpassed any legendary sword. Looking at Bishop Ronis’s body, at the terrible wounds and bloodstains upon it, his voice and body trembled slightly.

  “We all saw it outside,” an old priest said, his eyes streaming with tears, his voice choked. The few old priests remaining in the great cathedral were all weeping profusely, filled with extreme grief and indignation. Outside the great cathedral, the air was filled with cries. Bishop Ronis had been stationed at the Magic Academy for over forty years; it could be said that the Academy’s current status within the empire was built by him single-handedly. Everyone at the Magic Academy held this old man in the highest reverence; in the hearts of many, he was practically the embodiment of God. Yet now, he had been despicably assassinated.

  Captain Roland asked no more. There had been at least a hundred clergy members in the great cathedral outside at the time. They would all swear by God’s name that it was that cleric, covered in blood, who had rushed out from here, knocking several people over as he fled the Magic Academy. With so many devout witnesses, this matter required no further verification.

  “We also found this in the study,” a priest said, producing the wanted poster meticulously prepared by Cuthbert. It was now stained with blood, but the portrait and text were still clear enough, sufficient to explain everything.

  The Duke, who had been silent nearby, was also weeping profusely, his sorrow no less than that of the priests. He suddenly spoke up, “Has anything strange happened around the Bishop recently?”

  An old priest immediately realized something and said, “That’s right. Two days ago, Bishop Ronis went there, but that spy wasn’t present at the time. The Bishop only spoke with old Sandro, who was guarding the corpses, for a while inside. I think I even heard the Bishop getting angry. Then, when the Bishop came out, I saw his complexion was very poor, and he had been withdrawn these past two days… and then this happened.”

  The Duke’s voice was already choked with sobs, but it held more indignation than sorrow. “We must capture those bastards from the Necromancer Guild as soon as possible,” he forced out with great effort. “And avenge the Bishop!”

  The Duke’s grief and anger immediately infected those around him. The long-dried hearts of the old priests were finally stirred into towering waves of hatred. “Yes! All mages of the Magic Academy must avenge the Bishop!”

  “So, let us all recall carefully now. Recall meticulously,” the Duke, amidst his extreme sorrow, still retained his meticulous thinking, analyzing the situation for everyone with a slow, clear tone. “Think about that spy’s usual actions and behavior. Where were there any suspicious traces?”

  A priest rushed into the great cathedral. He had gone to the imperial palace to deliver the tragic news to His Majesty the Emperor.

  “His Majesty was devastated to hear of the Bishop’s assassination and has fainted several times. His Majesty has ordered the Paladin Order to investigate the murderers rigorously. Any heretics found to be connected with the Necromancer Guild are to be executed without exception. The imperial edict will arrive shortly.”

  Grafenhardt XVII had been raised under Bishop Ronis’s watch; to him, this revered old man was almost his grandfather.

  Captain Roland’s face turned cold as ice. He nodded slowly.

  In the large house, Sandro was tinkering with corpses as usual, but for some reason, he felt unsettled today. Just then, footsteps sounded outside the door.

  The ajar door was knocked twice, and several soldiers walked in, led by a small commander of the Capital Guard whom Sandro recognized.

  “Old Sandro, something has happened at the Magic Academy,” the small commander said with a strange expression, his tone holding an indescribable quality. “We have some questions for you. Please come with us.”

  “Something happened? What happened? What does it have to do with me?” Sandro rolled his eyes at the small commander. “What do you want to ask me? I haven’t been feeling well these past two days. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  “Nothing much. Just inviting you for some tea and a chat,” the small commander replied. His expression and voice were strained, as if he mustered all his strength to create a very relaxed atmosphere.

  In contrast, the expressions of the three soldiers seemed much more natural. While the small commander spoke to Sandro, they slowly walked towards Sandro.

  “Tea? Speaking of which, you still owe me money. Last time you went whoring…” Sandro seemed completely unaware anything was amiss, chatting casually with the small commander.

  The three soldiers intentionally or unintentionally walked up to Sandro’s side. Two of them suddenly struck, one grabbing each of the old man’s arms. The third now held a pair of shackles gleaming with a dark red light. These were magic-suppressing shackles, specifically designed to restrain mages.

  The three soldiers’ movements were concise, swift, without any flourish, like three leopards that had long lain in wait in the grass. The timing of their strike, their movements, their positions, and their clear division of labor were perfectly coordinated. Such actions could only be honed through long practice and countless real-world applications.

  Facing such a sudden and perfectly coordinated attack, even a decent swordsman would have no choice but to be captured. But this listless-looking old man merely took a step back, his hands moving with relaxed ease, and the four wrists meant to grab him were caught in his grasp. He then pulled inwards, and the two soldiers, much larger in build than him, immediately crashed into each other. The two who had been so strong and vigorous moments ago instantly slumped to the ground, their bodies already beginning to take on a deathly grey hue.

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  The third soldier, lunging forward, no longer held shackles. In that instant, he had reacted, drawing his sword, stepping forward, and thrusting—all in one fluid motion. Such a quick reaction and agile movement; even the highest commander of the Capital Guard wouldn’t possess such skill.

  But unfortunately, this beautiful thrust hit nothing. His wrist had somehow inexplicably fallen into those pale, withered hands.

  “When did your men gain members of the Paladin Order? Got a promotion?” Sandro’s half-closed eyes glanced at the small commander, his tone still as if he were chatting in a teahouse. Only one of his hands was now lifting this much sturdier soldier into the air. The contrast in their physiques made him look like a monkey effortlessly lifting a bear.

  The small commander didn’t answer. He had already slumped to the ground. He seemed to lack even the strength to stand, his limbs trembling as he scrambled backward, his eyes staring blankly at Sandro. Because Sandro wasn’t just lifting this Paladin Order swordsman; he was kneading him.

  It was unknown when the swordsman had died. His tall, sturdy frame now seemed stuffed with cotton. Not only was he held effortlessly aloft by the old man, but under the kneading of those withered hands, his body was deforming. His armor and other belongings fell off in pieces. His body was constantly folded and kneaded, and soon, in Sandro’s hands, it became a round, fleshy ball.

  “Are you also here to invite me for tea?” Sandro asked coldly, looking towards the doorway. He waved his hand, and the massive ball of flesh the swordsman had become flew towards the person who had just entered. This enormous projectile now produced a sound like wind and thunder as it flew through the air, proving its weight was indeed astonishing.

  As the meatball flew forward, it also sprayed out some black juice. One drop happened to land on the small commander on the ground. The small commander’s animal-like shriek only managed half a sound before it died.

  The person who had just appeared at the doorway took a step back. A flash like a streak of light appeared before him, and then the meatball was neatly split into two halves from the middle.

  “Good.” Although Sandro’s praise still seemed listless, a light finally flickered in his perpetually lifeless eyes.

  The reason he praised it wasn’t because the meatball was split in two. After the two neat halves separated, they neither fell nor continued flying forward. Instead, they rolled in opposite directions, lightly colliding with the left and right walls. The juice, containing potent magical poison, only corroded two large holes in the walls, with not a single drop touching the man.

  This sword didn’t just split the flying meatball itself; it also split the rolling air, the splattering juice, the magical power contained within, and even the momentum, inertia, and smell of its flight. Everything about that meatball was bisected by this single sword stroke, vanishing into nothingness.

  “Good.” After splitting the meatball, the man retreated three steps and responded to Sandro’s praise with a deep, resonant shout. The light in his eyes even surpassed that of the sword in his hand. If there had been the slightest deviation in that sword stroke, if it hadn’t completely severed the magical power churning within, this sphere of toxic magic, heavy enough to kill everyone in the capital, would have exploded before him.

  The man at the doorway was a middle-aged man in his forties or fifties. He had a refined and scholarly face; even with such a serious and grave expression, his features conveyed no majesty or killing intent. If not for the armor gleaming with magical light on his body and the long sword in his hand that radiated a chilling aura, he would have looked just like a well-read scholar.

  “You say ‘good’? So you’re even more insistent on inviting me for tea?” Sandro replied, his voice buzzing, as he straightened his perpetually stooped frame for the first time.

  “No. I am here to capture you, or rather, to kill you.” The newcomer’s words were direct, as sharp as his sword stroke just now.

  “I see.” A dense crackling sound, like countless joints popping, emanated from all over Sandro’s body. With these sounds, his frame seemed to grow by a full circle. “Unfortunately, I have never liked being captured, and I like being killed even less.”

  “And I have never liked pointless talk.” The newcomer’s wrist flicked, and the hum of the long sword filled every inch of space in the large house. “Let us get to the main point.”

  Outside the large house. Three hundred meters away, an old priest frowned and asked the Duke Mrak beside him, “Your Grace, isn’t this a bit excessive?”

  “No. Dealing with those evil Necromancers requires caution and going all out.” A rare sight: the Duke’s face lacked its usual warm, friendly smile, replaced by a grave expression. His narrow eyes stared unblinkingly at the large house in the distance.

  “But even with caution, this seems overkill,” the old priest said, looking at the formation before them, which did indeed seem a bit exaggerated.

  A hundred meters outside the large house, hundreds of Paladin Order members had formed an encirclement. Behind them stood nearly all the priests and mages of the Magic Academy.

  After collective discussion and analysis, old Sandro, who lived in the spy’s quarters, had come into focus. Although this old man had been at the Magic Academy for a full twenty years and the Bishop seemed familiar with him, the precedent set by that spy was enough to show how deeply the Necromancer Guild could infiltrate. Moreover, the spy had not studied at the Magic Academy; he had been with the old man beforehand. Added to the old man’s strange quirks, these were sufficient reasons.

  When scouts were sent to investigate, they found the old man was still there. So it was decided to first capture him for interrogation. Naturally, if he resisted, he was to be executed without exception.

  This task, of course, fell to Captain Roland, acting under imperial decree. No one questioned the strength of the empire’s greatest swordsman. However, the Duke, displaying the characteristic caution of someone in a high position, suggested Captain Roland bring more men and also call upon the Magic Academy’s priests to attend. If the old man truly was a Necromancer, everyone could avenge Bishop Ronis.

  “Captain Roland has been inside for so long. I suspect he has already captured the man and is now searching and interrogating him,” the old priest said, looking at the encirclement, whose combat power could definitely take a city. He felt it was quite inappropriate. The Magic Academy’s mages had turned out in full force to watch like spectators, which was unseemly. Everyone was some distance from the large house. Although they couldn’t see what was happening inside, they could certainly guess.

  Suddenly, a furious roar, accompanied by a strange sound like tearing cloth, echoed.

  The large house split neatly down the middle, then broke apart at waist level. The two halves of the walls and roof slowly toppled sideways, crashing to the ground with a rumble, kicking up clouds of dust. The break was as smooth and neat as if cut by a knife. Seen from this distance, it looked like a delicate toy that had been struck a mighty blow.

  The Paladin Order members made no sound, no movement. But the collective gasps and shouts of astonishment from the Magic Academy’s mages and priests were no less deafening than the crash of the walls and roof. Such power could only have been unleashed by Captain Roland. And the fact that combat had begun undoubtedly meant the one inside was truly a Necromancer.

  A figure shot out from the dust and smoke, landing at the front of the encirclement. It was Captain Roland.

  But contrary to the astonishing spectacle just moments before, Captain Roland stumbled upon landing, barely able to stand steady. His originally thin and handsome face was now contorted with fury and shock. And it wasn’t just his face; all the exposed skin on his body, even his fingertips, took on the nauseating, deathly grey color of a damp corner in a latrine. He had been poisoned and cursed, with an extremely potent corpse poison. Anyone else would have long since become a rotting corpse.

  Two lights of white magic flashed on him. Two high-ranking priests from the Paladin Order immediately cast healing spells. The hundreds of priests from the Magic Academy, who had snapped out of their daze, also acted one after another. An astonishing number of various healing spells swarmed him, instantly washing away the poison and curse from Captain Roland’s body. Then, an equal number of auxiliary spells from various schools and levels rained down upon him.

  The light of the auxiliary magic on his body was almost dazzlingly bright. But Captain Roland’s expression remained grim. He glared furiously at the swirling dust ahead and bellowed, “All units, prepare for battle!”

  Hundreds of Paladin Order members drew their swords simultaneously, creating a single, ear-splitting sound that pierced the heavens. Then, filling the space between heaven and earth was the grand chorus of a thousand voices chanting incantations at once. Auxiliary magic lights flashed one after another on every Paladin Order member, like a grand magic exhibition.

  The dust within the encirclement had gradually settled. Revealed within was a group of bizarre, restless corpses. Some had no head, no hands; some had no feet; some lacked a left half or a right half; some were missing an upper or lower section. They had all been struck by Captain Roland’s two full-power sword strikes just now, which had even damaged the building. Yet now, they all looked vigorous and moved with agility. In the midst of this group of corpses stood a man in a black robe, his hair and beard white.

  “Avenge the Bishop!” someone shouted. The grand, chaotic chorus of incantations began again. But this time, it wasn’t an exhibition of auxiliary magic; it was every kind of attack spell. Holy Word, Holy Light, Turn Undead, Fireball, Flame Wall, Chain Fireball, Violent Flame, Lightning, Ice Blast, Thunderblast Bomb… Except for the highest-tier great incantations and various composite Forbidden Spells, nearly every spell that could appear in the Magic Academy’s textbooks unleashed its own light and power. Like a tidal wave or a mountain avalanche, they rushed, surged, and overwhelmed towards the group of corpses and the black-robed figure in their midst.

  Watching this unprecedented and likely never-to-be-repeated grand display of magical fireworks, the Duke finally revealed a charming smile that no one else had the leisure to appreciate. Because anyone could be certain that even if a god descended to the mortal realm, under such a ferocious torrent of magic, they would only die without a chance to struggle.