Chapter 157: Turn·Continued (Part 2)

  Along with the heat wave, a faint odor of decay seemed to permeate the air. With the corpse-like colors churning within the massive fireball, anyone could understand that the magic contained within it was far more than simple fire magic.

  Before the Temple Knight's magic-breaking crystal arrow and the Cardinal's white magic, any bizarre or terrifying magic would normally be easily resolved. But this timing coincided precisely with the moment Wilskey and Adela launched their attacks. Though this fireball wasn't as swift as thunder and lightning like the magic-breaking arrow, it left them no time to cast another spell or nock another crystal arrow.

  This massive, decay-reeking fireball was aimed directly at Cardinal Adela. Others might evade, but he lacked the ability to do so.

  Though Adela and Wilskey couldn't counterattack, Christine remained. He snorted coldly, hefting the Iron Feather great sword to meet the fireball head-on. No matter how large or bizarre the fireball, it was still merely a low-tier spell at best—perhaps with astonishing explosive force and some toxins mixed in. If he could cleave it in two, severing its magical fluctuations, even a high-tier spell like Thunderblast Bomb would disintegrate. Only two harmless flames would remain.

  The Iron Feather great sword became a silver streak of light, chopping toward the fireball. This sword was imbued with surging white magic—like a hot knife through butter against this obviously dark and necromancy-infused magic.

  But before the silver blade touched the fireball, the sphere violently scattered and exploded on its own.

  Not because the sword was too fierce or swift, but because the one who cast the fireball launched another, smaller, faster fireball from behind, striking the first one. The originally condensed blue-green mass suddenly dispersed, transforming into a sky-covering blue-green rain of fire that showered down upon Christine and the Templars behind him.

  It turned out this fireball's explosive power wasn't great. It was truly just a sphere of condensed fire. After exploding, it didn't scatter; instead, it became a sky full of dancing flames, continuing forward.

  If it were ordinary streaming flames, they would be but a hot wind to Temple Knights and Templars. But this magic flame of eerie color was different. Christine, bearing the brunt, found that while the Iron Feather great sword could sever magic, it couldn't block it. Unable to dodge, he threw his hands up at the last second to shield his face. The dense magical flames, like a basin of water hurled in his face, struck him fully.

  The blue-green flames burned against the Radiant Battleplate with only a faint hiss before vanishing in the white light. But his chainmail gauntlets and steel boots melted as rapidly as ice under molten iron. The flames landing on his exposed skin flared instantly, as if dropped onto oil, burning with frenzied delight.

  Christine let out a piercing, utterly miserable scream—a sound no one would believe could come from a noble, majestic, powerful Temple Knight. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh, and it was the odor of rotting meat.

  But a Temple Knight was still a Temple Knight. Almost as he was burned, Christine managed to gather his magic power amidst the agony, like being doused in molten iron, instantly casting Purification and a healing spell on himself. The eerie flames that had blazed on his face moments before subsided, leaving skin split open, charred black as if burned for half an hour.

  Christine grunted, collapsing to sit on the ground. Though the injuries looked horrific, they weren't truly severe. But his white magic proficiency was insufficient. Purification couldn't fully dispel the fireball's strange magical power. His condition was like a wall doused in oil. Though wiped clean on the surface, what had seeped in remained, burrowing deeper. The corrosive magical toxin declared decay, failure, and corruption wherever it spread. Had his internal fighting spirit and white magic not suppressed it, he would likely be a corpse now.

  The blue-green rain of fire, passing over Christine, scattered twenty meters away, enveloping Adela, Wilskey, and all the Templars. The scorching, putrid air instantly transformed the area into a massive oven baking dead rats from a gutter. Everyone felt their lungs appeared perforating under the corrosive gas, their skin festering. But not a single Templar dodged, for at the heart of this oven stood the Cardinal himself.

  But not dodging didn't mean they had a solution. Over half the Templars turned deathly pale. Two or three Templars rushed forward, using their bodies to shield Adela.

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  Ethan, who had cast the fireball, felt his legs weaken, nearly collapsing to the ground. Hilton and his companions stood dumbfounded, stunned by what they'd witnessed.

  This fireball, altered by Necromancy, had drained all the magic from his body. He could barely control his limbs. Necromancy was subtle, but he faced opponents fully enhanced by white magic—a Temple Knight and a Cardinal who likely understood Necromancy more deeply than he did. With his control skills barely above apprentice level, any spell he cast might be dispelled before taking effect. So, he resorted to the simplest, most direct method he knew best.

  And the simplest, most direct method, used at the perfect moment, is often the most practical and effective. The Necromantic power within this fireball was so vast and surging that a flame the size of a fingernail could kill a bull. Though the white magic of Temple Knights and Templars had some suppressive effect, this was, after all, Ethan's fully-powered necromantic flame. Like Christine, those burned might not die, but they would lose far more than just skin.

  Wilskey roared, finally mustering his Divine Aegis. A shield of white light appeared on his arm.

  But this shield, at best, could only extend to a square meter—just enough to cover himself and Adela. The few Templars shielding Adela fell just within the Divine Aegis's protection. Beyond it, the surrounding Templars were exposed to the eerie flame rain, including Talise, whose one hand was crippled by Gru's arrow. Though they could all use white magic, this sky-covering Necromancy flame was clearly beyond the resistance of white magic below the Cardinal's level.

  "Lord's radiance, grant me the power and courage to break evil!" A roar echoed. A figure, instead of dodging, charged headlong into the sea of blue-green death.

  "Templar Javi!" Talise and several Templars exclaimed in shock. The leaping figure was the young Templar.

  With Javi's roar, intense white light erupted around him. The light was so strong it nearly engulfed his form, like the earth-shattering Purification Adela used upon entering the forest. In that moment, he became a sun fallen to the mortal realm.

  The white light spread rapidly from his center, then this sun-like white radiance collided head-on with the approaching blue-green flames of death.

  There was no earth-shattering impact, but everyone could feel the strange fluctuations produced by two vastly different yet seemingly equal magical forces clashing, eroding, and dissolving each other. The blue-green rain of fire and the white light dissipated at the same swift speed in the air. Only a few blue-green embers continued toward the rear, but they could no longer harm the Templars significantly.

  The white light vanished. The young Templar landed, stumbling, barely able to stand. His magical leather armor was riddled with holes, like rags torn from a furnace. His clothes and hair also bore burn marks, but his body was miraculously unharmed. Apart from a weary face and unsteady steps—another sign of excessive magic depletion in one go.

  The Templars let out a chorus of cheers and gasps of admiration. Even Wilskey looked at Templar Javi with utter disbelief.

  Ethan also stared in astonishment at the Templar who had dispelled his fireball. Coincidentally, the Templar glanced back at him. Ethan couldn't help but feel a moment of disorientation. This stranger, whom he should be meeting for the first time, gave him a bizarrely familiar feeling. Those sapphire-blue eyes seemed to stir a strange familiarity deep within him.

  Only Cardinal Adela's face showed the most surprise and admiration, but that surprise cost him a fraction of a second. Christine, barely managing to fly back, collapsed. Adela hastily used white magic to heal and detoxify him. At Wilskey's command, all the Templars surged forward. Everyone could see the caster of the fireball was magic-depleted—now was the perfect moment.

  The leaping Templars were slightly slower, as they had to circumvent the rapidly expanding battlefield. Not just them; even Ethan and Sedros were distancing themselves from it.

  Bang! Gru and Lancelot's fists and sword clashed for the thirteenth time. Gru remained unmoving. Lancelot retreated three steps, then immediately stepped forward again.

  But others could only see two blurred white figures clashing within a chaotic, violent vortex of air. This circle was gradually expanding across the field, their sudden separations and unions growing faster. The air trembled with each collision. Soil around them flew in all directions. Sparks from clashing fighting spirit flickered continuously, colliding and swirling with the rising air currents.

  After Adela and Sedros's magical clash, Wilskey's arrow was deflected by Gru, followed by Ethan's massive, bizarre fireball. Lancelot had originally intended to intercept. But Gru preempted him with a punch.

  Facing this unarmed opponent, possibly the strongest on the continent, Lancelot had no choice but to fight with all his might. Though the fireball's explosion lasted only a few blinks of an eye, their battle was far more perilous and intense than dealing with the fireball.

  Every punch, every kick, every subtle movement from Gru was the most direct, simplest attack. Each blow contained enough force and destructive power to topple the strongest Ogre. Every clash between Lancelot's sword and Gru's fists and feet produced a shockwave and sound like a battering ram striking a city gate.

  Each of Gru's attacks sent Lancelot reeling back at least three steps. With each step back, the Paladin's feet left large, deep pits in the ground. But he would immediately surge forward again. Whether retreating or attacking, every movement was fluid, perfect, seamlessly interconnected.

  In terms of offense, Gru was like a mountain—massive, heavy, ferocious beyond human measure. The strength and power he displayed had long surpassed the limits of ordinary humans. Lancelot, however, was like water—seemingly soft, yielding with each blow, yet not dying, not weakening, endlessly crashing against the majestic mountain before him.

  Initially, Gru seemed only intent on delaying Lancelot, while Lancelot tried to break free. But after their fourth clash of fist and sword, they became oblivious to the rest of the battlefield. These two peerless warriors, locked in equal combat, began to lose themselves completely. What collided was no longer body and fighting spirit, but soul.

  Not a single Templar dared rashly forward to help or interrupt—half out of fear, as the frenzied clashing fighting spirit could tear a man apart; half out of reverence.

  Wilskey was perhaps the most capable here of intervening, but he did not. Perhaps he knew his help might be useless; perhaps it was respect for two warriors giving their all.

  Cardinal Adela focused entirely on helping Christine dispel the toxins and necromantic corrosion within him. Templar Javi and the injured Talise remained, guarding him. The other Templars had already charged toward Ethan and Sedros.

  Wilskey's target hadn't changed. Golden light, carrying a heart-stopping roar, shot toward Sedros, heralding the charge of the nine Templars.

  As Wilskey drew his bow, Ethan gritted his teeth, knife raised to shield Sedros. White fighting spirit flared around him. But he didn't know if he could withstand this golden light that even made Gru retreat three steps. But whether he could or not, he had to.

  But the arrow never arrived. A flash of green light swept past, severing the magic-breaking arrow mid-flight.

  "Cease this instant."

  This time, Elder Lloyd's voice was clearly stronger, more forceful, more authoritative—likely because the thousands of surrounding elves now held drawn bows, arrows nocked.