Chapter 63: The Ingenuity of Wisdom · Tools of Killing

  The cry of a wyvern echoed overhead. Ethan looked up—two shadows, no bigger than bats, circled slowly above him.

  A bad feeling settled in Ethan’s gut. Traveling alone, separated from the army, he was the perfect target for an attack. When he’d first left the general’s force, he’d hidden his tracks in the woods, but he hadn’t seen a single wyvern in days. He never expected to run into two now, just as he was nearly back to Bracada.

  With a shriek, one wyvern dive-bombed him. In an instant, the dragon’s silhouette grew larger in the sunlight. Even dozens of meters away, Ethan could feel the stench of its breath rushing toward him. The horse beneath him reared up, panicking.

  He wasn’t actually a scout for the imperial army—but there was no time to explain. Ethan tracked the wyvern’s descent, waiting for the right moment, then hurled a fireball with a flick of his hand.

  His timing was flawless—calculated to match the wyvern’s wingbeats and dive trajectory. It was a knack no mage could match; only a warrior, honed in close combat, could read such moments. And only a basic spell like Fireball could be cast instantly, with no incantations or magical resonance required. That was why Ethan favored these simple spells: direct, uncomplicated, ready to be unleashed at a split second’s notice. Yet his Fireball packed far more power than any novice mage’s—strong enough to count as a high-tier attack spell, one even a beast this size couldn’t withstand.

  The fireball was inches from slamming into the wyvern’s chest when, suddenly, it veered off course—as if flicked by an invisible hand—swooping past the creature’s side. Startled, the wyvern screeched, flapping its wings to climb back into the sky.

  Ethan barely had time to register his surprise before an even more shocking sight unfolded. A small black dot separated from the other bat-like shadow high above, then began to plummet. Of course, that shadow wasn’t a bat—it was the other wyvern. And the dot was a person. Someone had jumped, gracefully, from a height of a thousand meters.

  The figure made no attempt to slow their fall with a spell like Levitate. As they hurtled downward, accelerating, they blurred into a dark streak, unrecognizable. Ethan stared, dumbfounded. From that height, even if they were made of steel, they’d shatter into scrap on the highland rocks. If they were flesh and blood… they’d splatter like a watermelon or tomato.

  Before Ethan’s shock faded, the streak crashed into the ground not far ahead.

  The impact boomed like thunder. The entire Barbarian Highlands seemed to shake; rocks flew, and the stony earth crumbled into a crater, as brittle as hard bread. Ethan stared at the cloud of dust, stumbling back several steps before regaining his balance. It was like a bolt of lightning had fallen from the heavens, carrying the wrath of a god.

  “Stay where you are if you want to live,” a voice said—quiet, yet cold and commanding, as imposing as the impact of that fall. In the center of the dusty crater, a figure slowly rose from a crouched position.

  “You?” As the smoke cleared, the man stepped onto solid ground, and Ethan recognized him. Tall and slightly lean, his body was like a sculpture forged from condensed essence—elegant, yet sharp-edged and resolute.

  Ethan nodded slowly. “I should have known. Only you could survive a fall like that.” Even if he’d forgotten the face, he’d never forget that invincible aura. This was Gru, the general who commanded all of Oufu’s orc forces.

  On the wyvern’s back, wind roared in Ethan’s ears. The trees below shrank to the size of grass; his horse, left behind, was a tiny speck. The vast Barbarian Highlands stretched out beneath him, almost fully visible. Ethan sat in a specially made harness, reaching out to touch the wyvern’s back—its scales, like those of a giant lizard, covered muscles so powerful he could feel them moving beneath the surface. Even though he knew he could never afford one, he couldn’t help asking: “Riding one of these must be incredible. Would you sell me one?”

  “Three years, the lives of over a dozen lizardmen, and untold resources—we’ve only tamed four so far,” General Gru replied, his voice concise and firm. “What do you think one is worth?”

  “Lord Sedros would never sell a treasure like this,” said the old man sitting in front of Ethan. Ethan could tell the elder was a master of air magic; with him seated there, even at this speed, the wind didn’t sting their eyes, and their voices carried clearly. “They’re unparalleled for transport, scouting, and ambushes. Even the best air mage’s flight magic can’t compare to these winged giants. And in combat? Ten griffons wouldn’t stand a chance. It’s brilliant of him to think of raising them.”

  A middle-aged man beside them glanced at Ethan. “Young man, your magic is impressive. That Fireball packed quite a punch,” he said, nodding toward the old man. “If my teacher hadn’t intervened in time, Lord Sedros’ precious wyvern would have been in trouble.”

  “Oh?” Ethan blinked, surprised. “And who might you all be?”

  “We’re mages from the Tower of Fangs,” the middle-aged man replied, gesturing to several others on the second wyvern. “Are you from the Ainfast Empire? Your robes look like they’re from the Magic Academy.”

  “I’m a cleric with the imperial army—for now,” Ethan said, studying the mages. The Tower of Fangs was a mage guild in the religious nation southwest of the empire. Unlike the Magic Academy—a state institution—it was an independent civilian organization, but its ranks were filled with high-tier elemental mages, famous among adventurers.

  “Your magic has a unique flair,” the middle-aged man said. “Would you be interested in joining us to study together?”

  “Don’t poach,” the old man chided. “A promising young talent like this must be a disciple of Bishop Ronis. Though… haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Your face looks familiar.”

  “Ah—you must be mistaken,” Ethan said, evasive. “I have a very ordinary face. I probably look like dozens of other people.” He knew the elf kingdom’s wanted posters were to blame.

  A journey that would have taken days on horseback took only half a day at the wyvern’s speed. From the air, Ethan spotted the general’s army—like a swarm of ants crawling across the land. By dusk, the two wyverns had carried them all to Oufu.

  Sedros greeted the mages warmly, laughing as he exchanged pleasantries. When he saw Ethan, he did a double-take.

  “I saw a lone soldier and thought to capture him for questioning about that army,” General Gru explained. “I didn’t expect it to be him.”

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  After listening to Ethan’s account, Sedros shook his head regretfully. “To think this all came from one man’s rage. What a waste—five thousand innocent young soldiers.”

  “Innocent is a stretch,” Ethan said, his voice cold with disgust for the soldiers’ frenzy. “They chose to come.”

  Sedros sighed softly. “Don’t be so harsh. Young people struggle to see the truth of things. They’re easily swayed, easily carried away by passion. To throw their lives away for such pointless reasons… it’s tragic.”

  The elderly mage, clearly the leader of the group, spoke up. “Is this why you summoned us? You can’t possibly think a few air mages can stop five thousand soldiers.”

  “Not stop,” Sedros corrected, a tired smile on his face. “Kill them. People driven mad by anger and hatred—even if we spare them and send them back, they’ll only spread more hatred. That kind of rage benefits no one. For the sake of long-term peace… they must all die.” He turned to Ethan. “This is our decision. But I still want to ask—what do you think we should do?”

  Ethan frowned, a wave of overwhelming weariness washing over him. He shook his head and sighed. “Do what you must,” he said quietly.

  “What exactly is your plan?” one of the air mages asked.

  Sedros pulled an object from his pocket—a circular piece of glass, thick in the center and tapering toward the edges. “A dwarf craftsman gave this to me once. It’s quite remarkable—I’ve discovered some fascinating things about it.” He glanced up at the sky. “The next two days will be calm, windless, and sunny.”

  Ethan and the mages exchanged confused looks, unsure what he was getting at.

  The next day dawned bright and clear.

  The general stared up at the blazing sun. A perfect day for battle—the highland air was crisp, and the sun’s warmth on his skin would fuel the soldiers’ ferocity. The orc city of Oufu was close now.

  Since that night, the orcs had gone completely quiet. Wyverns appeared only occasionally in the sky. The soldiers, interpreting this as cowardice, grew even more eager to fight. The general knew calm often hid a storm—but “knowing” was all he did. His heart, already dead to all else, couldn’t spare the focus. He only wanted to charge, to fight, to hear orcs scream, to feel fur and bone snap beneath his axe, and to die gloriously. That was all he cared about. When he’d chosen this path, he’d known there was no turning back. Victory, defeat, the fate of five thousand soldiers—none of it crossed his mind.

  “Small orc force ahead!” a scout shouted, racing back to report.

  The general’s voice boomed, deep and resonant. “Warriors! Today, we defend our honor and avenge our people! Show them your courage—show them your swords! Kill them all!”

  The soldiers roared like beasts, charging forward like a pack of starving wolves.

  The small orc force turned to flee—but slowly. The soldiers howled in pursuit, chasing them onto a flat plain. Up ahead stood a tall outcrop of rock, a hallmark of the Barbarian Highlands—sheer, isolated, rising straight from the ground.

  Suddenly, the sky darkened. The blinding sun vanished from view. The general looked up, and his blood ran cold. A massive shadow covered the sky above them—not a cloud, not anything tangible. Just pure darkness. He’d never seen anything like it. One edge of the shadow clung to the rock outcrop, making it look like the hill was wearing a bizarre, enormous hat.

  Over the soldiers’ battle cries, a new sound cut through the air—a scream, shrill beyond human limits. It split the fervent shouts in two.

  There was no emotion in that scream—no fear, no anger, just a raw, instinctive wail, as if the caller was tearing their own body apart. To any human ear, it triggered primal terror. Even the general felt it. He spun around—and saw a scene beyond comprehension.

  A brilliant, circular beam of light moved through the rear ranks of the soldiers. Everything flammable within that light burst into flame instantly: hair, leather armor, boots, belts, clothes—even skin. Yet the fire was weak, almost invisible. The beam was so bright that even dark objects within it glinted with dazzling light, drowning out the fire’s glow.

  The air reeked of burning flesh. Everyone stared, horrified, at the blinding light, trying to make sense of it—but it was just light. Pure, unadulterated light. From the massive shadow above, a funnel-shaped beam narrowed, then its tip struck the soldiers.

  Sunlight. That was all the soldiers beneath the funnel felt.

  Light that normally nurtured life, that brought warmth, now blazed with unbearable intensity. Even with their eyes closed and hands covering their faces, it seared through. In an instant, every soldier went blind—as if they’d absorbed a lifetime’s worth of sunlight in one moment.

  The brilliance pierced their bodies. Every nerve on their skin erupted in agony, convulsing. The pain was so sharp, so overwhelming, it felt like it was tearing their souls apart. They screamed, using the last of their strength, then smelled their own flesh burning, heard their muscles crackle like popping beans under extreme heat.

  For the first time, the sun—long a symbol of comfort and reverence—filled everyone present with terror. They realized, too late, how vast it was, how incomprehensible its power. Everything crumbled beneath that divine fury: bodies, horses, weapons. After the light faded, they were reduced to indistinguishable heaps of blackened ash. Only a few swords remained, glowing red-hot from the heat they’d absorbed.

  The soldiers’ courage, so fierce moments ago, vanished in the face of this mysterious, godlike power. All that was left was fear. They scattered, fleeing—but the beam of light chased them, incinerating them where they ran.

  The general roared, consumed by rage. He couldn’t retreat, couldn’t fear—so he turned all his emotions into manic fervor. Waving his axe, he charged toward the rock outcrop. He could see figures there—they were behind this. He’d grind them into pulp, fueled by all his anger.

  But then the light engulfed him. His vision went black. He heard two faint pops from his eye sockets.

  Even the agony, which should have exceeded human limits, couldn’t douse his rage. He kept screaming, charging forward—but he could hear his own muscles drying up, crackling as they burned.

  I will die like a war… he thought, desperately desperate. But even that last, stubborn thought shattered beneath the light. With a wet splat, his head burst. Boiling brain matter, eyes, and blood sprayed outward—then charred, along with the rest of his body, into a blackened corpse.

  The last moving figure fell, blackening under the light. A gust of wind roared overhead. The shadow vanished. The beam faded. The Barbarian Highlands fell silent again. The sun shone down, as impartial as ever, on every corner of the land—including the field of ash.

  Ethan stood on the hilltop, staring down at the twisted, blackened shapes below. They looked like burnt branches—until you saw the charred skulls, their teeth bared white, confirming what they’d once been. Minutes earlier, these had been five thousand young men, shouting with resolve.

  The screams of those minutes would haunt anyone who heard them— the most shrill, agonizing cries a living being could make.

  The air stank of burnt flesh. Ethan thought of all the things he’d endured: eating bugs in the wild, drinking raw blood, even swallowing live animals. But he knew he’d never be able to eat roasted meat again—not for a long time.

  Sedros, standing in the center of a magic circle, lowered his raised hands, sighing wearily. Ethan wondered if controlling the spell had drained him.

  “Incredible,” a younger mage said, staring at the circle beneath his feet. “Combining so many air mages’ power to manipulate wind… and using it to refract light as a weapon. It’s brilliant. A masterpiece.”

  Sedros snorted, shaking his head in disdain at the scene below. His voice was exhausted. “It’s just a tool for killing. Nothing to admire.”

  “On the contrary—very admirable.” A burst of applause rang out, dry and hollow, from the hands of several necromancers.

  One necromancer studied the magic circle in a crystal ball, marveling. “Brilliant. It deserves the ‘Most Innovative Spell of the Year’ award. Though—should we classify it as light magic or air magic?”

  “He killed five thousand men with sunlight,” another necromancer said, winking. “This old man’s more ruthless than we are. We at least have to hurl spells at people. He just controls air pressure.”

  “The circle’s drawn perfectly, and the control is even better,” a third added. “Manipulating wind pressure is a trivial trick on its own, but no one else could do it with this precision. Does that mean no army can stand against his city now?”

  “He’s only exploiting the fact that their army has no mages,” someone replied. “Anyone who sees through the trick could disrupt it with air magic. But those rigid mages from the academies and churches would never figure it out.”

  “Attention, everyone!” a younger, more energetic necromancer clapped his hands, drawing the group’s focus. “As you all saw—not a single orc died. That’s two points for the virtuous Lady Vedenina and our new friend. And let’s celebrate—we’ll soon have two new members! This is a once-in-a-century event for Diya Valley!”