Chapter 215: Chapter 204 – Forged in Purple III

Chapter 204 - Forged in Purple III

When Claire came to, she found herself seated at a desk with a quill in hand and an incredibly boring book propped open in front of her. Between the halfbreed and her required reading sat a thick pile of parchment, its topmost page covered in symbols she was incapable of understanding. Her brain knew how to solve exactly none of the equations, but her hands moved with all the confidence of a seer leading the blind. Without any input on her part, they leapt from question to question, filling in their respective solutions at lightning speed.

When she tried to move the limbs, to stop them from acting on their own, they greeted her with a minor fit of resistance. Though the means of communication was unclear, she somehow understood that they were telling her that they had to finish their homework, else they would be in even more trouble than they already were.

When Claire tilted her head, her body continued with yet another explanation, detailing that she had been grounded following the incident where she had visited the castle by her lonesome. It finished a twelfth problem in the meantime and nearly wrapped up a thirteenth, but a sudden shock dragged her fingers down the page, leaving a line of ink that ran all the way across. And she was not the only one affected. For a moment, the fake’s will faded, just long enough for her to seize control. When the other consciousness returned, after a brief moment of respite, it refrained from attempting to wrestle with her. Somehow or another, she could feel that it was amused, and even excited to participate in the nonsense she had in mind.

To Claire, it made little to no sense. The fake should have shunned her, rejected her actions for causing it needless trouble, at least if it was the sort of existence she understood it to be. When the unfiltered thoughts were conveyed, however, the fake responded with a melange of emotions, primarily a mix of sadness and excitement.

Claire found herself struggling to understand it, but she cast her concerns aside, stood up from her seat, and stepped out into the castle’s halls. Beatrice, who was standing by the door, tried to stop her from reaching the window, but she slipped past the maid and leapt out into the garden.

When she lifted her head and looked up at the ripped, scattered clouds, she immediately spotted a witch flying towards the courtyard atop her staff. Thinking that Allegra was going to try and capture her, she took a breath and lowered her stance, but the cottontail did not slow or stop as she drew near, only continuing onwards with her face blue.

Driven by her confusion, Claire chased the rabbit with her eyes and found herself looking upon a familiar sight. Her father was standing on the landing platform, dressed from head to hoof in an outfit that screamed of combat as its sole purpose. She had caught sight of the platinum armour many times among his other belongings, but never before had she seen it so filthy. The protective metal lacked the light with which it so often glimmered. Its brilliant sheen was dulled with dried flakes of blood, stains that began and ended with his enemies.

“Virillius!? Why are you here!? Where are all the men, and what happened to the campaign!?” A very confused Allegra shot him a number of rapidfire questions. Having rushed back to the manor from somewhere in the middle of town, she was slightly out of breath, panting as she struggled to sort through her confusion. But that was not the only cause of her exhaustion.

Though his expression was as neutral as Claire’s, Virillius’ aura was one of pure, unadulterated rage. For a man known for his stone face, it was a rare display, so out of place that it caught the eye of nearly every individual on campus. His raw magic surged through the surroundings, distorting the air around him to the point where the halfbreed perceived him as a hazy cloud, whilst also seeing him loud and clear.

It took not a masterful combatant to understand that he was not to be approached, but his daughter continued drawing closer, as would the dunce he had always mistakenly perceived.

“The war is over.” In spite of his anger, he spoke quietly, calmly. “We defeated Ragnar in an assault soon after dusk.” He continued unaffected, even after spotting Claire in the midst of her approach. “It will only be a matter of time before the results are announced.”

The rabbit took a moment to look at the man, her lips pursed into a frown and her brow furrowed. “Did you kill him?”

“No.”

Another moment with silent stares exchanged.

“Allegra.” The second time around, the cervitaur was the first to break the silence. “I will ask you this once, and only once.”

His mana grew denser; some of the curious onlookers, namely the servants and squires, began grasping at their throats and gasping for air. Claire did not join them. She felt the restriction, but it was akin to breathing underwater, inhaling whilst out of air.

“Where is Constantius?”

He spoke a name that the longer moose failed to recognise. Her bunny-eared tutor, however, registered it immediately. Recognition flashed through her eyes, but she bit her lips and remained silent, taking a few moments to consider her words before answering with a shake of the head.

“He's dead, Virillius. He's been dead for a thousand years.”

“If that is your answer, then I suppose I have no other choice but to proceed.” He clenched his fists and turned towards the palace, his steps growing heavier as he approached the landing platform’s far edge. “I will have you know, I would have much rather avoided this outcome.” He spread his wings wide and prepared to descend, spinning around only as a magical projectile whizzed by his head.

Its source was the cottontail. Her staff was raised in front of her, pointed straight towards the aspect. The spell that erupted from its tip was not the sort one would associate with a master so accomplished, an elementary spear of wood, no different from the sort of spell cast by the average apprentice. An explicit statement of intent signalling her loyalties.

“Please, Virillius, don't do this. You're chasing a ghost.”

“A ghost?” He laughed. “Perhaps that may be how you see it, but I know full well that the creature I am tracking is no mere ghost.” Hatred flashed through his eyes. “It would be more accurate to describe him as a rodent, a conniving rat that must be ended, before he may spread a plague.”

There was another pause. A moment where the negotiations soured into hostilities, a moment where no attacks were launched, but dozens were prepared and considered. And yet, not a single one of the elite soldiers stepped in. Though certainly a factor, their inaction stemmed not from their confusion, but rather their respect for the parties involved. It was not their place to get involved, to step in and prevent the two old friends from arguing, only to observe the duel and sing its legends to the generations to come.

And legendary it was.

Allegra was first to strike. She waved her staff about and cast a spell the likes of which could instantly kill a leviathan. It was a searing ray, burning as bright as the sun. Claire thought that her skin would melt from the heat, but none were harmed in its making. The magus professed her control by focusing its effects on her foe.

The attack aligned with neither light or fire, but rather the advanced white magic, a higher form crafted and engineered by the sun goddess herself, available only as a rare evolution that unified three schools of magecraft as one. Empowered by the great nudist, it was one of the potent derivatives that only a mage over one thousand could possess. And it served dual purpose, its effects powerful for both offense and healing.

Knowing its power was what forced the cervitaur into evading. Flapping one of his wings, he pushed himself out of the way and kicked off the ground towards her. One of the canteens on his waist popped open as he charged, the blood within flowing past his shieldlance and into his free hand.

A lesser mage would no doubt have retreated when faced with the warlord’s aggression, or perhaps stood his ground if he was bold enough to assume his barriers would prevail. But Allegra was no lesser mage. Her most notable breakthroughs came not from her studies, but upon the battlefields where she needed them most.

So she advanced.

Assisted by the roots underfoot, she accelerated to a speed unthinkable for a pure caster and evaded his swing by diving past his blade. Sliding between his legs, she fired three blasts, three searing rays that erupted from her staff as the roots continued carrying her forward. All of them landed on target, mutilating his gut and his genitals. But not without consequence. One of his rear hooves crashed into her side and sent her tumbling through the air, a motion accompanied by a distinctive, unsettling crack.

It was difficult to say which of the two suffered more damage. Neither fighter showed any hints of pain, and neither had taken any substantial hits. Those that knew not the cottontail’s reputation, however, would likely have assumed her the clash’s loser. Her spine was bent at an impossible angle; her body was folded so far back that her neck had made contact with her ankles, but she paid it no mind.

She kept her staff focused on him and cast another spell, a flurry of projectiles formed of biting wind. They were perfectly aimed, perfectly on course to collide with his vitals and tear them asunder, but they failed to damage him. A flash of crimson light warded them off. By clenching his fist and scattering the bloody orb gathered within it, he had crafted a thin magical barrier that passively rejected all attacks whose power fell below a certain threshold. An enchantment that all barrier mages learned, once the class hit one thousand.

Clicking her tongue, Allegra landed on the ground with her body still broken and made a beeline back into the fray. But she was not the first to aggress. A second canteen saw its contents unleashed, a disproportionate torrent of blood flowing out from within. It joined the firsts’ remnants in meandering towards her, seeking her throat in the shape of a stinger.

The first strike, she dodged by snapping her body back into place. The second by leaping off the ground, and the third with a powerful gust of wind. But try as she might, she could not evade the fourth. It caught her by the throat, impaling her carotid with the precision of a surgeon.

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Blades of wind, spears of earth, balls of fire, claps of thunder, rays of light. All sorts of different spells flew at the binding, but none could damage it enough to break her free.

So she gave up on holding back, on minimizing casualties and collateral damage, and unleashed the full extent of her arcane might.

Pointing her staff first at the ground and then into the air, she chanted a chain of raspy words. Words that even her greatest allies dreaded to hear.

“I soar on wings of flame. My heart, the wind, my soul in stone.” The ground cracked. The fortress shook and crumbled as plumes of hot magma erupted from beneath her. “I am the false branch that points the path, the guiding call through dark and light. And through the purest spring, I see the sparks of dawn.” Followed soon after by a volcano, an entire range of volcanoes, each larger than the floating island itself. The heat from their overflowing vents evaporated the cervitaur’s blood whip, freeing its caster as Valencia was swallowed by a torrent of heat. “Ars Magna.” An explosion of steam blinded its denizens with a wall of searing smoke. “Scripture of the Sun.”

The fiery mountaintops exploded as she chanted the spell’s name, flooding the skies with ash and rock, an eruption held in place by the biting northern winds. And it was not just igneous matter with which the heavens were filled. Drops of rain formed around her molten core. Slowly at first, and growing ever faster, they multiplied to form a veritable sea, from which an elderwood sapling bloomed.

The cervitaur did not allow her to cast unburdened. He threw spells of his own, all-consuming rays of crimson, powerful enough to shatter the mountains that supported her efforts. But she minded not. Their job had finished as soon as they had ejected their spew.

Together, the five elements merged. The water became her eyes. The stone became her bones, the plants the muscles that supported it. The wind became her mana core. And the flame, her plumes, her all-consuming plumes.

Sixty seconds of borrowed time.

Sixty seconds where she could manifest the sun goddess’ form.

Sixty seconds to embody a concept and bring undeniable death by ignition.

Anything she touched would burn until its life was extinguished, and she alone would rise from the ashes. The path of the immortal firehawk.

Virillius knew exactly what the spell was. He had seen it dozens of times on his side of the battlefield.

So he faced it head on.

Charging straight at the flaming chicken-rabbit, he advanced with his shieldlance at the ready and met her beak with a mighty blow. The weapon couldn’t hold under the force of her might. Nor his.

Like most other aspects, the white cervitaur had five non-racial classes. His first two were an open secret. He was primarily a warrior, specifically a cadrian knight specialised in the use of lances, be they standalone or attached to shields. His hemomancy was not far behind. He was a true battlemage, having attained unparalleled proficiency in both close combat and long-ranged bombardment.

His third was not nearly as widely known, but many of his knights were aware that it leveraged the fear with which his opponents saw him. The system had crowned him a ripper, a horrifying aberration of a man capable of bestowing death to all. And it was precisely upon his tertiary class’ functionality that the warrior relied.

Because he too had an ability that embodied a concept, the ability to enchant his blade to rip anything apart. He charged straight at the phoenix, and forced the two concepts to clash.

Ars magna against ars magna.

Severance against ignition.

The parting of matter against its violent conversion to energy.

The world itself almost seemed to groan, to cry and shriek in pain as it warped out of shape. Everything seemed to swirl into one as the system boiled the clash down to its common denominators. After a momentary lapse, a brief freeze in time, it finally arrived at a result.

There was no winner.

The two could not be compared, existing on different scales with different requirements and features. When forced head to head, neither impeded the other.

The flames lit the blade aflame, just as it had split the fire in two. The exact result Virillius had predicted.

It was a trade in his favour, a common shieldlance for a delicate spell and a chance to strike at the magus it exposed. Or so he had initially understood.

He realised his mistake as the flaming curtains parted, revealing the mage contained within. Rather than focusing on the instructions given to her spell, she was instead quietly chanting another under her breath. A different Ars Magna, fueled by a second set of elements.

Her first aria was driven by nature magic, a derivative field of study that required mastery over the schools of fire, earth, wind, water, and wood. By itself, her level 1000 nature mage class already classified her as a magus. But though she had used it to embody the sun’s might, she had intentionally excluded the white magic for which Rikael’s name was sung.

The goddess’ power was one of healing and vibrance. It brought energy to the world and emboldened its creatures with the spark of life, its common use far from the belligerent nonsense of war. But under the right circumstances, even the firehawk’s gentle warmth could bring death. For any that flew too close to the sun were sure to melt, as sentenced by their hubris.

It was precisely on that principle that her next spell was built. A single flare of solar energy burst through the sky. The nuclear blast hit him dead on, evaporating his entrails and reducing his lower half to an ashen blob. The rest of his flesh bubbled, violently, as everything inside of him boiled to a thousand degrees. Another ars magna. The only spell from the class that consumed her third and fourth slots.

But Virillius survived.

His body reformed in a blink of an eye, and it was not just him that saw the outcome reversed. His armour was back to how it had been at the start of their encounter, and even his shieldlance had returned, its condition perfectly pristine. The weapon was already in motion, driven with such force that it cleaved the very sky in two.

Allegra dove at him, past the blade again, but the blood flowing from his canteens caught her in midair and coiled around her body. When she tried to cast, to break free of the bonds, the man grabbed her by the neck and held his weapon against it.

The battle was over.

And he had come out on top.

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