Chương 535: B8 - Chapter 33: The Price of War

Zeke watched the pitiful sight of the once high and mighty Fire Mage rolling in the dirt, desperately trying to avoid another strike from his blind spot. Ungraceful as it was, the maneuver worked—Elder Tiger sailed past without landing a hit. Zelkara, however, had been waiting for exactly that dodge. Her spear didn't pierce deeply, but it carved another shallow cut into the man's nearly indestructible body. It didn't matter. This was never about landing a lethal blow.

It was about draining his reserves until he could no longer use his magic. Only then would it be safe to deliver the killing strike. The moment wasn't far off anymore. The man was already gasping for breath, his movements noticeably slower. Where he had once fought with controlled ferocity, now he moved only on desperate instinct. Zeke no longer involved himself directly, leaving Akasha to command the forces as she saw fit.

His main objective had already been achieved, proven by the sudden absence of light from the surrounding area. While his strongest fighters kept the Fire Mage occupied, the rest of the Bloodguard had focused on another task: dousing the flames. The burning forest, once the Mage's greatest strength, had now become his greatest enemy. The trees stood silent, coated in frost. The flames that had once answered his call had been snuffed out entirely.

That was the advantage of controlling the battlefield: turning hostile terrain into favorable ground. It had forced the Fire Mage to draw upon his own reserves instead of relying on the inferno around him. It had been a masterclass in diversion, with even Zeke himself acting as bait to draw the enemy's attention away from what he was truly doing. Meanwhile, Akasha had managed the tactical execution: who should move where, and what to do in each scenario.

Her ability to process vast amounts of information in an instant let her shift tactics the moment the enemy changed theirs, always selecting the optimal response from dozens of contingencies. Truth be told, the fight had been a foregone conclusion from the moment he had arrived. Even so, Zeke felt no joy in this victory, no satisfaction at seeing one of his sworn enemies humbled. If anything, it was the opposite. Zeke's eyes stayed fixed on the Archmage's desperate struggle.

Baldwin Feuerkranz, Akasha had identified him as. A man officially reported dead decades ago, his 'death' merely a cover to conceal his induction into the Ehrenlegion. It was this man who had taught Zeke that newfound respect. Though it looked as if Baldwin was being one-sidedly overwhelmed, the truth was far different. Every retaliation he made left at least one member of Zeke's warband with grievous injuries. Every counter he delivered required only minimal effort.

If this battle had been even remotely fair, Zeke's forces would have been annihilated several times over. From Baldwin's perspective, he wasn't fighting an army—he was fighting a swarm of undying pests that kept getting back up no matter how many times he crushed them. And it was all thanks to one person. Raileh was the most focused of them all.

Under Akasha's direction, she tirelessly mended each member of the warband, keeping them battle-ready while reinforcing their bodies at just the right moments to maximize the impact of their strikes. In a sense, this fight had become a contest between Raileh and Baldwin: a battle of stamina. Even now, in his weakened state, Baldwin could likely still win if Raileh stopped healing her allies. That was the extent of his power, the depth of his reserves, and the reason Zeke felt a newfound respect for the Ehrenlegion.

Even combined, all his forces could barely match a single elite of their order. A sobering realization. Humbling, really. Though he had spoken boldly earlier, the true threat of the Empire had never been clearer. Even two Archmages would force him to flee. Three? He might not escape at all. Thankfully, Archmages were not cabbages. Even an elite force like the Ehrenlegion would have no more than a dozen—two dozen at most. It would be wasteful to send that many just to stop him. Then again…

he had just killed a member of the Emperor's family. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Zeke didn't regret his actions, not even slightly. Still, it might draw unwanted attention—perhaps even a wildly disproportionate retaliation. But that was a price he was willing to pay. Why go to war at all if he lacked the resolve to kill his enemies? Just then, Zeke saw David emerge from a shadow and strike Baldwin's unprotected back.

It was a devastating blow. Akasha had chosen well by keeping David out of the fight until now. It had created a false sense of security in their opponent, who had likely assumed David had fled. Only now, in this final, crucial moment, did they remind him that he was not facing one Archmage—but two. Baldwin glared at David from his prone position, blood running down his back and staining his robes a deep crimson. All attacks had halted—not by Akasha's will, but by Zeke's. He recognized the look in Baldwin's eyes.

No panic, no haste, no fear. It was the look of a cornered beast, a man with his back against the wall. The look of someone who knew he was going to die. There was no more terrifying foe. At this moment, Baldwin likely had only a single thought left in his mind: How can I inflict the most damage? Zeke could almost see the calculations unfolding behind the Fire Mage's eyes. First, he looked at David—but discarded the idea just as quickly. He wouldn't be able to kill David fast enough.

Next came a sweeping glance for the Chimeroi who had harassed him endlessly, but they had already withdrawn. His gaze shifted upward toward the Alexandria. Could he destroy it with what strength remained? Probably not. And so, inevitably, his eyes settled on the only enemy still within his immediate reach. Zeke met his gaze head-on. Just as promised, he had not moved a single step. That left him facing the Feuerkranz Mage once more, the same confrontation as before.

Only now, the once proud Fire Mage was a ruin of wounds and burns, battered bloody and blue, bleeding freely from the gash across his back. Meanwhile, Zeke stood untouched, looking exactly as he had at the start.

"Not… bad…" the man rasped, dragging in air like a drowning man. Zeke nodded.

"You too."

"Still… still not going to move?" he managed, lifting both hands, palms forward. Zeke smiled.

"Didn't I say it? If you can make me move, I'll consider it your victory." The Fire Mage answered with a shaky smile of his own—one laced with madness.

"Good… I'll… hold you to… that." He steadied himself, inhaled deeply, and whispered, "Behold… my life's work…" [Phoenix's Caress] A thin tongue of flame erupted from between his overlapping palms. It wasn't wide, nor large, nor even fast. Yet the instant it appeared, everyone felt a primal, suffocating dread. This was no ordinary fire. It was like the heart-flame of a dormant volcano—so pure it felt capable of melting the world. There was no heat, and yet trees dozens of steps away began to thaw.

It was as if summer had bloomed in the middle of winter—an attack so beautiful it stole one's breath. Zeke could sense the presence of a Concept. It was so far beyond his own idea of [Return] that comparing the two would have been an insult. This was a spell an Archmage had spent a lifetime perfecting. He couldn't even place it. He knew abstract concepts were possible, but he couldn't begin to guess its inspiration—Purity? Summer? Grace? The spell didn't advance.

Instead, it branched outward in every direction, like veins spreading through a leaf or lightning forking across the sky. Most of those branches faded, leaving behind only a faint impression in the air. All the while, the Fire Mage watched his creation with an entranced expression. This was the pinnacle of his life's work, the final time he would ever cast this spell. He was burning the sight into his mind. It didn't even seem to bother him that the exertion took a visible toll on him.

Limbs that had been as thick and strong as an ox's began to wither and shrink. It was eerie—watching a man decay in real time. Before the spell reached its target, it changed once more. The branching flame condensed into a single visible form: a bird of fire, wings shimmering in shifting hues, its outline hazy and flickering with each movement. It moved with impossible contradiction: slow enough to perceive, yet giving no time to react. The bird wrapped its wings around Zeke, engulfing the space.

From the outside, it looked like a gentle embrace. Inside, the temperature soared to the point where even air began to burn. Even dwarven-forged metals would have melted—perhaps even vaporized. It was the most destructive spell he had ever seen. If the Mage had aimed it at the Alexandria, the ship would have been obliterated. The fiery bird collapsed inward, melting into its own embrace and turning the space into a cocoon of feathers and flame. It seemed to last an eternity and yet be over in an instant.

When the flames finally receded, nothing remained where Zeke had stood. Even the ground was gone, leaving a perfectly spherical indentation several steps wide. There was simply… nothing left. Baldwin Feuerkranz, who had been holding his breath, exhaled at last. It was not the greedy, frantic gasping from earlier, but the faint, trembling breath of a man on his deathbed. His body had deteriorated. The severe overdraw of mana had withered him into a husk, as though he had aged centuries in the span of moments.

Even so, there was no regret on his face. Quite the opposite. His lips curved in a soft smile, and the light in his eyes burned brighter than it ever had in his prime. Whether he was pleased with his final, perfected spell—or with his apparent victory—was impossible to say. Whatever the case, Zeke allowed him a moment longer. The man had earned at least that much for showing him such a sight. Then, as gently as if touching a delicate flower, Zeke placed his hand on Baldwin's shoulder.

The man didn't flinch, didn't move—didn't even react. Zeke leaned in, his lips almost brushing the man's ear.

"Congratulations…" he whispered.

"You've made me move." The soft voice jolted Baldwin from his trance, but he couldn't move. Zeke's other hand held his head firmly in place.

"… I will consider this your victory. When you reach the afterlife, you may brag about the time you defeated Ezekiel von Hohenheim." Zeke tightened his grip around the man's neck. Even with his prodigious strength and Baldwin's deteriorated body, it still required all his might. But it was enough. Bones creaked, bent, and finally broke. The Archmage's spine shattered just below the skull. With great care, Zeke lowered the fallen man to the ground.

Whatever else Baldwin Feuerkranz had been, he deserved that much respect. He was an exceptional Mage who had carved his own path and pioneered his own Magic. Despite Zeke's hatred for the Feuerkranz family and the Empire at large, he still felt the weight of the loss. The world had been robbed of a unique branch of magic forever. Alas, such was the price of war.