Chapter 883: Utterly Foolish
Looking at the dozen or so battered survivors fleeing, even that Seventh-Rank Sword Saint among the Black Iron Orcs was covered in wounds. Yet Leon's Mage Legion made no move to pursue them.
The spellcasting battle just now had exhausted most of their mana. With the Black Iron Orcs trying to escape, there was no way to intercept them.
After all, this was the first real test of their strength since the Mage Legion's advancement under Leon. Every mage had gone all out, and the Legion's signature coordinated spellcasting used the alchemical array, as modified and taught by Leon.
Everyone in the Mage Legion had been holding their breath—now they could finally exhale. Each of them was thrilled by their own combat prowess.
Not long ago, they were just the Merlin Family's castaways, their talent too poor to be anything but discarded mages. Archmages had once been figures they could only look up to. But now, even the weakest among them was already a Ninth-Rank Archmage—not because they couldn't break through, but simply lacking enough magical accumulation and insight.
As time went on and the battles continued, every single member of the Mage Legion would eventually break through to Title Archmage!
Title Archmage—a rank they'd only ever heard of before. Each one was a high-ranking family elder, a powerful figure who shaped the family's fate. Now, they themselves had become such beings...
It was all thanks to Leon. So every member of the Mage Legion was filled with a fierce desire—to be seen by Leon, to earn his recognition.
Leon was very satisfied with the Mage Legion's combat strength. With their Dragon Scale Staffs and Flame Robes, their power could rival a seasoned Eighth-Rank Title Archmage.
But that comparison was a bit vague. In a true legion war, this group of mages would be far more efficient than a single Eighth-Rank Title Archmage.
They might even hold their own for a while against a Ninth-Rank Title Archmage without heavy losses. If they fought to the death, losing less than half, they'd absolutely be able to take down their opponent.
A flash of understanding appeared in Leon's eyes. Now he truly grasped why, in the future, a power's strength would be measured not just by its top experts, but also by the might of its Mage Legion.
During the era of Northend's great colonization, every powerful faction, without exception, had a formidable Mage Legion.
The Mage Legion didn't continue attacking, and Leon wasn't bothered. This was just the first checkpoint after their advancement—a minor skirmish. There was no need to waste mana potions on a handful of fleeing survivors.
On the other side, Hubert was already blocking the Black Iron Orcs' path with his warhammer, Slaughter.
Hubert bared his teeth, grinning at the group of Black Iron Orcs charging straight at him. The leader, a Black Iron Orc covered in burn marks, swung his broadsword. Seeing Hubert—just a Fifth-Rank Sword Saint with a weak aura, barely showing any battle energy—he didn't take him seriously at all.
"Foolish traitor of the Blazeforge Orcs—courting death!"
The Seventh-Rank Sword Saint saw Hubert's red skin and assumed he was a traitor from the Blazeforge Realm's orcs. Now Hubert dared block his way—of course he wouldn't show any mercy.
A slash of crimson battle energy swept out from a dozen meters away, appearing instantly in front of Hubert.
"A mere Seventh-Rank Sword Saint dares to make a move before the great Lord Hubert? Foolish! Don't you know that, aside from the mighty Lord Leon, Lord Hubert is already invincible?"
Hubert gave a savage grin, lowering his waist slightly. With a thunderous boom, the ground beneath his feet collapsed into a four or five-meter-wide pit, terrifying cracks spidering outward from the impact.
In the next instant, propelled by the massive recoil, Hubert's body vanished from sight—moving so fast he was just a blur—colliding head-on with the slash of crimson battle energy.
Unexpectedly, Hubert hardly slowed down at all, as if he had merely brushed past that crimson slash. The next moment, the seemingly solid wave of battle energy exploded violently...
And Hubert was already right in front of that Seventh-Rank Sword Saint of the Black Iron Orcs, swinging the massive Slaughter with terrifying momentum, a visible shockwave trailing behind as it smashed toward the Sword Saint's head.
Roar...
A furious roar erupted as a dense abyssal aura burst from the Seventh-Rank Sword Saint's body, a volcanic surge of power exploding from within him.
It was the power inherited from his father—a final, limit-breaking strike beyond his own boundaries...
His broadsword turned crimson, gleaming like blood-red crystal, with wisps of black energy swirling around the blade.
The broadsword collided head-on with Hubert's Slaughter.
Boom...
A shockwave swept across a hundred meters, the terrifying clash of raw power delivering a force even stronger and more direct than magic.
Hubert's body was sent flying like a cannonball, smashing into a Black Iron Orc Swordmaster. Instantly, the orc's body exploded into pieces. Hubert then crashed into a massive boulder, leaving a four or five-meter-wide crater in the stone...
But then Hubert spat out bits of rock and sand, cursing as he climbed out of the crater...
The Seventh-Rank Sword Saint of the Black Iron Orcs wasn't so lucky. His crimson broadsword shattered into fragments, and his body was sent flying just like Hubert's.
Compared to Hubert—a monster with freakish talent and relentless growth—the Black Iron Orc's supposedly proud physique was nothing but trash...
Still airborne, his body sprayed a trail of blood across the sky.
After flying over a hundred meters and crashing to the ground, his body looked like a shattered porcelain vase, blood pouring from countless cracks. His right hand had been blasted to pieces by the recoil, and his left arm was twisted into a grotesque shape.
Hubert, grinning as if nothing had happened, ignored the fleeing Black Iron Orcs and dashed to the Seventh-Rank Sword Saint, swinging Slaughter down hard on his head.
The gravely wounded Black Iron Orc had no chance to resist. With a dull thud, his head simply vanished...
"The great Lord Hubert is simply invincible now. Aside from the great Lord Merlin, no one can kill me. Damn you, Theodorus—you're no threat to the great Lord Hubert anymore...
Let me see... what did Lord Merlin say about how many points this seventh-rank Sword Saint is worth? Hell, whatever, it's a lot, that's for sure. Lord Merlin will have to reward me with something good—just a life potion will do..."
Hubert, covered in dust, hefted Slaughter over his shoulder and trudged back, muttering nonstop under his breath...
Leon watched his mage legion, who were recovering their mana through meditation instead of using potions, and nodded quietly to himself.
Their advancement has been ridiculously fast. The foundation is solid enough, but it's inevitable that they can't fully control their new power yet. Meditation is the best training for them right now.
As for Hubert, that muttering brute, Leon simply ignored him. Hubert’s body was becoming more and more terrifying, long since surpassed the limits of the Dragonblood Orcs—there’s no way to measure him by mere rank anymore. Below the Heaven Tier, anyone with a body like Hubert’s would be one in a thousand years...
Leon didn’t intervene—his vanguard had already completed the toughest, most exhausting, and most dangerous part of the mission.
Wagner watched from a distance, mouth slightly agape, clearly shocked by the scene unfolding before him.
Damn, there may not be many of them, but these are real elites. The mages in that legion are all using the same magus runes and core meditation techniques—they’ve even managed to mimic alchemical arrays.
All of them are top-tier mages, but what a shame they’re stuck with an idiot for a commander. If I had five hundred of these elites under my command, I wouldn’t just be the heir anymore...
It’d actually be better if these guys were a bit stronger—if they got wiped out by the Black Iron Orcs right at the start, that’d just boost the orcs’ morale, and I’d be the one dealing with the headache.
There are several tribes around Radiance Fortress—better to send them off to fight those dangerous matchups. Ideally, they’ll wipe out all the tribal elites for us.
Only by killing a few elites do you get any points—destroying an entire tribe is where the real rewards are...
"Young master Wagner, let’s hurry over—those Andalusian bumpkins have already driven back the Black Iron Orcs. There’s a tasty piece of cake waiting for us, and we can’t let those country folk snatch it first. That’s a lot of points at stake."
Doug stood off to the side, urging him along.
Wagner didn’t seem bothered; he just snorted coldly.
"Those bumpkins wouldn’t dare break the agreement, would they? Damn it, do they even realize what happens if they tear up a deal with the George Family?"
Doug chuckled and nodded quickly.
"You’re right, young master. There may not be many of those country mages, but they’re pretty strong—good enough to be considered elite in any mage legion in the Odin Kingdom. Too bad they’re led by an idiot.
I made a point of watching just now, that Leon Merlin—he’s a moron. He didn’t command at all, just stood there watching the show. If the mage legion didn’t have someone else giving orders, half those fifty mages would already be dead.
That fool actually agreed to our outrageous terms. Just look at those exhausted mages—not even a single mana potion to go around. I bet all the good stuff got snatched up by that pretty-boy country bumpkin..."
Doug sneered at Leon’s intelligence, convinced the only explanation for his easy acceptance of the outrageous demands was that his brain had been eaten by a mindworm.
Too stupid...