Chapter 405: It's Him
The formidable power of a Tier-3 Phantom Archer was fully unleashed in that arrow—within a blink, the ice wall shattered under its immense impact.
Yet Rolf felt no joy—instead, his face changed drastically. Just as the arrow was about to kill the Mutant Black Lizard, a massive hand formed from pure mana suddenly snatched the beast away!
Before Rolf could react, the Mutant Black Lizard was dragged by that mana-formed hand to a young mage. The mage plunged a glass vial into the lizard’s heart, and when he withdrew it, a single drop of dark purple blood gleamed inside...
"Damn it!" Rolf roared in fury. That single drop of dark purple blood was the most precious thing on the Mutant Black Lizard—it was the only way his seven Spirit Arrows could ascend to True Spirit rank.
But now, someone had beaten him to it...
Rolf’s eyes reddened at the sight. He was about to rush over and teach the young mage a lesson—then snatch back the Mutant Black Lizard’s blood. But the mage, standing far away, shot him a cold, knowing smile and hurled several Fireblast spells into the dense pack of magical beasts.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!..."
After the explosions, the furious magical beasts—with bloodshot eyes—charged straight at Rolf, hundreds strong. Some were high-tier monsters. Rolf’s lips twitched; there was no time to deal with that young mage now—he was already surrounded by the beast horde...
Damn it, just you wait!
Rolf roared inwardly, pushing his battle mana to the limit. Arrows forged from mana turned beast after beast into cold corpses.
He’d memorized the young mage’s face—especially that mocking grin. A mere Tier-2 Mage dared snatch food from the jaws of a Phantom Archer. It was a direct provocation. Unbelievably, the young mage had actually succeeded...
The earlier explosions had caught a few people’s attention.
A sharp sword aura blasted a magical beast to death.
Dean weaved through the densest part of the beast horde—his Sword Saint prowess unstoppable. But when he spotted the young mage, he nearly cursed out loud.
Damn! It was that young mage from the Aurich Mountains—the one who’d refused to help and was worse than an orc! Not only that, he’d pointed at Dean’s nose and told him to take his bird and get lost...
Such insolence had sent Dean’s anger soaring that day.
Seeing the young mage again, Dean could almost hear that damned voice echoing in his ears. If it weren’t for the orcs, he’d have stabbed that brat a hundred times with his sword...
Now Dean watched as the young mage, with only Tier-2 strength, recklessly charged into the heart of the beast horde... Dean just laughed. That bastard was alone, with no orcs to back him up—his strength meant nothing here. In the Aurich Mountains, you refused to help? Fine, I won’t save your ass either!
Dalson was commanding a group of mages, their chanting and spellcasting echoing nonstop as they unleashed relentless attacks on the chaotic beast horde...
One magical beast after another was blasted into the air...
Suddenly, the figure of a young mage caught Dalson's eye. In an instant, his pupils contracted as memories of that terrifying night resurfaced. By all rights, the young mage had done the mercenary company a great favor—he ought to thank him profusely... Yet, Dalson found he lacked the courage to approach the young mage.
Orson also recognized Leon.
The moment he saw Leon, a cruel smile twisted across his face.
He had schemed and endured for days before finally making a move against Matthew Merlin, that bastard. Matthew's expulsion from the Apocalypse Mercenary Company was exactly as he'd planned. Yet, what he hadn't anticipated was the Templar Knights Mercenary Company taking Matthew in. No matter how long he thought about it, he couldn't let it go.
Now that guy was with the Templar Knights Mercenary Company—how was Orson supposed to make trouble for him? Sure, he had some status in the Apocalypse Mercenary Company, but the Templar Knights wouldn't care about that.
The Templar Knights Mercenary Company might not respect Orson...
But surely, they'd have to respect his teacher, wouldn't they?
"Teacher, it's him!" Orson glared venomously at the young mage's silhouette.
"Who?"
Standing beside Orson was a gaunt, white-haired old man. At first glance, he looked like any ordinary elder, but the difference was the aura of authority that radiated from him. Spells erupted from his hands—several magical beasts were slain in an instant. He glanced at Orson as he spoke, but never paused his relentless assault.
"Matthew Merlin!"
Orson gritted his teeth. "That wretch repaid kindness with betrayal—he's vile and despicable to the core. I saved his life at Doomscar, and our Apocalypse Mercenary Company took him in, protected him. The night we faced the wyvern, Matthew Merlin stole loot that belonged to us! I planned to drive him out, let him fend for himself in the Turin Mountains, but the Templar Knights took him in instead..."
"You mean, the night of the wyvern attack, he stole the spoils?" Alaric frowned.
"Yes, exactly! That guy is insatiably greedy—he didn't even try to kill the wyvern, and instead..." Orson was abruptly cut off by Alaric.
"Get to the point. What exactly did he steal?"
"Ah, right! Teacher, let me show you..." Orson suddenly remembered that he'd recorded Matthew Merlin holding the 'stolen goods.' With a wave of his staff, a screen of water element materialized, displaying a young mage crouched beside a massive wyvern, clutching a bottle filled with crimson liquid...
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"So it really was him..." Alaric's pupils narrowed, his gaze locked on the bottle of crimson liquid in the young mage's hand. A chilling smile crept across his face.
Most members of the three major mercenary companies only knew about the wyvern attack that night. Only a select few were aware that the Wyvern King had appeared—and been slain...
Alaric was one of the few who knew the truth.
This time, the Apocalypse Mercenary Company—the foremost mercenary force—had dispatched two deputy commanders and a large contingent of elite members to search for the ruins. Alaric was one of those deputy commanders.
Yet, on the night of the wyvern attack, he'd been out for a while. By the time he returned, the Wyvern King had already been slain—only a horde of wyverns remained...
He'd heard about the Wyvern King from the first deputy commander, Dalson. As for the details of its death, Dalson had brushed him off with vague answers, simply saying the Wyvern King was dead. But when the battlefield was cleared, the magical materials from the Wyvern King had mysteriously vanished!
Among the deputy commanders of the Apocalypse Mercenary Company, Alaric wasn't the strongest, but he was certainly the most unique. His status was equal to Dalson's, for a simple reason—he was a master of advanced alchemy...
Most of the magical materials acquired by the Apocalypse Mercenary Company ended up in Alaric's hands—he was their sole master alchemist, after all. The disappearance of the Wyvern King's materials had infuriated him for a long time; he'd even suspected Dalson of pocketing them.
The Wyvern King's blood was invaluable to him—it could be used to craft dozens of master-level alchemical potions. Coincidentally, he was preparing a potion that required nothing but the Wyvern King's blood.
"Teacher, you know him?" Orson was confused by Alaric's earlier remark: "So it really was him."
"I don't know him..." Alaric shook his head, then glared fiercely at Orson, his words tinged with restrained anger: "Orson, why did you wait so long to tell me? Don't you realize how important the Wyvern King's blood is to me...?"
"Wait... the Wyvern King! Teacher, are you saying Matthew Merlin stole magical materials from the Wyvern King?" Orson's face instantly grew animated. That night, in the dim light, he'd barely paid attention—too busy berating and plotting against Matthew Merlin...
Thinking back now, the wyvern beside Matthew Merlin really was unusually large...
"Exactly!" Alaric nodded coldly. "I need the Wyvern King's blood, no matter what. By the way, Orson, you said Matthew Merlin was taken in by the Templar Knights Mercenary Company? That's fine. Once this battle is over, I'll personally visit their camp. If they don't hand over the Wyvern King's blood, nothing will save him..."
After obtaining the mutant black lizard's blood, Leon didn't dare linger on the battlefield for long. After all, he'd just offended a Tier-3 Phantom Archer... Although the Phantom Archer was busy fighting off hundreds of magical beasts and had no time to come after him, with such power, dispatching those beasts would be a breeze.
He'd put in considerable effort to snatch the mutant black lizard from the Phantom Archer. First, he used an extreme acceleration spell, then conjured an ice wall to absorb some of the arrows' impact, and finally, in a daring move, grabbed the mutant black lizard...
Yet, as Leon made his way back to camp alone, he failed to notice that not far away, a striking figure was staring blankly at his retreating back...
It was him...
A woman with a fiery figure, wrapped tightly in silver armor, her fair and stunning face marked by shock—she was breathtakingly beautiful, the kind of woman who drew a second and third look without effort.
Hannah Achilles was stunned...
Her inner turmoil matched her outward composure. The owner of that retreating figure had haunted her thoughts countless times—a young mage who filled her with dread...
The genius of the Watson family, Stan Watson—renowned in Auckland—had died at the hands of that young mage. In an instant, countless fragments of memory flooded her mind.
It was almost unbelievable—the young mage had appeared in the Turin Mountains.
As the young mage walked farther away, Hannah wanted to call out to him, but her throat tightened and not a sound escaped. Was it fear?
His figure vanished from view; Hannah's pale cheeks finally regained a hint of color, but she was left utterly dazed.