Chapter 148: Saints' Requiem
A Dance of Gold and Silver
The earth trembled as two titans clashed. Lucien Rothe, the Gray Eminence, burned like a dying star—his silver aura blazing so fiercely it seared the eyes of onlookers. Every swing of his sword screamed defiance, the blade groaning under the strain of his unleashed power.
Rodrick Valesk stood motionless, Moonlit Sovereign cradled like a lover. When their auras first collided, he had already glimpsed the end. The Gray Eminence's sword now bore hairline fractures; frost from Rodrick's blade crept up Rothe's arm, turning veins to blue marble.
"Is this all a saint can offer?" Rothe spat blood, voice ragged. His charge this time was a blur—not the flashy arcs of wind blades, but raw, desperate thrusts meant to pierce divine indifference.
To the crowd, Rothe vanished. To Rodrick, he was a moth circling flame.
Clang!
Moonlit Sovereign rose languidly, parrying Rothe's strike as if swatting a fly. The impact sent the Gray Eminence tumbling through air, scarlet painting his robes.
"Again!" Rothe roared. Blood flecked his teeth.
Four phantom versions of him materialized around Rodrick—north, south, east, west—each striking with lethal precision. Soldiers gasped; mages cursed. Only Bennett saw the truth: this was no sorcery, but speed stretched to breaking.
Rodrick sighed. "Still clinging to mortal tricks?"
The Fractured Hourglass
Time curdled.
To Bennett's spiraling mind, the scene split: Rothe's blades inched forward like glaciers, while Rodrick's counterstrikes flowed with dreamlike grace. Contradiction made flesh. His psychic senses frayed, bile rising as spacetime itself rebelled.
This… this is the Saints' realm. They bend reality like clay.
Rodrick's sword drifted left—a child's practice swing. Yet when it met the first phantom's arm, golden fire erupted. Rothe's true form staggered, tendons snapping. Second thrust: right arm shattered. Third: left leg crumpled. Fourth: right knee exploded.
The Gray Eminence collapsed, limbs reduced to pulp. His sword clattered, its song silenced.
"I… understand now," Rothe whispered, smile serene. Blood pooled beneath him, mirroring the dawn. "The Threshold… it was never about power. It's… surrender."
Rodrick knelt, closing the dead man's eyes. "You saw the Peak. Rest well, brother."
The Price of Divinity
Bennett retched, vision swimming. Count Raymond steadied him, oblivious to the truth: his son's mind had brushed against celestial gears, nearly grinding his soul to dust.
"My debt is paid, Cassian." Rodrick's voice carried across the corpse-strewn plaza. He glanced at the seething prince, then at Bennett—a flicker of recognition?—before dissolving into golden mist.
Silence followed. Even the wind dared not stir.
In death, Rothe's face held more peace than in life. Soldiers crossed themselves; hardened generals wept. The lesson was clear: Saints walked realms beyond mortal ken. To challenge them was to duel thunder with a butter knife.
Cassian broke the spell, voice trembling with rage and awe: "The throne. Now."
But Bennett barely heard. His fingers clutched the mana-replenishing ring, its warmth a feeble comfort. What did Rodrick see in me? And why… why did Rothe smile at the end?
Chapter 149: The Veil Unraveled
A Prince's Silence
Bennett's pulse quickened. Something gnawed at him, sharp and insistent—a dissonance in the air, like a cracked bell tolling doom. His gaze swept the high platform where Prince Chen sat, serene as a marble statue. The younger prince's calm was a blade twisting in Bennett's gut.
Why isn't he reacting?
Chen's poise was unnatural. He had known of Rodrick's saintly power. He had watched Rothe, the Gray Eminence, charge to his death without lifting a finger. Now, as the plaza reeked of blood and frost, Chen's lips curved faintly—a ghost of a smile.
He wanted Rothe dead.
The realization struck Bennett like a thunderclap. This wasn't oversight; it was strategy. Rothe's sacrifice had been orchestrated.
When their eyes met, Chen's smile deepened—a silent taunt. You see it now, don't you?
Bennett's throat tightened. His father's gamble, once a tidal wave of inevitability, now felt like sand slipping through clenched fists.
Masters of the Arcane
"Your Majesty, retreat to the palace," urged Glenvar, the Crimson Robe Archmage, steadying the ashen-faced Emperor Augustus VI. The old ruler's grief hung heavy, a shroud over his slumped shoulders.
Crown Prince Cassian stepped forward, voice strained. "Master Glenvar… Must we clash?"
"My oath binds me to the throne, not its heirs," the archmage replied coldly.
Then Chen rose.
His bow to Glenvar was flawless—a dancer's grace masking a predator's intent. "Master, allow me to address this… imbalance."
Two figures emerged from Chen's retinue, shedding servant garb to reveal snow-white robes. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Eight-Circle Mages.
"Archmages Raphael and Leonard," Glenvar murmured, shock bleeding through his composure. The Magic Guild's emblem glittered on their chests—a declaration of war against neutrality.
Bennett's mind raced. Chen visited the Guild weeks ago. Was this the price?
Cassian laughed—a hollow, bitter sound. "The Guild abandons centuries of tradition? How petty, to back a princeling who dabbles in parlor tricks!"
Leonard, gaunt and venomous, brandished his staff. Azure light erupted, painting his sneer ghostly blue. "Challenge the Guild's might, Highness. If you dare."
The Green Inferno
Cassian closed his eyes. "Honored One… Forgive this imposition."
A chuckle echoed from nowhere and everywhere—ancient, amused, alive.
Green fire split the sky.
From the emerald blaze stepped a figure draped in moss-hued robes, a jade flute dangling at his waist. His face—that face—stopped Bennett's breath.
Gandolf.
The legendary archmage, dead for months, now stood flesh and blood.
Leonard's staff clattered to stone. He prostrated himself, trembling. "M-Master Gandolf! You… you live!"
Chaos erupted.
Gandolf's gaze swept the plaza, lingering on Bennett. A flicker of recognition? A warning?
Chen's smile finally cracked—not in fear, but rapture.
Bennett's hands shook. This isn't possible. I saw him die. I SAW IT.
Yet here stood the man who'd shielded him from dragonfire, whose corpse they'd buried beneath northern pines. Here stood a ghost wearing a mentor's face.
Chapter 150: The Phantom's Gambit
A Ghost in Emerald Robes
Bennett's breath hitched. The name Gandalf hung in the air like a curse, yet the man before him—cloaked in moss-green robes, eyes sharp as shattered glass—bore the face of a mentor he'd buried with his own hands. Every contour, every wrinkle, even the faint scar above the left brow… identical.
Impossible. A twin? A mimic? A revenant?
The Green-robed Mage's gaze swept over the cowering Leonard, his voice a rasping blade. "Leonard. How the years have withered you." The once-arrogant white-robed mage trembled, forehead pressed to stone. "Master… I… I would never raise a hand against you!"
Raphael, the other Mage Guild envoy, paled as if staring at a wraith. Sweat slicked his temples. He knows. Bennett's mind raced. Raphael had seen Gandalf's corpse. The Guild's Life Stone had shattered. Yet here stood a phantom with the Master's smirk, his aura a storm of raw mana that made the air crackle.
"You doubt me, Raphael?" The Green-robed Mage's chuckle was glacial. "The Guild's trinkets never could bind me. Shall I carve my name into your bones to prove it?"
The Web Unravels
Glenvar, the Royal Archmage, stepped forward, crimson robes billowing. "Enough theatrics! Dead or alive, if you stand with the traitors, you fall with them!" His voice boomed, but his fingers twitched—a tell. Even he sensed the suffocating power radiating from this imposter.
Bennett's father, Count Raymond, seized his arm, grip iron. "Explain this, boy." The unspoken threat coiled between them: Deny him. Save the family. Burn your truth.
Before Bennett could speak, Prince Chen's voice sliced through the tension. "Bennett! You knelt at Gandalf's pyre. Is this his ghost… or your lie?"
All eyes turned. Bennett's throat burned. Admit the truth, and damn our cause. Deny it, and betray his memory.
The Green-robed Mage laughed—a sound like glaciers splitting. "Since when do I need a child's word to be myself?" He raised his staff, obsidian wood crowned with an emerald shard. The ground shuddered.
"Leonard!" The Mage's roar froze time. "Draw your wand. Let's see if that puppetmaster Yagdog taught you anything worth my time."
Echoes of the Fallen
Leonard staggered upright, wand trembling. The crowd recoiled as mana erupted—a vortex of emerald and silver. Yet the Green-robed Mage stood unmoved, his staff humming a dirge only Bennett recognized.
That's Gandalf's spell. The one he used to shield me from the ice drake.
Memories surged: the old mage's laughter as he tweaked Bennett's failed runes, the way his eyes crinkled when reciting ballads of lost kingdoms. This man moves like him. Smells like him. Bleeds like him.
But when their eyes met, Bennett saw it—a flicker of green in the Mage's pupils. Not the warm hazel of his mentor, but the venomous gleam of something… older.
"STOP!" Bennett's cry tore free. He stepped forward, ignoring his father's hissed warning. "If you're truly Gandalf, show me the mark. The one we made at Dragon's Fall."
Silence.
The Green-robed Mage tilted his head, smile widening. "Clever pup. But lessons end now."
His staff struck stone. A shockwave of jade fire engulfed Leonard, reducing the white-robed mage to ash. Screams erupted.
"Next?" The Mage turned to Raphael, emerald light carving shadows into his face. "Or shall you kneel?"