Chapter 290: Dance of the Archmages

Zylle Mordan didn’t waste a moment on posturing. Her loyalty was to Lord Vortan, her pride was that of an Archmage, and this arrogant boy-lord who held a Queen on his lap like a common plaything was an intolerable insult to both.

Her Archmage aura erupted, a swirling vortex of pure, absolute darkness laced with crackling purple lightning. The temperature in the secluded hall plummeted, and the very light from the grand chandeliers seemed to dim, absorbed by the oppressive shadow.

“You have a high opinion of yourself, Steele,” Zylle hissed, her voice cold as the void. “Let’s see if your power matches your insolence.”

With a sharp, cutting gesture, she unleashed her first spell. “Shadow Coil Constriction!”

Tendrils of pure, solidified darkness, slick and serpentine, shot from the shadows in the corners of the room. They moved with unnatural speed, seeking to ensnare Alaric, to bind his limbs and crush him in their suffocating embrace.

Alaric merely smiled, his own azure aura, tinged with the golden light of a celestial king, flaring to life in a gentle, almost lazy pulse that effortlessly repelled the encroaching shadows. He didn’t even stand.

“A lovely opening, Archmage,” he commented, his voice laced with amusement. “But a bit… uninspired, don’t you think?” He raised a single finger. “Azure Gale Blade.”

A blade of compressed wind, shimmering with a faint blue light, materialized in an instant. It didn’t fly towards the shadow tendrils; it simply appeared amongst them, and with a silent, elegant spin, it sliced through each and every one, dissipating them into harmless wisps of smoke.

Zylle’s eyes narrowed. ’He dispelled it so easily? His control over wind is… precise. And his mana purity is indeed alarmingly high.’

She didn’t hesitate. She knew this wouldn’t be a simple matter of overwhelming a lesser mage. Alaric Steele was a true Archmage. And a dangerous one.

“Then let’s try something more… direct,” she snarled. With a flick of her wrist, a weapon materialized in her hand. It was a magnificent, terrifying scythe, its long, curved blade forged from a dark, star-like metal that seemed to drink the light, its haft a twisted rod of obsidian that pulsed with purple energy. The ’Scythe of the Void Weaver’.

“An impressive toy,” Alaric remarked, his gaze lingering on the weapon with genuine professional interest. “A gift from Vortan, I presume?”

“This scythe has reaped the souls of a hundred mages who underestimated its wielder,” Zylle warned, her voice a low growl. She took a step forward, her stance shifting, becoming a fluid, dangerous dance. “You will be the hundred and first.”

She lunged, her movement a blur. She wasn’t just a caster; she was a trained battle-mage, her every movement honed for combat. The scythe’s blade came at him in a wide, sweeping arc, trailing ribbons of purple lightning. “Reaper’s Dance: First Form!”

Alaric finally pushed Ondine gently from his lap. “Stand back, my Queen,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving the approaching scythe. “Enjoy the show.”

Ondine moved to the side of the throne-like chair, her expression a mixture of thrill and adoration. She had absolute faith in her Lord.

Alaric rose to his feet, not with frantic haste, but with a smooth, unhurried grace. He didn’t summon a weapon. He simply raised his hands. “Prismatic Ice Wall.”

A wall of shimmering, multi-hued ice, thick as a castle gate, erupted from the floor just as Zylle’s scythe was about to connect. The dark blade slammed into the ice with a deafening CRACK! The ice wall shuddered, deep cracks spiderwebbing across its surface, but it held, the prismatic light refracting Zylle’s purple lightning into a harmless shower of colorful sparks.

Zylle leaped back, her eyes wide with surprise. ’He blocked it? Head-on? That scythe can cleave through standard arcane shields like paper!’

“My turn, I believe,” Alaric said, a playful smile on his lips. The shattered ice wall dissolved into a fine, glittering mist. He clapped his hands together. “Twin Dragon’s Inferno!”

Two massive dragons, one of searing white-hot flame, the other of chilling azure ice, erupted from his palms. They roared, their voices a symphony of fire and frost, and lunged towards Zylle from two different angles.

“Petty elemental tricks!” Zylle scoffed, though she recognized the immense power in the constructs. She spun her scythe in a defensive vortex. “Void Devourer!”

A sphere of absolute blackness materialized around her, absorbing the fire dragon and the ice dragon completely, leaving not even a wisp of smoke or steam.

“Not bad, Archmage,” Alaric conceded, genuinely impressed. “Vortan has taught you well. Your dark magic is potent. But it is reactive. Defensive. Let’s see how you handle a more… proactive… approach.”

He moved, a blur of motion. Not teleportation, but pure, unadulterated speed, his body wreathed in crackling azure lightning. “Azure Lightning Step!”

He was upon her in an instant, his hand outstretched, not for a spell, but for a physical strike, his knuckles glowing with contained arcane force.

Zylle, for all her experience, was momentarily caught off guard by his sheer, explosive speed. She brought the haft of her scythe up just in time to block his blow. The impact sent a shockwave through her arms, making her stumble back a step.

’His physical strength… it’s absurd for a mage!’ she thought, her mind reeling.

Alaric pressed his advantage. He was a whirlwind of motion, his hands and feet a blur. He didn’t use named techniques from his magic martial arts, not yet. This was pure, overwhelming pressure, a test of her close-combat reflexes.

Zylle was no slouch. She used her scythe with masterful skill, its long reach keeping Alaric at bay, its dark blade a constant, deadly threat. They engaged in a frantic, close-quarters dance, the clang of Alaric’s magically hardened fists against the scythe’s haft echoing in the hall.

It was during this dance that Alaric saw his opening. Zylle spun, her scythe aiming for a low sweep to take out his legs. Alaric leaped, a graceful, lightning-infused bound that carried him over the deadly blade.

He landed directly in front of her, inside her guard, their bodies almost touching.

Her eyes widened in shock at his audacity.

But he wasn’t aiming for a vital point. His hand, instead of striking, moved with a speed she couldn’t track. It landed, not on her arm, not on her chest, but directly, possessively, on her left breast.

Zylle froze. Utterly.

Her mind, a fortress of arcane knowledge and ruthless calculation, simply… short-circuited.

His hand was large, warm, and unapologetically cupping the full, heavy weight of her breast through her form-fitting robes. His thumb brushed against her nipple.

She gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. The sensation was so alien, so shocking, so… intimate, that her Archmage aura flickered, her scythe wavering in her grip.

“Soft,” Alaric murmured, his voice a low purr in her ear. He gave her breast a gentle, appraising squeeze. “And surprisingly… full. You hide your assets well, Archmage.”

The sheer, lewd audacity of it, in the middle of a life-or-death duel, shattered Zylle’s concentration. A wave of pure, incandescent rage washed over her.

“You… you FILTH!” she shrieked, pushing him away with all her strength.

Alaric allowed himself to be pushed back, a mocking, triumphant smirk on his face. “A bit sensitive, are we, Zylle?”

Ondine, watching from the side, let out a delicate, musical laugh. “Oh, my Lord,” she called out, her voice dripping with amusement and adoration. “You must be gentle with the Archmage. She is not as… accustomed to your robust attentions as I am.”

The laughter, the casual reference to Alaric’s ’attentions’, was the final straw for Zylle. Her fury reached a boiling point.

“I will flay the skin from your bones, Steele!” she roared, her dark magic erupting around her.

“We’ll see about that,” Alaric replied, his eyes dancing with amusement. He moved again, another Azure Lightning Step, but this time, he circled around her.

She spun to meet him, her scythe a defensive blur, but he was too fast. He wasn’t aiming for her front this time.

SMACK!

His open palm connected squarely with her magnificent, curvaceous buttock. The sound was sharp, resonant, almost comical in its blatant disrespect. A visible jiggle ran through her firm flesh.

Zylle screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated outrage. She whirled around, her face a mask of fury, her scythe aimed for his head.

He was already gone, having danced back a few paces, a wide, appreciative grin on his face. “Now that,” he said, his gaze lingering on her still-quivering backside, “is a truly magnificent asset, Archmage. So firm. So… bubbly.”

Ondine laughed again, louder this time. “Oh, my Lord, her buttocks jiggle so delightfully when you smack them! I’m quite jealous! Perhaps you could discipline me like that later?”

The combined humiliation was too much. Zylle’s carefully maintained control shattered.

“ENOUGH!” she shrieked, her voice resonating with a dark, terrible power. She raised her scythe high, its obsidian haft glowing with an intense, sickly purple light. The shadows in the room converged on her, drawn to her like moths to a black flame.

She began to chant, her voice no longer human, but a chorus of whispering, tormented souls. This was not her own magic. This was a gift from Lord Vortan. A forbidden technique.

“From the depths of the abyss, where chained gods weep, I summon thee, oh shadow deep! Let the fiend’s grasp, a hunger cold, take this insolent life, so bold! Netherfiend’s Abyssal Grasp!”

Alaric’s playful demeanor vanished in an instant. His ruby eyes narrowed, his Archmage aura flaring to its full, crushing intensity. The air in the hall grew heavy, thick with a power that made the very stones of the Bellerose mansion groan.

’That spell… it’s not just dark magic,’ Alaric thought, his senses screaming a warning. ’It’s a direct channeling of a demonic entity’s power. Dangerous. Very dangerous. It could level this entire wing of the mansion.’

From the swirling shadows around Zylle, a colossal, spectral claw, formed from pure, soul-chilling darkness and adorned with chains of ethereal purple fire, began to materialize. It reached for Alaric, its talons dripping with a void-like energy that seemed to consume light itself.

He couldn’t dodge it. The spell was a targeted, conceptual attack, locking onto his very soul. He couldn’t counter it with a simple elemental spell; the power disparity was too great.

He had to contain it.

“You wanted to see my full power, Zylle?” Alaric said, his voice now a low, dangerous rumble. “So be it.”

He raised his hands, not in a casting gesture, but as if to brace himself. He took a deep breath, and then, he unleashed his own power. Not just one element, but all five.

“Sovereign’s Elemental Aegis: Prismatic Seal!”

A sphere of pure, incandescent light, shimmering with the colors of the rainbow, erupted around Alaric. It was a perfect fusion of fire, ice, wind, earth, and his own azure lightning, woven together into a complex, multi-layered defensive matrix.

The Netherfiend’s shadowy claw slammed into the Prismatic Seal.

The impact was silent, yet catastrophic. The shadowy talons scraped against the shimmering, multifaceted surface of the Aegis, their soul-draining energy grinding against the pure, elemental power. The air in the hall warped, colors bleeding at the edges, the very fabric of space groaning under the strain of the two colliding Archmage-level spells.

Cracks, like fissures in reality itself, began to appear on the surface of Alaric’s Prismatic Seal. Zylle poured all her energy into her attack, her face pale with the effort, a triumphant, desperate gleam in her eyes.

Alaric gritted his teeth, his muscles straining as he poured more and more mana into his defensive spell. The hall around them began to crumble. Tapestries ripped from the walls, marble pillars cracked, the ceiling groaned ominously.

’This is not sustainable,’ Alaric realized. ’Her spell is too destructive. I can contain it, but the collateral damage will be immense. I need to move this fight.’

With a roar, Alaric surged forward, his Prismatic Seal still holding against the Netherfiend’s Grasp. He moved faster than Zylle could track, her senses entirely focused on maintaining her overwhelming attack.

He reached her in an instant. He didn’t strike her. He grabbed her.

His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against his body, inside the shimmering, cracking sphere of his Prismatic Seal.

Zylle gasped, her concentration shattering as his hard, powerful body pressed against hers.

“Time for a change of scenery, Archmage,” Alaric growled in her ear. He focused his will, not on teleportation, but on pure, brute-force propulsion.

“Azure Gale Ejection!”

A controlled, directional explosion of pure wind and lightning energy erupted from the base of his Prismatic Seal. The force was immense.

The grand, stained-glass window at the far end of the hall shattered into a million pieces. Alaric, still holding Zylle, his Prismatic Seal still containing her Netherfiend’s Grasp, shot through the opening like a human cannonball, a streak of rainbow-hued light against the night sky.

They soared through the air, leaving the collapsing council chamber and the stunned, terrified Queen Ondine behind. They landed with a ground-shaking thud in a vast, empty field several miles outside the city of Lysandra, the impact creating a shallow crater.

The moment they landed, both their spells, their concentration broken by the violent relocation, dissipated simultaneously.

Alaric released Zylle, who stumbled back, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock, confusion, and a dawning, terrifying respect. He hadn’t just countered her ultimate attack; he had contained it, and then physically removed them both from the battlefield.

They stood facing each other in the moonlit field, the ruins of a forgotten farmhouse nearby, their Archmage auras flaring in the sudden stillness.

“Now, Archmage Mordan,” Alaric said, a slow, predatory smile returning to his face as his azure aura pulsed with power. “No interruptions. No collateral damage to worry about.” He cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet night. “The real lesson begins.”