Accidents Happen Unexpectedly
Neither Walter nor Ian had imagined they'd run into a hostile mage like this. After all, Walter had just been mining for pumpkin stones, and Ian had merely been passing by.
If it had been some ordinary noble or common priest instead of Ian, nothing would have happened. They wouldn't have gleaned any useful info just from looking at Walter.
Walter was the real deal—a bona fide villain who wouldn't bat an eye even if the Empire branded him a evil mage. But did bad guys go around with "I'm a total scumbag~" tattooed on their foreheads?
True to his noble birth, Walter was a clean-cut, handsome man. Unless you knew about his demonic arts, most folks would just exchange pleasantries and part ways amicably.
But Ian was different. Sharp as a tack for a mage, he'd sensed the overflowing malice swirling around Walter.
Walter clocked Ian's suspicious stare right away and attacked without hesitation. Naturally, to silence him by killing him.
Murder was everyday routine for Walter—no pesky conscience to bother him.
"Heh heh... Cryokinesis, huh? You've picked up some amusing magic."
Walter treated Ian like a clown outright. And why not? In the Empire, cryomancers weren't just clowns—they were the circus.
Whoa, check it out! A cryomancer! Useless in summer, freezing street ice in winter! But what do they even do with the ice in winter? (No one knows.)
Cryomancers couldn't utter a peep even under that ridicule. They were just poor souls who'd made one brief life mistake...
While Walter looked down on Ian, Ian stared back with eyes full of contempt.
"That monster... You made it with transformation magic?"
"Oh ho. You know your stuff?"
Not bad for a greenhorn mage. Walter mentally bumped up his assessment of Ian a notch.
In turn, Ian could only see Walter as an even more horrific mage.
Transformation magic. Exactly what it sounded like: twisting and reshaping a being's form. Insanely dangerous—most wouldn't touch it without serious expertise.
Yet Walter had mastered it. How? A brilliant mentor? Enlightenment from nature's ever-changing forms?
Nah. As a demon arts user who'd harmed countless people, the answer was obvious: human experimentation.
The experience to craft chimeras like that? All squeezed from living humans.
"Heh heh. Don't care where you crawled from... but abandon any thoughts of leaving alive!"
Walter swung his arm and bellowed,
"Crossbows! Fire the crossbows!"
"..."
Ian tensed, readying a defensive spell on instinct. But Belenca whispered quickly,
"They won't shoot."
"...Why?"
"It's raining."
Belenca's call was spot-on. Empire crossbows used glue that dissolved in rain or heat—could snap the string outright.
The mercenaries indeed couldn't fire. Walter flew into a rage.
"Are you deaf to my orders, you idiots!!!"
"B-but, mage sir! The weather...!"
'Doesn't seem like he gives a damn about his men.'
Ian keenly observed Walter and the mercenaries. They didn't look particularly loyal to this mage.
A contract bond. Or less.
Ian decided to stir the pot between them.
"Who's collaborating with an evil demon arts mage right now!"
Ian's voice had gained real projection from all his mage leveling. Funny for mages to have good pipes, but here, they lived by their silver tongues...
His booming shout froze the mercenaries stiff.
"Uh, that's..."
"The heavens watch us! How can you side with a demon arts mage?!"
Ian's tone was plenty intimidating. The mercenaries didn't dare approach, floundering in confusion.
"Useless trash."
Walter sneered at them but kept his smug grin.
"But futile, mage. They know I'm a demon arts user and still cooperate."
"..."
Walter barked back at the mercenaries,
"Heard that? Kill him quick—before word spreads you're aiding a demon arts mage!"
Ian glared at Walter.
"The real trash is you."
Not ashamed of being a demon arts user—instead, weaponizing it to threaten his own men!
Ian easily pieced together their dynamic. Walter had bent them with demonic force; they followed out of necessity!
'Gotta confirm the details later.'
For now, the mercenaries didn't seem deeply tied to this demon mage. If they were, they'd have charged sword-first already.
"Fine! I'll crush that pathetic cryomancer under my thumb!"
Malicious power began roiling around Walter. The mercenaries paled and backed away.
If Walter offed Ian like this, they'd be his demonic slaves forever.
But Ian had zero intention of taking it lying down.
He knew zilch about demon arts. Nor did he think he had talent for it.
Handling demons required a psycho sadist streak—and Ian wasn't that evil.
No way to disrupt his magic. So strike first, before Walter finished his spell!
Ian pulled up his fastest, most destructive skill card without hesitation.
Throws a spear made of enormous flames. The spear will horrifically burn the impact point and turn the surroundings into a sea of fire!
"Spear of Flame!"
"...!"
The moment Ian finished chanting, a massive fiery spear materialized.
The mercenaries—and even Walter—were stunned.
The mercs' shock was pure awe at the spear's ferocity. Raging flames in a downpour? Classic thick-headed mercenary thinking.
Walter's was far more academic, profound.
'What is that?!'
Rain poured from all sides. Water aura dominated; fire was pitifully weak.
Even a toddler could sense it—no mage needed.
Yet Ian had summoned a Spear of Flame here, brimming with water!
'How?'
Walter forgot his foe in pure curiosity. How had he called the fire mystery, secured its aid for such potent pyrokinesis—in the rain?!
He'd never figure it out. Ian's unique magic transcended medieval understanding, bolstered by the Northern Goddess's power...
Ignorant, Walter could only mutter,
"Archmage...?"
No one had borne that glorious title since Maronius. Masters existed, sure.
Walter should've whispered Pyrokinesis Master. But instinct whispered Ian hid even greater magic.
'I want to know...!'
Walter fell head over heels for Ian's spectacular—no, beautiful—magic.
He'd chased power his whole life. A word to summon flames from thin air—how could he claim that?!
But his questions died unanswered. The fiery spear flew straight at him.
'Ah.'
[What's wrong? Name your tribute to me! Summoner!]
Walter never finished his demon summon. Ian's spell was too swift, too perfect.
BOOM!
"A-aaaaagh...!"
In a blaze of searing light, Walter's body ignited like a torch.
He twisted as living flames for seconds. His scream cut short—fire melted lungs and muscles instantly.
"Whoa..."
"What... the hell..."
A man burned alive before their eyes. Mercenaries stared at the charred corpse, mouths shut.
Man aflame in a downpour... gulp. Someone swallowed dryly.
That's real magic we've only heard tales of!
'Gotta be extra careful...!'
Sane mercenaries vowed never to approach Ian. No desire to piss off a guy freezing monsters barehanded and hurling fire spears!
The sane ones, that is.
But there were... unsane ones too.
"M-mage sir!"
'Ah. Shit.'
'We're screwed...!'
Juabil Mercenary Company's captain: Juabil.
Traits: Brain-fried by childhood fever.
"Y-you! What'd you do to our mage sir, you b-bastard!"
Juabil stuttered forward at Ian. The other mercs nearly lost their minds watching.
Ian said lowly,
"You a demon worshipper too?"
Ian was just bored, but his icy mage glare terrified the mercs!
Another man about to burn—any second!
The mood was deadly serious, but Juabil was too dumb to notice.
He shrugged and sobbed,
"D-demon worship...? Dunno 'bout that... But you can't kill our mage sir..."
"Can't kill him? What do you mean?"
Juabil snot-sobbed. His two-meter frame heaving flustered even Ian.
Why the waterworks all of a sudden?!
"Um..."
Then a mercenary sidled up.
"Our captain's, uh, not all there."
"Why? Fall from an apple tree as a kid?"
"Huh? No, fever did that."
Ian nodded. A fact moderns forgot: childhood diseases were rampant pre-modernity.
Simple antibiotics or fever meds fixed what left permanent damage back then.
Ian glanced up at Juabil. That hulking build? With a working brain, he'd have been a legendary warrior.
"And he's still captain?"
The merc cheekily replied,
"Well, strongest guy's boss."
"..."
Hm. Can't really argue that...
"Truth is, we're uneasy too."
The merc groveled. Commoner etiquette with mages: maximum humility.
Ian recalled the Rabbit's Foot traders he'd traveled with once. Dealing with nobles lately made plebs' reactions feel fresh.
"Uneasy about what?"
"That evil mage showed us a demon. Said, 'Your souls are mine—pull any crap and it's hell for you...'"
"Hm...?"
Ian got why the giant was crying. Freaking out over eternal damnation...