Wrapping Up
Dozens of goblins bolted in frantic terror, shoving, trampling, and clawing past one another in a desperate bid to put distance between themselves and the twin nightmares before them—the miniature sun blazing in the heavens, and the lone human standing below.
"Skreeek! Kwaaagh!"
"Guwaaah!"
"Kyaaaah!"
Yet their desperate struggle availed them nothing.
The barrage of fiery projectiles raining down from the sun-like sphere easily outstripped the fleeing monsters at full tilt, striking each with pinpoint precision. Whether it was the goblin attempting a futile block after realizing escape was impossible, or the one lunging toward the fallen mages to seize a hostage, none were spared. The relentless downpour of blazing orbs incinerated them all without mercy.
Watching nearly a hundred of his brethren wiped out by a single spell from a solitary mage, the goblin leader seemed to sense inevitable defeat. His grip slackened, and the white rod slipped from his claws.
He braced himself for the end. Bitter regret washed over him—regret that he hadn't achieved even his barest objective, regret that he had squandered precious time indulging his sadistic pleasures—as he stared directly into the blinding glare rushing toward his face.
Boom!
With the leader's demise, the clearing fell silent. Before Eron lay dozens of goblin corpses, charred entirely black.
"Guwaaah!"
"Kyaaaagh!"
"Koowakh!"
Sprawled helplessly on the dirt, paralyzed and barely able to lift his chin, Bran could hardly believe his eyes as he watched the goblins get butchered in a matter of heartbeats.
Am I dreaming?
The thought was almost inescapable, given that his day had been an unrelenting, waking nightmare. His Detection Magic had failed completely, and he had come within an inch of being slaughtered by mere goblins. Yet far more staggering than any of that was the spell unfolding before him—and the mage casting it.
A flame spell capable of incinerating a goblin in one blow wasn't impossible to comprehend on its own. Goblins were swift and notoriously nimble targets, but any certified 3rd-class mage or higher possessed enough destructive power to unleash magic of comparable lethality—provided they weren't hopelessly inept at offensive spellcraft.
What defied all logic, however, was the accuracy, the speed, and above all, the sheer volume.
Projectiles fast enough to run down sprinting goblins. Accuracy so flawless that not a single shot missed its mark. A relentless deluge of firepower capable of turning dozens of monsters to ash simultaneously. Every single element exceeded the bounds of sanity.
To achieve such speed and precision required years of grueling combat experience and supernatural sensory acuity; to sustain that kind of output demanded an innate mana pool of monstrous proportions. It was a caliber of spellcraft that Bran couldn't hope to emulate today—no, not even in his wildest future.
And what struck him as the bitterest pill of all was that the caster was nothing more than a commoner—an Ordinary Mage.
This can't be happening... Absolutely not! A bastard like that, wielding magic of this level?!
His pride screamed in revolt. The very man he had sneered at and treated like dirt was unleashing sorcery so far beyond his reach that he couldn't even fathom it. Yet despite the suffocating humiliation and rage churning in his gut, Bran was utterly powerless. All he could do was lie face-down in the dirt, pathetically waiting for Eron to spare their lives.
"All done?"
"Urrrgh, I'm so exhausted~"
Once the flames had consumed the last of the goblins, Ifrit drifted down and perched lightly on Eron's shoulder.
"Good work," Eron said.
"I'm telling you, this spell is just way too tiring!"
"Well, your role and your power are the core of it, after all. It makes sense you'd feel drained."
"Hmph! Naturally! A spell this magnificent requires the peerless might of yours truly!"
She was getting a bit full of herself, but stroking her ego every now and then didn't hurt—especially when her contribution truly had been paramount.
As it stood, Eron was incapable of casting anything other than fire magic. To compensate for his lack of versatility, he had spent considerable effort experimenting, developing unique variations beyond standard continental spellcraft.
Normally, inventing a new spell was an excruciatingly complex endeavor. A mage had to design a magic circle to give the spell its shape, map out corresponding mana circuits, master arcane scripts and alignments, and perform immense mental calculations to balance the flow of energy. Eron, however, bypassed all of that. By channeling the power of a spirit, he had no need for circuit calculations, nor did he need to draft elaborate geometric magic circles; the ancient tongue of spirits bridged the gap effortlessly.
If an idea for a spell or form popped into his head, all it took was a few trial runs alongside Ifrit. Among their custom creations, this particular spell leaned heavily upon her capabilities.
Thanks to Ifrit, Eron could manifest mana to cast spells, but innately, he still possessed none of his own. Mana only flowed through his vessels during the precise instant of invocation; it could not settle or pool within his body. As a consequence, he couldn't use mana to sense his surroundings or detect living targets.
Locking onto dozens of scattering targets with homing precision, as they had just done, was impossible with his senses alone. It required Ifrit's elemental perception.
"Yes, yes. You did wonderfully."
"Mm-hmm~"
Evidently thrilled by the praise, she swung her little legs back and forth from his shoulder, practically preening with delight.
She really is so simple sometimes, Eron thought with an inward chuckle.
"I knew it! 'Starlight Fire Blast' is—"
"Too long! What kind of ridiculous name is that?"
"What?! It sounds cool!"
"Maybe to you."
"Fine, then how about 'The Fire Meteor'—"
What is she even babbling about?
Her terrible habit of proposing childish names worthy of an elementary schooler showed no sign of improvement. Naturally, he had zero intention of ever uttering them aloud.
Ignoring her continued barrage of absurd naming suggestions, Eron cast his gaze across the battlefield. The goblins were taken care of. Next up was negotiating his cut of the commission, but before that, there was something he needed to inspect.
He walked over to the spot where the goblin leader had dropped the white rod.
This must be the magic artifact that jammed their Detection Magic.
If the rod truly held the ability to scramble magical senses, it was undeniably a valuable piece of gear. Provided one could use it, it would have plenty of practical applications.
"Ifrit? What do you think? Is this an artifact?"
He turned the rod over in his hands, presenting it toward the fairy spirit on his shoulder.
"Hmm? Looks like it. I can feel mana coming from it."
"Really?"
An artifact without question. It would have been great to put it to work, but... there was one glaring problem: Eron couldn't activate magic artifacts. Activating an artifact required a steady trickle of mana. Since Eron's body only harbored mana at the exact moment of spellcasting, artifacts were essentially inert clubs in his hands.
He supposed he could have Ifrit fuel it for him, but going out of his way to plead for her help wasn't terribly appealing. He could already picture her unbearable gloating if he asked.
Well, in that case, there's really only one use for it.
Eron looked at the white rod, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Guess I'm pawning it off.
An artifact with such an uncommon disruptive property was bound to fetch a handsome sum. It would easily line his pockets.
"Heh. An unexpected windfall."
Between the commission reward and the proceeds from selling the artifact, he would have plenty of cash left over even after covering his travel expenses. He wasn't particularly greedy by nature, but coin was coin—having more made life infinitely more comfortable.
Now then, shall we make a little extra?
He sauntered over to where Bran lay face-down in the dirt.
What? Why is that bastard coming over here?!
Terror seized Bran as he watched Eron approach with measured steps. The venomous insults and condescending arrogance he had spat at Eron earlier flashed vividly through his mind. Given the monstrous prowess Eron had just displayed, it wouldn't be strange in the slightest if he decided to take his revenge right here and now.
"The party was already wiped out when I arrived." That single excuse would be more than enough to cover up whatever he felt like doing to them. With power like that, Eron could have intervened ages ago to rescue them, yet he had intentionally held back, watching from the sidelines. There had to be a sinister motive behind it. Bran was thoroughly convinced.
Whether Eron was a commoner or an unranked Ordinary Mage didn't matter anymore. Right now, their lives rested entirely in his hands. Whatever humiliation and wrath burnt in Bran's chest had to be swallowed whole. At all costs, he needed to survive.
"Hmm. Doesn't look like your lives are in immediate danger. Some healing magic should fix you right up."
The snag, of course, was that Eron couldn't cast Healing Magic. Still, leaving them to bleed out wasn't an option either—not if he wanted to collect his share of the bounty later.
Ah, right! Why not use this?
From his pocket, Eron produced a small glass phial filled with crimson liquid.
Wait, hasn't this been sitting around for over three years? Will it still work?
Unable to cast healing spells or utilize enchanted tools, Eron had followed Merna's advice and tucked away this emergency potion just in case.
Potions don't really have expiration dates, right? Probably fine... I think.
He held the vial out where the prone mage could see it, preparing to open negotiations. Though Eron was the one who had exterminated the nest, the commission had formally been registered under Bran's party. Settling the compensation required a reasonable agreement between them.
Considering the cost of saving their lives, the labor fee, the price of the potion, and emotional distress... maybe seventy or eighty percent of the payout? Is that asking too much? No, surely I deserve at least that much, especially factoring in compensation for having to listen to his obnoxious mouth earlier.
Recalling Bran's smug condescension back at the guild, Eron steeled his stance and opened his mouth to state his terms. Yet the words that tumbled out of Bran's mouth caught him completely off guard.
"I-I'll give you everything..."
"Huh?"
"So please... just spare my life...!"
What's with this reaction? Isn't this a little weird? He's acting like I came over here to execute him.
"Uh, look, that's not—"
"Please... I beg of you...!"
Though baffled by the man's hysterical groveling, Eron wasn't about to turn it down. There was no reason to reject an offer presented so willingly by the party in question.
After laying out a few additional stipulations to Bran, Eron brought their brief negotiation to a close.
A faint trace of awkwardness lingered, but he figured it was fine. No matter how absurd Bran's terror seemed, trying to reason with a man trembling in blind panic would have been a waste of breath. Eron handed the potion over to Mila, who possessed healing capabilities, and took his leave first.