"As expected, it works!"
Allen excitedly struck the black dragon's back spines.
The rusted gauntlet of the Warlord Armor clanged sharply against the scales, producing a clear metallic sound.
The enhanced Hanged Man's Venom-coated ice spear spell—its method of targeting humans and nonhumans actually worked by ignoring the Wild Hunt's magical barrier. That was simply absurd.
Then again, when you thought about it, other oils—like Necrophage Oil and Hybrid Oil—worked in equally bizarre ways.
Creatures like Gargoyles and Golems, the so-called construct monsters, only had a fist-sized core as their true weakness. Every other part of them was merely hard plaster, stone, or metal.
No matter how sharp or well-made a witcher's silver sword was, it was still relatively soft—its strength was inferior even to ordinary steel swords. Strike a rock with it, and it would snap.
And yet, coat that blade with a layer of monster oil, and somehow it could smash stone to pieces—like an egg shattering a rock.
Even stranger, Elementa oil was made only from dog fat and Puffball mushrooms.
That made it even more ridiculous than Hanged Man's Venom. At least with Hanged Man's Venom, one could argue that its alchemical traits conflicted with the magical essence of humans and nonhumans.
"Forget it, no point thinking about it!"
Allen pulled another bottle of enhanced Hanged Man's Venom from his storage hole and poured it over the condensed ice spear.
The translucent blue spear immediately shimmered with a ghostly green light.
"No matter what method or principle it works by—as long as it can take down the Wild Hunt, it's a good method!"
As he spoke—
The bright blue cat-like pupils narrowed sharply. When the black dragon passed right over the Wild Hunt's position, Allen released the spear.
Whoosh!
With a sharp explosion, the glowing green ice spear tore through the air, pierced the golden magical barrier burning under dragonfire, and nailed the sixth Wild Hunt rider to the ground.
Though the main damage came from the ice spear, the dragon's breath was essential.
Without it, the ice spear—no matter how fast or strong its penetration—would have been easy to dodge when falling straight from the sky.
But with dragonfire—it was different.
The violent magical surges and blinding light perfectly masked the motion of the spell.
Even if Renakins knew the witcher's attack was a subtle ice spear, reaction still took time. By the time it pierced out from the searing barrier of dragonfire, not even Renakins could respond in less than a thousandth of a second.
They were helpless before the ice spear imbued with Hanged Man's Venom.
Of course, dragonfire came at a cost—and for the black dragon, that cost was quite high.
But as Allen grew more familiar with the dragon's body, he gradually learned how to control the magic flow and brightness of dragonfire while minimizing its temperature.
Soon, one breath of fire consumed only one-fifth of the "dragonfire fluid," stamina, and mana it had required at the beginning.
"Despicable thief!"
Renakins's agitated psychic pulse surged skyward along with a streak of silver light.
'Just a powerless rage…' Allen thought to himself.
The black dragon tilted its body with practiced ease.
The silver blade of light howled past the dragon's lowered right limb, slicing through the low clouds and vanishing into the distance.
After dodging the Wild Hunt's strike, the dragon didn't linger in low altitude for another attack—it immediately ascended into the thick clouds, denying Renakins any opportunity to strike back.
To be honest, though Renakins was raging helplessly, this Wild Hunt force was indeed formidable—not only in strength, but in morale.
Only six had fallen so far. Considering that even elite armies didn't collapse until suffering twenty or thirty percent casualties, they'd still need to lose another dozen before breaking morale.
But this wasn't a normal battle. This was total suppression—they couldn't even resist properly. After losing their navigator in the first strike, they were like lambs to the slaughter, unable to flee, forced to watch as their comrades fell one after another, helpless to stop it.
And being impaled to the ground by an ice spear through the body—what a horrifying, miserable way to die.
If Allen put himself in their place—if he were Renakins or any of the Wild Hunt—he'd feel the same despair. And yet, they still managed to organize such dangerous attacks and defenses.
One had to admit—the Wild Hunt, conquerors of worlds for the People of Alder, possessed exceptional strength and discipline.
That was why, even with complete advantage, Allen remained cautious.
After all, he hadn't forgotten how, during their last encounter at the Spiral, Renakins's sword had moved so fast he hadn't even been able to react.
Besides…
In this newly built city of Ban Ard, the Wild Hunt wasn't his only enemy.
Aside from the few startled cries heard during the initial flash spell, since Ortolan had fallen to the ground, the warlock from the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization had vanished completely.
Not knowing which corner they were hiding in, they watched the battle between him and the Wild Hunt, waiting to profit like fishermen at the riverbank.
While thinking, the black dragon climbed higher once again.
Through the gaps between the dark clouds, Allen cast a sidelong glance down at the newly built city of Ban Ard — now covered in thick smoke and fraught with danger — and dove straight down.
——
Beside a ruin in the smoke-choked ruins of the new city of Ban Ard stood a small two-story building.
Because the remains of the Vivaldi Bank and the clock tower had piled up into towering rubble on both sides of it, the shadows they cast concealed the building, making it nearly invisible.
But inside, it hid a great number of people.
They were all gathered by the eastern windows, the ones covered by the shadow of the debris.
"Cough… cough…"
"I'm really getting old…"
After a few coughs, Ortolan withdrew his gaze from the dark, layered clouds above in accordance with the warnings his senses gave him.
At that moment, the leader of the Rissberg Civil Cooperative Organization — the most powerful extraordinary figure in the Northern Continent — looked utterly disheveled.
The gleaming stars on his black velvet robe were obscured by dust and blood, just as the heavy clouds above covered the black sun and the blue sky.
Where the stains didn't reach, dark bruises and bleeding wounds could be seen.
One arm hung limply, wrapped in a layer of bandages. His hair was disheveled, his face marked with age and exhaustion.
Contrary to what the witcher might have imagined, although Ortolan was indeed observing the battle between him and the Wild Hunt, his condition was far worse than either side's.
No — not just worse. He was only half a step away from setting one foot into the Styx.
That seemed inconsistent with Ortolan's reputation and the immense power he had always wielded.
But then again — for a sorcerer who had stood at the pinnacle of power and influence in the world's extraordinary circle for over a century, in an era where knowledge and scholarship, not raw power or combat skill, determined supremacy —
For Ortolan, who hadn't fought a real battle in nearly a hundred years, to be suddenly dragged down from the sky by the "Beast Roar: Forbidden Sky" spell, and still have the presence of mind to think of a landing method, escaping with nothing but non-fatal, fully recoverable "minor injuries," despite his frail body and age-slowed reflexes…
That alone was proof enough of why Ortolan shared the same peak as the Source Mage Hen Gedymdeith.
After all—
The reason the Wild Hunt had performed so well under the "Beast Roar: Forbidden Sky" spell, emerging unscathed, was not only because the Alder Folk's mastery of magic and alchemy far surpassed that of the witchers' world, But also because the Wild Hunt were warriors who had conquered many worlds — whereas Ortolan, compared to a combat-trained mage, was more like a scholar.
Due to the Wild Hunt's impressive display, Allen had overestimated Ortolan and the Rissberg Civil Cooperative Organization, who had been clashing with the Hunt since the Withered Forest.
Now, Ortolan and his Rissberg Civil Cooperative Organization were not plotting how to seize profit from the chaos.
On the contrary—
After getting so far away from battle, Ortolan and his organization had yet to recover from the shock of their sudden downfall. They were still dazed, unable to think clearly about what to do next.
"I really am getting old…" he repeated softly, glancing at the dark figure weaving through the clouds. "The Wild Hunt, a black dragon, the Black Sun, the Conjunction of the Spheres… where are all these monsters coming from?"
"Lord Ortolan…" the warlocks of the Rissberg Civil Cooperative Organization began to speak one after another, "It's those Wild Hunt bastards, they were too despicable—"
"Stop making excuses." Ortolan weakly raised his uninjured hand, cutting them off. "It was arrogance that blinded us. We underestimated the Wild Hunt and were ill-prepared — that's why we ended up like this."
The warlocks of the Rissberg Civil Cooperative Organization looked at each other and said, "Yes, Lord Ortolan, it was our negligence."
"That is the correct attitude toward a problem," Ortolan nodded with satisfaction. "It's fine to make a mistake once, but we cannot keep making the same mistake."
"For humanity to transcend its limits and reach perfection, only Rissberg can lead the way."
"We may err, but we must not stubbornly refuse to admit those errors and continue down the wrong path."
"Yes, Lord Ortolan," the warlocks echoed again.
Ortolan nodded, forcing his pained body to move a little, when suddenly a thought struck him. He turned his head toward one of the warlocks.
"Friedrich, you said earlier… Sunny is dead?"
"Yes, Lord Ortolan," replied the young warlock with a goatee named Friedrich, rubbing his reddened eyes. Hearing Ortolan's question, he nodded immediately. "I saw it with my own eyes. Sunny and his men were burned to ashes by the black dragon's breath, without even a hint of resistance."
Ortolan fell silent for a long time before glancing out of the corner of his eye at the dark shadow bursting out of the clouds, wrapped in layers of mist as it dove downward. His tone was complicated as he murmured, "The black dragon… the claw of White Frost, the enemy of all living things, the destroyer of worlds…"
"The black dragon from the prophecy has already appeared, Friedrich. Does this mean the world is truly coming to an end?"
The small building instantly fell silent — so quiet that even the sound of a needle dropping could be heard.
Friedrich opened his mouth but hesitated, unable to utter a word.
Ortolan didn't mind. Or rather, he hadn't asked the question expecting an answer.
"Sunny went to find Hen Gedymdeith," Ortolan muttered to himself. "Since he appeared here in the new city, does that mean Hen Gedymdeith is no longer in the academy?"
The warlocks of the Rissberg Civil Cooperative Organization looked at each other again, none able to answer.
Ortolan continued speaking to himself, "Who rescued Hen Gedymdeith? Could it be connected to that Wild Hunt in the sky that summoned the black dragon?"
Again, silence filled the room.
"Hen Gedymdeith's disappearance and the battle between the two Wild Hunts — is that really just coincidence?"
"If not, then why would the Wild Hunt rescue Hen Gedymdeith? For revenge?"
"Besides the dead, who in Ban Ard could possibly know the truth?"
-----------------------------------
Ortolan's questions came one after another, echoing through the small building.
The warlocks of the Rissberg Civil Cooperative Organization remained completely silent — until…
"Hen Gedymdeith… is he still alive or already dead?"
Ortolan frowned deeply, leaning against the filthy wall beside him.
"Then…" the young warlock named Friedrich suddenly spoke, "should the Sorcerers' Kingdom still be built? Are we… still staying in Ban Ard?"
Ortolan opened his mouth to speak, but before he could—
"Boom—!"
A sudden flash burst outside the window. The deafening explosion shook the entire building violently. Dust rained down from the ceiling, some even landing in the mouths of several Rissberg warlocks.
They didn't notice — all instinctively turned their eyes toward the window, watching with the corners of their vision.
When the tremors subsided, Ortolan still stared intently through the gaps between the ruins, his eyes fixed on the battlefield. Then he suddenly said—
"The battle… is about to end…"
——
"The battle's almost over…"
The black dragon dove, breathed fire, and its ice spear — forged within that fiery breath — pinned the eleventh Wild Hunt warrior to death in the ruins of what had once been an inn in the artisans' quarter. The witcher realized it at once.
Then,
He began chanting the Ice Spear spell for the eleventh time, skillfully commanding the black dragon to dive, dodging the crescent-like silver blade shooting toward them—
But before the silver blade could reach the dragon's altitude, it suddenly shattered into countless silver lights.
"The Wild Hunt's morale has collapsed!"
The witcher narrowed his eyes instantly, stopped chanting, and with a single thought, the black dragon's thick, dark neck swelled even larger.
"Roar!"
Blinding white light flared from the beast's massive jaws — brighter and hotter than ever before.
In a flash, the dragon's breath tore through the air and struck the golden shield.
Crack!
Amid the explosions, a faint sound of shattering echoed — small, yet clear enough to seem as if it resonated across the entire Northern Continent.
"No—!"
The crimson ghost fire in Renakins' eye sockets suddenly contracted. With a desperate cry, he raised his rune sword high, as if trying to block the spreading crack in the golden shield.
But in the very next instant—
Shrrk!
At the point where the unbreakable golden shield met the dragon's breath, it shattered violently.
Scarlet flames surged into the golden barrier, melting everything in their path!
.......
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