Witt looked at the four Bronze warriors standing ready before him, knowing he couldn’t take them all on.
The previous Sunblast had drained about three-quarters of his mana. If he couldn’t end this fast, he’d be worn down to death.
Thinking this, Witt raised his right hand high and began casting Sunblast again.
He shouted mockingly at the soldiers below:
“Can you withstand another attack like that? This fat pig is dead today!”
“What kind of monster casts magic with such destructive power so casually?”
The city lord stared at the scorched earth around him, regretting holding a memorial for that damned John.
Otherwise, how would he have attracted such a walking disaster!
The soldiers guarded the city lord, retreating step by step. They knew if they leaped to attack Witt, he’d unleash Sunblast and kill the unprotected lord.
But if they stayed close, they couldn’t guarantee his safety if Witt released Sunblast directly.
The fireball in Witt’s hand slowly grew larger. The city lord and Bronze soldiers had already reached the square’s edge.
“Now!”
Witt threw the fireball—less than one-third the size of the first—straight at the city lord.
The soldiers expected a massive blast and were caught off guard by the half-charged fireball.
Crimson flames roared toward them.
They barely formed a shield wall. The four pressed their shields hard against the fireball, feet rooted to the ground. They scraped backward several meters before it dissipated.
Dust stirred by the wind cleared. The city lord and soldiers looked—Witt was gone!
He’d run!
The attack was a bluff. Witt escaped with the beggar while they blocked the fireball.
The city lord flew into a rage: “Find him! Chase now! He’s at his last gasp!”
Only then did he realize Witt had no mana left for Sunblast. Catching him now was the best chance to kill him.
Soldiers, surviving patrol officers, and guards searched for the man in black robes.
But the central square sat at Cesecity’s heart, roads branching everywhere.
They didn’t know which way to chase—how could they catch Witt?
...
Night had fallen.
Witt took the beggar back to the western district, told him not to thank him, and walked toward Kaelxi’s house in the dark.
Streets lay deathly silent. People, terrified by the afternoon’s chaos, stayed indoors.
Patrol officers and guards, scared witless by the square’s carnage, only moved with the four Bronze soldiers. None dared search alone.
The Bronze soldiers split up, scouring the city. But the alert Witt avoided them all.
After long detours, Witt finally shook off every pursuer.
Kaelxi’s two-story cottage stood ahead. Witt breathed a sigh of relief—mission done, he’d see her soon.
His nerves, tense for hours, fully relaxed. His mana-depleted body slackened.
This was Witt’s lowest vigilance all day.
And the moment the assassin had waited for. He’d followed Witt all afternoon.
Others couldn’t track Witt, but as a Bronze Rogue, he could.
Using the Rogue skill “Stealth,” he hid in darkness like a snake fixated on prey, tongue flicking, ready to strike.
Now.
Witt saw the air to his left distort. His left arm took a solid dagger blow.
The assassin had chosen a tricky angle—severing the tendons in Witt’s left hand.
He hadn’t gone for a kill. He wasn’t sure if Witt had truly let his guard down.
If the first strike failed, another chance might never come.
Witt frowned—not from pain. He feared no physical hurt.
But the severed tendons meant he couldn’t cook or do chores for Kaelxi these next days.
Troubling her to care for him would bother her, wouldn’t it?
Seeing Witt ignore him, the assassin thrust again—straight for Witt’s throat!
He could already picture Witt clutching his neck, dying in agony. “Die, kid!” he yelled.
Witt kicked him sprawling.
The assassin scrambled up, stunned. “Aren’t you a mage? How so quick?”
He rubbed his aching chest. “And such strength?”
Witt had a Bronze warrior’s solid physique. As an advanced Bronze mage, his acceleration spells were stronger.
In speed alone, he matched a Bronze Rogue.
Witt grinned savagely, closing in. A one-handed sword condensed in his right hand. “I’m a mage. No warrior’s brute strength.”
“Just a bit strong, that’s all.”
Almost home, he didn’t mind playing with this fool.
Witt’s left hand hung limp. He raised his sword, smile turning cruel.
“You broke my left hand. That’s troublesome.”
“But defeating you? One hand’s enough.”
Witt had never taken him seriously.
Provoked, the assassin waved his dagger. “Arrogant kid! I’ll kill you for my boss!”
“And your Elf mistress—that hypocritical whore—won’t escape either!”
Witt’s smile vanished. The sword reformed into a bone-shattering hammer.
This wasn’t play anymore. The game had changed.
Witt admitted—it was personal now.
...
After a one-sided, brutal fight, the assassin lay barely alive, every joint shattered by Witt. Arrogance, underestimation, and a loose tongue had doomed him.
Who’d expect a mage to fight so fiercely, so ruthlessly?
His cruelty was hair-raising—as if avenging a family massacre.
Witt planted one foot just right of the assassin’s left leg, just left of his right, pinning him. The hammer aimed at his skull.
“Speak. Who’s your boss?”
“Why target us?”
“And why insult my wife without reason?”
To Witt, the assassin was already dead. No one would hear how he called Kaelxi.
Just imagining openly calling beautiful Kaelxi his wife filled his heart with sweetness.
