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Magus Reborn Chapter 293
🕑 Added 2025-10-22 05:12:08 +0000 UTCChapter 293
Killian looked at Serat Vellin as lightning crackled down his legs, burning through the vines that held him. The smell of scorched greenery filled the air as the bindings shriveled into black ash.
Serat’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s true! Huh! Arvallen told me there were Knights among you lot who could wield elements like Mages, but seeing it in person… It's impressive.” He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “The Alparcan royal family would love to learn your secrets.”
Killian’s grip on his sword tightened, lightning still dancing along the blade. “They’re not getting it.”
Serat’s smile grew, sharp as the stones at his feet. “Are you sure? Once I kill you, I imagine some of your men would be willing to trade loyalty for their lives.”
“You’re free to try.”
He surged forward in a flash, his blade cutting through the haze, lightning crackling around him like a storm. Serat’s eyes flickered bright green as spell structures bloomed before him, two circles rotating in opposite directions. In the next heartbeat, sharp rocks burst from the air around Killian, slicing forward with deadly precision.
Killian had expected it. He twisted to the side, boots scraping against stone as the shards missed him by inches, but they didn’t stop. The stones curved midair, following him like hunting hawks.
Killian growled and kicked off the ground, leaping high. His armor flashed as lightning surged through his limbs. He landed on the battlement with a heavy clang, then used the momentum to push off again, propelling himself straight toward Serat like a lightning bolt given form.
The Mage’s eyes widened, hands flying up as his spell structures changed. The ground before him heaved, a wall of stone rising fast to intercept the strike.
Killian’s sword crashed through it in a shower of dust and debris, but when he broke through it, he hit nothing but air.
He scanned the field. Serat had already repositioned—ten paces ahead now, cloak whipping in the wind, another spell forming in his hands.
Killian raised his shield just in time as a storm of sharp stones came raining down. They struck with enough force to dent steel, but his enchanted armor flared, dispersing each hit in bursts of mana sparks.
When the barrage ended, Killian straightened, eyes locked on his opponent. The air between them shimmered with tension.
But before Killian could close the distance, the ground itself rebelled.
More vines shot up from the cracks along the wall—ugly, living things. One lashed around his sword arm, another snared his leg, tightening fast. He snarled, lightning flaring down his blade and body, searing through the vines with crackling heat. They shriveled and burned, but for every one he destroyed, another grew in its place, clawing through stone and ash to trap him again.
Then the ground beneath him erupted.
Chunks of dirt and shattered brick flew into the air as the floor split apart, and from the gap rose thick mounds of packed earth—looking like hands—giant earthen molds that clamped around his legs. Their sheer density resisted even his lightning, the current grounding harmlessly through the soil.
Across from him, Serat raised both palms. “You can’t do anything if you can’t move,” he said.
He began forming another spell structure—fine and complex, lines of mana twisting into a rotating sphere.
Killian gritted his teeth.
He pushed his will inward, channeling mana into the vault in his chest. At once, lightning exploded across his entire body in a flash so bright it turned the battlefield white.
The vines caught fire instantly, burning to black cinders. The earth molds cracked and split apart as the electric charge rippled through them.
Killian stepped forward, the ground trembling beneath his boots, lightning arcing off his shoulders like the wings of a storm.
Serat’s eyes widened and his spell faltered. He snapped it back into control and hurled another barrage of sharp rocks toward Killian, but they vaporized before reaching him, turning to dust against his lightning shield.
Killian charged.
In a blink, he was on him—his sword cutting forward like a bolt of white light. The impact should have ended it. But just before his blade could bite, Serat’s robes flashed gold and a circular barrier of shimmering light burst around him.
Killian’s sword struck it dead-on with a metallic crack. Sparks flew; the barrier held.
Serat grinned, breath quick and eyes alight. “Your tricks won’t work against my enchanted armor.”
Killian’s gaze hardened. “Is that so?”
He swung again. Once. Twice. Each strike echoed like thunder, the barrier flashing brighter under the pressure, but still it didn’t break.
Then he saw it—Serat’s hands moving again, faster now, lines spinning to form another spell structure.
Killian’s instincts screamed a warning. The air behind the Mage began to hum, the ground trembling once more.
Killian stepped back on instinct, just in time for the air to split open before him.
Two massive arms of rock materialized out of thin air, moving with terrifying speed. He raised his lightning shield, mana flaring, and the energy pierced through the constructs, but they didn’t stop. The arms broke through the electric field and slammed into him with a force that felt like being struck by a battering ram.
The impact cracked through his armor and sent him flying backward. His boots scraped against the stone before he crashed into one of the enemy soldiers behind him, both of them tumbling to the ground. The breath was driven out of him, and for a second, his vision blurred—his world reduced to a ringing hum.
But his instincts were sharper than his sight.
Footsteps thundered beside him. Killian rolled hard to the side, just as a spear struck down where his chest had been. The tip slammed into the ground, sparks flashing from the stone.
He turned, vision sharpening again, and saw the soldier who’d tried to finish him. Without hesitation, Killian lunged low, grabbing the man’s leg and yanking it out from under him. The soldier hit the ground with a cry.
Killian rose, his blade flashing. One clean thrust into the gap between the helmet and shoulder. A wet sound, a brief tremor, and the soldier was dead.
He didn’t linger on the corpse. His focus snapped back to the Mage.
Serat Vellin stood a short distance away, the air around him thick with mana. The same earthen arms that had struck Killian were now covered in layers of dirt and gravel, fusing into something larger, shaping into a full construct.
He’s forming an earth golem.
Killian tightened his grip on his sword and moved to interrupt the spell, but Serat’s smirk came first.
The Mage raised his left hand and flicked his fingers.
All around the wall, the ground cracked open again, and more vines erupted from the stone. They shot toward Killian in waves, twisting and writhing, trying to pin him where he stood.
He swung his sword, lightning bursting outward as the blade cut through the first few tendrils. But before he could move for the rest, the vines shuddered and hissed, then split open.
A thick, green gas poured out, spreading fast. The smell hit him instantly—sharp, metallic, poisonous. Killian leapt back, boots skidding on stone as the gas rolled forward like smoke from a dying fire. His throat burned.
Toxin, he realized. Clever bastard.
All across the stone surface between him and Serat Vellin, the green gas thickened—curling low and heavy. It rolled across the ground, eating through moss and singed the tips of the vines that birthed it. Killian could smell the sharp tang. His armor had no purification seals, and he didn’t know if any of the antidote potions in his belt would even work against this. Every poison brewed by Plant Mages was different.
Across the haze, Serat Vellin kept his hands raised, unbothered. The air around him rippled with power as the construct he’d been shaping grew larger and larger—its shoulders rising above the wall, its body hardening into dark stone. In moments, it stood as tall as the siege breaker itself.
Unlike Balen’s creations, this one was slower, heavier, but its power was obvious. If Killian couldn’t close the distance soon, that thing would crush everything in its path.
He tensed, ready to charge through the poison despite the risk when a deep vibration ran through the air.
Killian froze, head snapping upward. Above, the clouds began to churn out of nowhere. Blue light flashed between them, and then rain fell.
The rain fell in sheets, hissing as it hit the green fog. The poisonous gas sizzled, thinning almost instantly, leaving behind only the faint smell of wet leaves and burned sap.
Killian blinked in surprise, water running down his helmet. Then he heard a familiar voice.
“Knight Killian,” shouted Ryn Vorr. “Go on. The rain’s laced with a purification spell. You won’t be poisoned.”
Relief flickered through him, then purpose took over.
Killian lowered his stance and shot forward like lightning unleashed. The stone beneath him cracked with every step as he rushed through the clearing rain, his sword glowing brighter and brighter until it hummed.
Serat Vellin’s construct was almost finished—its arms forming, its eyes glowing faintly with green mana—but Killian didn’t give it the chance to move.
He gathered mana from deep within his heart, forcing it down the channels of his body until it reached his sword. The blade trembled under the pressure, humming violently. The enchantments along its surface flared white, barely holding together under the surge.
Then—he released it.
A beam of pure lightning burst from the tip of his sword, cutting through the rain and striking the construct dead center. The explosion was blinding.
The golem’s head shattered instantly, the mana holding it together bursting outward in a shockwave. Shards of rock rained down across the wall, crashing into parapets and scattering soldiers. Pieces of it hit his helmet.
Through the fading light and dust, Killian stood tall, sword raised. Across the rubble, Serat Vellin stared back at him, cloak torn, eyes wide and furious.
Serat’s snarl broke through the thunder. “What did you do?”
Killian grinned despite the pain lancing across him from using so much mana. “Just fucked up your plans.”
He raised his sword again, lightning flaring bright, and launched another volley of strikes. Arcs of electric fury slashed toward Serat, the air vibrating with the heat and crackle of it.
The Mage reacted instantly—walls of earth erupted between them, stacking in rapid succession, each one layered over the next like a fortress. He didn’t reinforce them; instead, he threw them forward. The ground shattered under their weight as slabs of rock hurtled across the wall toward Killian.
Killian darted aside, lightning flashing beneath his boots. The first wall crashed where he’d been standing, the impact breaking stone and bodies alike. The next one came faster—he slid under it, feeling the wind and debris scrape his armor. Every impact tore through friend and foe alike, soldiers on both sides screaming as the battlefield turned into a storm of flying rubble.
He’s losing control, Killian thought grimly, dodging another burst of vines that snapped at his feet. Serat was burning mana like a madman—one spell after another, no pauses between incantations.
Even with his strength, facing a Third-Circle Mage head-on was no easy feat. Every spell that missed him tore holes through the wall or flung allies off the edge. But Killian didn’t care about the chaos around him. His entire focus was fixed on Serat Vellin—the single obstacle between him and victory.
He kept moving. Lightning coursed through his body like a second pulse, each strike from his sword sending arcs along the broken stone. Bolts crashed into the Mage’s barriers, forcing him to keep stacking defenses.
Spells rained down in return—roots clawing from the cracks, spikes of stone jutting up to impale him, gusts of toxic green gas that hissed as the rain tried to wash them away. But Killian stayed in motion, weaving between each cast, waiting.
Lord Arzan’s voice echoed in his head—a memory from their training. “Mages of this age are wasteful,” Lord Arzan had said. “They drown their enemies with overwhelming mana instead of precision. An Enforcer wins not through power, but through control.”
Killian had seen the truth of that lesson more times than he could count. And now, as Serat’s hands shook and the glow of his mana dimmed, he saw it again. The Mage’s face was pale; sweat ran down his temple. His spells were getting slower, rougher, their form breaking apart mid-cast.
Killian pressed forward, deflecting an earthen spike, sidestepping a burst of roots. He could feel it—the shift in the battle.
Serat was burning out.
And Killian, steady and calm amid the storm, was waiting for the moment to end it in one strike.
Another barrage of stone shards screamed toward Killian, cutting through the air like razors. He raised his shield just in time—the first few slammed into it with enough force to make his arm go numb. Dust and fragments pelted against his armor, sparks dancing across the steel.
From the narrow gap beside his shield, he caught sight of Serat Vellin. The Mage was standing amidst the chaos, fingers trembling as he forced mana into a half-formed structure in the air. Killian recognized the pattern instantly—the same one that summoned the thorned vines.
But this time… it flickered. The lines of mana twisted and broke apart before the spell could take shape. The air around the Mage shimmered with unstable energy, leaking into the rain. He was at his limit.
This is my chance. Killian didn’t hesitate.
He broke into a sprint, lightning trailing behind him in jagged bursts. His blade came alive, arcs of pure mana crackling down its length as he swung it straight for Serat. The golden barrier on the Mage’s armour flashed to life again, deflecting the strike with a sharp ring that echoed through the wall. Sparks exploded outward, blinding for a second.
Serat grinned through the light. “You won’t break my enchanted armor,” he sneered. “You’ll die before it even cracks.”
Killian’s response was simple. His gaze slid past the Mage—toward a massive chunk of stone lying near the edge of the wall, where part of the battlement had already caved in.
“You sure?”
In one motion, he dismissed his lightning channeling and lunged for the boulder. His boots scraped against the blood-slick stone as he crouched, grabbed it, and with a roar—lifted.
Serat’s smirk faltered.
The Mage scrambled to form another spell structure, lines of mana twisting desperately between his hands, but Killian was already moving. He hurled the boulder with both arms, his strength amplified by raw mana coursing through his limbs.
The rock hit the golden barrier with a deafening crack.
For a second, the shield held—the seals on the armour flaring brilliant gold—but then it shattered. The boulder carried through, slamming into Serat’s chest and sending him sprawling across the stones. His back hit the wall with a heavy thud, his head snapping back, blood smearing across the stone as he slid down, gasping.
Killian didn’t wait.
He closed the distance in three long strides, lightning bursting around him once more. The Mage managed to raise a trembling hand, blood running down his face. “S-stop—” he croaked.
Killian didn’t.
He swung his blade in one clean motion.
As soon as Killian’s blade left Serat’s throat, the strength that had carried him through the fight drained like water from a cracked jug. His chest heaved, the adrenaline fading, leaving only the ache of his body and the ringing in his ears. For a heartbeat, all he wanted was to sit down—to breathe. But the battle wasn’t done. Not yet.
All around him, the clash of steel and the roar of spells still echoed through the walls and the city. Flames licked up from broken homes. Soldiers screamed. The wall beneath him trembled under the weight of it all.
Killian straightened, forcing air back into his lungs, and felt the remaining mana in his heart. He let it flow to his throat—a trick Lord Arzan had taught him once. When he spoke, his voice rolled across the battlefield like thunder.
“Mage Serat Vellin is dead!”
The words hit the walls and streets below. “Put down your weapons,” he shouted again, his tone sharp enough to cut through the chaos. “Unless you wish to join him in the afterlife!”
Silence didn’t come at once, but the shift was visible.
Dozens of soldiers froze mid-fight, glancing toward his voice. Those on the wall turned to look at each other, faces pale and uncertain. The Alparcan Mages and Knights hesitated first. Killian could see it in their eyes: disbelief, then fear.
He didn’t give them time to doubt.
Gripping Serat Vellin’s corpse by the collar of his blood-soaked robes, Killian lifted the body high for all to see. The armor shimmered weakly, its seals cracked and fading.
“This,” Killian bellowed, “is your strongest Mage!”
The effect was instant.
The Alparcan troops began to falter, several dropping their weapons entirely. Others followed, retreating down the stairs or throwing away their shields. The rest of Count Arvallen’s men, seeing their supposed allies surrender, hesitated too, but hesitation in war was death.
Killian’s own soldiers surged forward, seizing the moment. Blades cut through the chaos. The enemy line broke like dry twigs. In minutes, the fighting turned to cleanup.
When it was finally over, the wall was quiet except for the groans of the wounded and the crackle of burning wood.
Then the cheers began.
“Knight Killian did it!”
“Knight Killian is a hero!”
“He’s a Mage killer!”
The chant spread, raw and wild, echoing through the ruined streets.
Killian exhaled, lowering the Mage’s body to the stone. The title made him wince—not out of shame, but exhaustion. He had killed a man, yes. A Mage, a threat. But hearing them call him Mage killer made him realize just how far he had come from being a common Knight.
He straightened, scanning the sight in front of him and moving his eyes toward where Duke Blackwood stood, watching him, the faintest of smiles in his lips.
Their eyes met for a moment, both sharing the same unspoken thought.
This victory was just one piece of something larger. And now, both of them were thinking the same thing—whether Leopold had done his part.
Comments
Caleb Reusser
Nice. Glad the mage helped.
