Round 32: A Turning Point

“Can you guess? You can’t, right! Let me tell you! It’s the Idiot Spell! I’ve dreamed of this spell for ages!” Fairzhens laughed heartily, extending his fingertips. “Although this spell can only take effect through touch, can you stop me from touching you now? Your intelligence will forever be at the level of a lizard! Just think—a highly talented female mage turned into an idiot, unable to even take care of her own needs… But don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. I’ll dress you, bathe you, dress you up in various fun outfits, and take you to noble ballrooms until I get tired of it!”
His fingers were almost touching Moriel’s head—
The last remaining swordsman knelt, blood gushing from his severed arm. Forty-Seven held his sword against his neck, looking at him with a hint of approval, though he didn’t know if the swordsman could understand that expression.
His last companion lay not far away, his cloak torn in half, his chainmail and spine severed as well.
“Monsters… It really takes a mage to deal with them…” the swordsman coughed, speaking in hatred.
“You just don’t have thick enough armor.” Forty-Seven swung his sword and severed the swordsman’s head.
Fairzhens’ fingertips trembled; the magical energy was just short of reaching Moriel—just a little more.
He widened his eyes in shock, opening his mouth to say something, but thick streams of blood sprayed from his mouth and jaw—
The moment Fairzhens got close, Moriel pulled out a dagger hidden in his staff and stabbed it deep into his chin, with precision as if he were a killer trained for years.
“Are you wondering why I could kill you with one stab despite your mage armor?” Moriel continued to tear at the net stuck to his body. “Mages may seem weak—but with the help of the ‘Strike First’ spell, it’s different, isn’t it?”
When Forty-Seven rushed upstairs, Moriel was putting away the spellbooks on the table.
“Did it take those mere soldiers so long? You’re so slow. Let’s go—”
Suddenly, flames erupted outside, followed by chaotic screams.
“Damn! How did they get out so fast?” Moriel turned to look out the window and immediately recognized it as Ale’s Wall of Fire.
Moriel and Forty-Seven fled from Mishima’s mansion, slipping through alleys, not even stopping by Kayro’s house, ready to leave Rain City right away.
“Hey, aren’t you going to say goodbye?”
At the edge of Rain City, where Old Tom usually guarded, a disheveled O’Sullivan blocked their path.
His clothes, once spotless after walking through the swamp for so long, were now filthy—mixed with mud, sewage, grass stems, and possibly animal droppings, emitting a strong odor.
Clearly, Billy hadn’t treated everyone present equally.
“Oh, Count, you look terrible.” Moriel covered his mouth exaggeratedly. Though O’Sullivan’s appearance was already the worst thing that could happen, why wasn’t his unease fading?
“Is that so? I assure you, you won’t be in much better shape in a moment.” O’Sullivan stepped forward, holding his strange guns.

Si Shi Qi Yi waved his hand, and a deep scar was torn in the ground before him by the chain blades.
“Whatever you want to take from me—I won’t give it.”
The tension between the two sides was unbearable.
It was the darkest moment just before dawn.
Si Shi Qi Yi suddenly knelt on the ground, then twisted and floated in midair—his body trembling violently as he pushed hard with his arms, as if trying to break free from something. Some immense force had completely trapped him, pressing down relentlessly.
“What?” Moriel’s composure finally shattered.
“Biggie’s Grappling Palm?” Osha’s expression also turned extremely grim.
“No, it’s Biggie’s Crushing Palm, Young Master O’Sullivan,” an old, hollow voice echoed across the desolate swamplands. Its source was indistinguishable, seeming to surge from all directions, pressing down on everyone’s soul.
“Sss—” Si Shi Qi Yi could no longer speak. Under the grip of that invisible hand, his body, usually impervious to weapons, began to deform and crack.
The magic energy in this area surged violently. Space twisted to some extent, and dazzling magic circles appeared out of nowhere. Several mages in white robes stepped forward from the void, accompanied by flashes of lightning—only their robes were adorned with golden runes, radiating brilliant magical power.
“The Supreme Council…” Moriel’s heart sank to the bottom of an abyss. She had only heard of these actual rulers of Agus, but never expected to see them in person, especially under such terrible circumstances.
“Young Master O’Sullivan… Making such a significant discovery without reporting it to the Council and investigating on your own… This is a very serious offense.” The last mage in white robes seemed to materialize out of the darkness—he was the owner of that old voice.
His back was slightly hunched, his eyebrows, hair, and beard all silver-white, without a hint of color. His face was full of wrinkles, with only his clear eyes giving him a semblance of youth.
As soon as this old mage appeared, the other mages bowed respectfully.
He slightly opened his right hand, wearing a leather glove made of some unknown material. It was this old man, this one hand, that could crush Si Shi Qi Yi at will and force O’Sullivan to kneel without resistance—much less the ones who arrived later, Mishima and Ale.
For a moment, only Moriel stood alone in the midst of it all, desperately trying to maintain her dignity in the face of an unstoppable opponent.
The old mage sighed.
“Get up. We’ll talk when you return.” He turned his gaze toward Si Shi Qi Yi, who was still struggling in vain: “Lum… old friend, you’re truly a madman… a genius madman.”
Si Shi Qi Yi’s chest suddenly heaved. He desperately covered his chest, but couldn’t stop the increasingly intense vibrations—until that mysterious core leaped out of his chest, tearing apart the dense metal tubes connected to it, and reluctantly landed in the other hand of the old mage.
Si Shi Qi Yi’s eyes emitted a blazing light like meteors. He pointed at the old mage and swung his chain blades—yet they were weak and feeble, like a dying scorpion’s last tail swing.

Morrill trembled, wanting to do something but unable to recall any spells.
“You’ve done well. The Council will consider your application,” said a mage beside the old mage, expressionless.
O’Sullivan seemed to realize something. No matter how advanced the teleportation spell, it was impossible to locate them with such precision without guidance—
He turned back. Mishima was kneeling on the ground, head raised, his face filled with joy, reverence, and flattery—but not directed at him. In fact, it seemed Mishima hadn’t even noticed him.
“Take this female mage away and send her back to the Red Robes Order,” the mage ordered.
“You promised to hand her over to me!” Aley’s flaming words appeared, but were soon scattered by the surrounding magic.
“Regrettably, the Red Robes Order has made it clear that this is their demand—they said they won’t pursue you, out of respect for the Agus Empire,” the mage said coldly.
O’Sullivan could only force a bitter smile. Having one informant among his subordinates was already disheartening… now there were two.
The old mage simply focused on the core, as if nothing around him mattered.
“Master, we should go,” the mage said softly, clearly afraid of disturbing the old mage’s thoughts.
“Oh… oh.”
The old mage seemed to snap out of it suddenly. He handed the core to his assistant, suddenly remembering he still held something in his hand—by now, 47 was motionless, hanging in midair, the flames in his eyes extinguished.