Round Three: Lich

The magical flames recoiled from everyone, only to be drawn back to the fire pits atop the surrounding stone pillars—as if by some force—but they were no longer the same as before.
The faint green smoke lingering around Moriel still carried a trace of burnt smell, yet not a single thread of clothing had been scorched. The exquisitely carved rune stone pillars held little interest for the female mage; instead, it was the massive pattern on the dome that made her stop and look up.
A twisted red spiral extended from the white star wheel at the center of the dome, connecting eight progressively larger crimson spheres. The entire pattern was meticulously crafted, carrying an air of solemnity that even bordered on absurd humor.
It was the symbol of the Red Robe Mage Order. Moriel’s gaze lingered on it for a while, as if, as before, trying to figure out which of the fire balls represented the prophecy-related spells she studied. But since there had never been an official explanation, she still had no answer.
“Are you bleeding from your nose?” Forty-Seven also looked up behind her. “Ha, is this the famous ‘nonsense’?”
Led by Di, the group walked forward along the somber covered walkway. The magic lamps embedded in the walls emitted a soft pale yellow light, barely brighter than that of a candle. Every hundred feet or so, a gloomy, hunched shadow sat on the square stone platform at the edge of the column, set against the night. Though they were lifeless statues, upon passing by and taking a closer look at their monstrous forms with folded membrane wings, one could sense a malicious aura emanating from them—there was no doubt that with a simple command, these cold stone statues would instantly awaken from their slumber, spread their wings to cover the sky, and use their sharp teeth and claws, carved from huge obsidian fragments, to tear apart any intruders.
At the end of the curved walkway, a suspension bridge about fifty feet long appeared before them. Although it was still night in the northern lands when they arrived, a hint of dawn was already visible on the horizon, giving clearer outlines to the distant, scattered dark towers. The dark gray stone buildings surrounded the tower across the bridge like petals, standing very close to the surrounding fortresses and connected by numerous bridges or corridors. With countless reliefs and statues on their surfaces, the tower truly resembled a magnificent work of art.
And it indeed possessed a charm distinct from other buildings. Perhaps it was an illusion, but everyone who saw this tower felt as though it were a living being—faint clouds swirled around it, as if the tower itself were breathing.
“I’m sorry, I can only see you off here,” Di and his black-robed attendants stopped in front of the suspension bridge. “Mr. Victor is waiting for you.”
Moriel stroked the exquisite little demon carvings on the bridge railing, gazing at the dark opposite side.
“Follow me, Kaylo,” she said after standing still for a moment, then stepped onto the suspension bridge.
Forty-Seven followed as well, but after taking two steps, he suddenly turned back and went to one of the men in black, extending his hand.

The servant was stunned, not knowing what 47 intended to do. His posture seemed to suggest he wanted to shake hands, but his master was still standing nearby—how could it be his turn? Besides, he didn’t think this steel creation, which was essentially no different from a golem, could have such thoughts. He looked at 47’s face, but couldn’t discern any intention from those deep red eyes. After hesitating for a moment, he still reached out and shook hands with that iron hand.

The guy’s screams and the smell of his burned flesh spread through the air at dawn.

Everyone’s nerves were tense. Aside from the man in black whose hand was burned, his eyes wide with unbearable pain and his mouth almost unhinged, the other vampires, including Di, had negative energy glowing in their needle-like pupils—Morril turned back and quickly summoned a powerful attack spell from her memory.

But 47 did nothing further. He released his hand; the other man’s palm was burned, his fingers stuck together, and his skin had cracked under the heat, revealing dark muscles.

“Don’t touch others casually from now on,” he said to the kneeling servant, then walked away as if nothing had happened.

“I’ve never seen Di change his expression over anything before,” Morril said with a smile as they stood in front of the slowly opening tower door.

With his hands behind his back, 47 looked indifferently at the intricate patterns on the archway. “Most of those who claim to remain calm even in the face of disaster have simply never seen a real avalanche.”

The high tower was extremely dark, but it was still possible to make out the surroundings. There was complete silence along the way, not even a single servant in sight. Yet whenever Morril and the others reached a closed door, it would open at just the right time, and when they encountered stairs that led either up or down, some obvious sign would appear to guide them—such as a sudden streak of cold light along the handrail.

“This place is really strange,” Kayro whispered beside Morril when the three finally stood in front of an iron door decorated with the symbol of the Red Robe Mages.

It was utterly silent; even the slightest breeze from the dark corridors had stopped, as if the ghosts that had accompanied and guided them since entering the tower had finally completed their task and returned to their cold, narrow graves to rest.

Eight spheres lit up one after another—the iron door split along the blood-red spiral pattern and retracted into the wall.

“Welcome, Morril, my child.”

An old, hoarse voice came from inside the door—slow, deep, as if forced out of a throat, yet unusually clear, echoing in their ears as if the speaker were right beside them.

Morril bowed toward the dark hall.

“I am honored and surprised, respected Master Victor.”

47 stared intently, but this time his heat vision failed. Other than a faint glimpse of the floor at the door and a few columns, he was like an ordinary person, powerless against the deep darkness inside.

He stepped forward, but Morril stopped him.

“Don’t be reckless. Victor has never had much patience for those who provoke him,” she whispered beside him. “We’re not here to fight… at least not yet.”
The female mage’s whisper was very soft, but the aged voice responded immediately.
“Hehehe… but I also hold respect for the strong…” he replied with a kind laugh. “Of course, as long as they treat me with courtesy. Come in, children.”
As soon as he spoke, the hall lit up.
It was a magnificent room, longer than it was wide. The ceiling was extremely high, with four crystal chandeliers adorned with gems lining up in a row, casting brilliant light throughout every corner. On both sides of the hall stood exquisite white marble statues, all depicting mages, each twice as tall as a real person, with every fold in their clothes and wrinkle around their eyes rendered in stunning detail.
Victor, the Grand Mage in Red Robes, the head instructor of the Necromancy School of the Red Robe Order, the oldest, wisest, and most powerful being in Sel City, and also the actual ruler of this notorious place, sat on his throne waiting.
To Forty-Seven and Kayro, Victor appeared as a tall elderly scholar. His shiny black eyes revealed his abundant energy. His splendid red robe, of an outdated style, was tailored neatly, with several purple and green Aio magic stones floating around his head. He seemed calm and knowledgeable; though his thin face showed little smile, there was a hint of friendliness in his gaze.
But Moriel saw something different. She didn’t deliberately try to see through the false appearance Victor had created with magic, but perhaps because his true power was so immense, this decorative disguise seemed to her like trying to block the sun with gauze.
There sat a withered skeleton. The face and hands exposed outside the robe were completely shriveled, with paper-thin skin tightly clinging to the skeleton. All muscle, fat, and tendons had long since vanished over more than a thousand years. In the skull’s empty eye sockets lay dark eyeballs that glowed only due to the accumulation of magic.
As many had guessed and even discussed openly, Victor was a lich.
He gave Forty-Seven a meaningful look, then turned his gaze to Moriel. “You always manage to surprise me, my child.”
Moriel now roughly understood why the Grand Mage in Red Robes allowed her, a rebel, to live so freely. Victor’s will was law within the Red Robe Order—a decree that could not be disobeyed. Some had tried to challenge it, but they had all disappeared, while Victor remained alive—if what he was in now could be called “alive.”
“Thank you for your tolerance, Master Victor,” Moriel said with respect, truly from the heart.
“It’s nothing. Oh, please sit… Look, I’ve grown so senile.” Victor waved his bony hand, and with a faintly glowing magical mist, three chairs appeared on the floor—two small and one large.

“Morrill, actually, back then I had planned to recruit you into my necromancy faction… I still sometimes wonder what level you would have reached if you had been my student—whether you would have been able to handle things on your own.”
Morrill wanted to be humble, but Victor continued talking without giving her a chance: “Of course, reflecting on the past or longing for the future is meaningless. And your talent… specializing in prophecy is indeed the best fit for you. Your achievements already far surpass those of other Red Robe mages. Whether you leave Sel City or rise to prominence in the Agus Empire and become an outstanding archmage of prophecy… Morrill, I am proud of you.”
This wasn’t the Victor she knew. The female mage nervously tried to figure out what plans this usually cold, irritable, yet restrained Red Robe lich might have—his schemes often outnumbered what most people could conceive in a lifetime. It must be related to Forty-Seven, her intuition told her.
She glanced at Forty-Seven, who was sitting carefree in a chair, utterly unconcerned about how many scheming people were watching him.
Victor probably wouldn’t use force… Even the eight great masters combined might not be certain of subduing Forty-Seven. Even if Victor hadn’t seen the terrifying power of Forty-Seven’s blast used to seal Xuzexker, his wisdom should have given him some idea. Is he trying to achieve his goals indirectly by controlling me? It’s possible, but I’m no longer the helpless woman outside Rain Town facing Singer.
In just a short while, the female mage had considered many possibilities, but each seemed uncertain. So she wisely chose to remain silent. Even if Victor wasn’t as legendary as being over a thousand years old, he was still a lich who had survived countless trials and still laughed today, while she was not even thirty!
“…Isabella’s decision to give you up was the biggest mistake of her life.” Victor’s words made Morrill’s eyelids twitch.
“I also grew up watching Isabella. She has many strengths, but her overly passionate and irrational emotions are her fatal flaw. Of course, if she could limit such capriciousness to her personal life, it would just be another quirk among a mage’s many oddities—nothing unique. But she went too far… both with you and others. Morrill, are you interested in taking over her position as the prophecy master?”
The female mage was quite surprised. Prophecy master? If Victor intended to win her over, he couldn’t have offered a better deal. This meant Isabella… Morrill instinctively licked her lips, trying to come up with a vague, evasive response.
“No need to answer me right away.” A green Aio stone floated in front of Victor, each perfectly cut facet reflecting his dark eyes: “You’re still young, aren’t you?”
Victor’s feint really troubled Morrill.
“Yes, I suppose I’m not mature enough yet…” Morrill replied. Talking like this was exhausting. If possible, she would rather fight the lich head-on.

“Archmage Victor, then let’s talk about the urgent matters at hand.” Forty-seven suddenly stopped rocking in his chair, his red eyes fixed on the lich, directly saving Moriel from the awkward situation.
He used polite titles instead of referring to Victor as a dried-up specimen, which was quite comforting to Moriel.
“Hehehe…” The lich let out another hollow laugh, but there was little joy in his face or eyes. “Strange steel warriors, I’ve been wondering when you would take over this conversation… a bit earlier than I expected.”
He stood up from his throne, and a faint layer of dark clouds emanated from his robe, drifting around him.
“Come with me, children,” Victor said, raising one arm in an inviting gesture. “I have something to show you.”