Paragon of Destruction

The hall had exploded into chaos the moment the Academy mages and guards attacked, and for a time, all Arran could do was desperately dodge the mages’ attacks while fighting off the guards.

That he still remained standing was only because the Academy mages seemed hesitant to kill their own, allowing him to use the guards to block them from attacking.

Yet while Arran was barely holding on, the other prisoners weren’t faring as well. Within minutes half of them lay dead, and more fell by the second, with both the guards’ weapons and the mages’ Essence attacks cutting them down mercilessly.

Seeing that the situation had turned desperate, Arran knew he had to use the last of the raw Essence within his body. There was only enough left for a few more attacks, but there was no point in saving it now.

Arran rushed forward, ducking behind a small cluster of guards to avoid a burst of Fire that lashed his way from the direction of the mages. In the blink of an eye, his sword cut down the guards, and suddenly there was an open path from Arran to the mages.

Barreling forward, Arran controlled the last of the raw Essence within his body, forcing it into a series of blasts that he launched at the five mages. Six attacks slammed into the small group, each of which far surpassed anything Arran could have managed by himself.

Two of the mages were killed outright, their bodies ripped apart by the violent energy of the raw Essence as it hit them. Two more were sent to the floor, and even if they weren’t killed directly, they were out of the fight for at least some moments.

The only one who remained standing was the Archmage, and even he appeared to be swaying on his feet.

Yet it wasn’t enough.

Arran had aimed the bulk of his raw Essence attacks at the Archmage, and seeing the man was still standing, he knew the battle was lost.

With the last of the raw Essence gone, Arran would have to rely on his own strength. And if even the raw Essence attacks weren’t enough to take down the Archmage, there was no way his own power could even harm the man, much less defeat him.

Despite this, Arran did not despair. If he was to fall, so be it, but he wouldn’t give up until he was well and truly defeated.

The remaining mages were still recovering from Arran’s attack, and he continued his rush toward them. One of those who had been sent to the floor was just getting back to his feet when Arran’s starmetal sword hit him in the neck at full force.

Although the blow did not decapitate him outright, the sword still cut deep enough to cause a fountain of blood to gush forth from his neck, and his body slumped to the ground just a moment later.

Without pausing, Arran hurried to the other downed mage, intent on killing the man before he had a chance to recover. Even if he could not defeat the Archmage himself, taking out the man’s allies certainly could not hurt his chances.

Yet before Arran could reach the downed mage, an overwhelming force slammed into his side, and he was swept away like an ant being struck by a giant.

He was smashed into a wall, and as he got back to his feet he could feel that this time, he was seriously injured.

Ignoring his injuries, he immediately rushed into the middle of the ongoing battle between the guards and the prisoners — the danger the guardsmen posed to him was nothing compared to the threat of the Archmage.

Facing an opponent he could not harm but who could kill him with a single attack, the only one thing he could do was to avoid his fate just a little longer.

He waded through the guardsmen’s lines, making little effort to attack them and only taking out those who got in his way. Fighting them wasn’t important now — all that mattered was that he did not remain in the same place for even a second.

Despite his best efforts to use the guards as cover, it did not take long before he was struck by another attack from the Archmage, and he was sent to the ground.

Ignoring his pain and injuries, he immediately got back to his feet and jumped to the side — just in time, because an instant later two guards near the spot where he had fallen exploded in a shower of blood and gore.

At this, Arran understood that the Archmage was no longer taking care to avoid harming his allies, and he knew the end was drawing near.

Already he could feel his movements being slowed by his injuries, and even using the guards for cover, it was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid the Archmage’s attacks.

Still, he fought on. More guards fell to his sword, and several magic attacks that had been aimed for him took down Academy guards instead.

Then another attack slammed into him, and again he was sent to the ground. This time, he had a harder time getting back on his feet, his body already driven far beyond its limits.

When he finally got up, he knew he had been too slow — the next attack would hit before he could move, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Yet the attack did not come, and when Arran looked at the Archmage, he saw that the man stood frozen, his face twisted in a horrified expression.

Arran turned around, and he could see that the collapsed hallway had somehow been cleared, the hundred-ton pieces of stone that had blocked it earlier now swept to the side.

In the middle of the hallway stood the short woman, accompanied by at least a dozen mages, none of whom he recalled seeing earlier.

Although the sight was right in front of him, Arran’s injury-muddled mind took some moments to register it. Finally, understanding dawned, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief.

They had made it. The mages tasked with freeing the prisoners had done so, and just in time to save Arran’s life.

"Kill him," the woman said with a look at the Archmage. Her tone was casual, as if she was talking about a fly to be swatted.

The mages who accompanied her attacked all at once, a dozen streams of Essence hitting the Archmage at the same time.

Even with Arran’s mind clouded by the injuries he had sustained during the desperate fight, he could still feel that the attacks were terrifyingly powerful. With a start, he realized that each of these mages was at least as strong as the man they were now attacking.

The Archmage went down in seconds, his body pierced, crushed, and torn apart by a barrage of devastating attacks.

Arran shivered at the sight. The seemingly invincible man who had come so close to killing him was defeated in an instant, without any hope of even defending himself.

Although his life had been saved, this stark reminder of his own weakness filled Arran with a deep sense of unease, and he did not allow himself to dwell on it. Instead, he turned his attention to the woman.

"You made it," he said, still only half believing that it was true.

"And not a moment too soon, it seems." She looked around the hall, where the last of the Academy guards were being slaughtered by her companions. "None of the others survived?"

Arran glanced toward the area where Windsong had fallen. "They were too strong," he said simply, voice thick with regret.

"There are no battles without casualties," the woman said. Then, a smile appeared on her face, and she continued, "But you... you performed even better than I expected."

To Arran’s eyes, the smile on her face looked unnatural, almost as if it belonged to someone else. "Who are you?" he asked.

"You don’t recognize an old friend?"

The woman grinned broadly, and a ripple went through her face. An instant later, only the grin remained the same, and the rest of the face now exactly resembled Panurge’s.

Arran knew he should be shocked, but after everything that happened since he broke out of his cell, he found himself unable to feel much of anything.

"Why?" he asked.

"I’ll explain it after we get your wounds looked at," Panurge said. If Arran didn’t know any better, he would have thought the man sounded worried.

Arran nodded, vaguely aware of the terrible shape his body was in. He was about to say something, but just as he opened his mouth, the world went black before his eyes and he collapsed.