303: Tricks up the Tyrant's Sleeve

Tricks up the Tyrant's Sleeve

The damaged jar, which had slowly been tearing itself apart over time, finally shattered. At that very same moment, the beam of destruction hit.1

The Grand Shaman had completed her spell outside of the magic academy's detection, but she knew she couldn't hide such an enormous surge of mana just because she was out of sight. She had to rely on the surprise, the shock and awe of destructive might.

The experienced instructors reactively threw up all sorts of barrier-type spells and defenses. Transparent semispheres spread throughout the Reach like a plague. The white-hot light hammered down with an explosive roar. Shrill screams cried out. There were no corpses. All casualties were erased from that plane of existence.

"Hold on," Lance muttered to himself as cracks spiderwebbed through his transparent barrier. He didn't know how many students he had covered with his spell. He feared that if he looked away, his concentration would break. Beads of sweat dripped off bulging veins.

It may have been a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity until the white finally faded. Lance fell to a knee trying to catch his breath. He forced his head away from the ground and confirmed that most mages had survived. 'Goddess save us.' Quiet shock froze the students. The steps to the Reach opened and dozens of Watchmen marched up.

"Go!" Blood flowed freely from Lance's eyes and nose. Students ran down the stairs in droves. He did not join them. The instructors were the only ones trained for battle, and it was their duty to hold the enemies back. 'I don't know who survived but I need to buy time for their escape.'

"Get everyone out of here," instructors around him barked orders. "Notify the Capital that we're under attack!"

Pince shoved through the crowd and helped Lance to his feet. The narrow stairs only allowed so many to descend at once. "Should we help? Where should we go?"

"Cerlius!" Lance yelled. "Cerlius where are you? Take them to Mage's Shadow!" No one stepped forward, and a weight appeared in Lance's gut. Celrius was lying far away, just shy of a crowd of Demis. No instructor had been near them, yet they were fine. Cerlius however, was not. Blood pooled from where one of his legs should have been. '...no.'

Lance had known Cerlius for two weeks. The young student had tried to strangle him in their first encounter and later beat a student. Lance had walked in the Dimmer preparing to lecture him, but walked out conversing with a prodigy, a peer. Cerlius still had his list of questions clutched in his hands, a habit he had formed in between private lessons. Lance had seen so much potential in those two weeks. Now all that progress, the untapped potential, and clear memories, lay in the dirt, still as the dead.

Lance's vision blurred with tears. His green robe billowed as he raised his hands into the air and took aim at the cloud above. His rage, he usually calmed such a volatile emotion. This time he leaned on it to form dozens of magic circles. The cloud above twisted and turned. With a tug of his mana the cloud formed a tunnel, a tornado. "Cerlius, this is what you'd want, right; to make them pay? As your instructor, I'll make a good show of it!"

The tornado turned faster and faster until shapes launched out. Demons rained down, crashing into the building. Lance delved deep into a clear lake of unwavering concentration. Four more tornadoes formed around the building's perimeter. The more he killed, the more corpses he could fling at the living. The sickening crunch of bones was music to his ears.

Those that made it out, flapped their bat-like wings and brandished their weapons. Instructors fired spells off, sending the enemy in masses down into the sea of clouds below.

The Watchmen stood ready but the Demons never touched the Reach's ground. They simply circled around the mages. 'Maybe they're afraid of the Watchmen,' Lance thought, knowing the stone statues were meant for close-quarters combat only. He was wrong, as he soon found out when a second, enormous magic circle formed high above the academy. The cloud above had split into two sections in order to survive like a lizard severing its own tail.

A domineering voice bellowed: "Again."

The instructors went pale, and threw fading bits of mana into their cracked barriers. Lance's eyes went wide and he let his spell dissipate. He reformed his barrier and shook his head, remembering the effects of demonic presence on one's mind. 'No. I need to focus on saving those left alive.'

All heads snapped to the sky, awaiting another strike.

A moment passed. Nothing happened. The magic circle hung over their heads, a looming threat, a storm ready to strike. Instead of an oppressive force pressing down, what fell was a gentle snow. The spell never activated.

The black snow fell in large clumps, blanketing the roof. Demons circled and cackled. They banged their weapons together and muttered words in their native tongue. A few more moments passed and the anxious instructors lingered under the protection of their barriers. The only ones free to move around were the Demis, who had no shield to hide under. They fled without looking back, much to the jealousy of everyone else.

'I don't sense anything from the snow,' Lance thought. 'It's probably a distraction. They want us to waste our magic. How did I not sense them sooner? Now Cerlius is gone, and it's my fault.' A bead of sweat rolled down his chin, and his eyes flicked to the black snow. 'Isn't that...that's black powder!'

The magic circle never formed just as the Demon King, Zolgon, intended. Magic circles never consumed much mana, but he still cursed under his breath. "Who knew the Humans had a wind mage that powerful? Grand Shaman, do you think you can carry on?"

"...yes," the Grand Shaman was on a knee, using the last bits of her mana to keep the magic circle's shape. "I won't let this all be for naught…" she nearly fell down in a fit of coughing. Zolgon looked at her sorry state and nearly stood to help her, nearly.

Most demons had been forced to descend. The ones who had remained had large sacks on their backs. They slowly fanned down the black powder, another gift from the rebels. "Alchemist," he called out to one of them. "This is the modified batch, correct?"

"Yes sir," the demon replied with a chuckle.

"Call me sir again and your head will fall off your shoulders," Zolgon threatened. If the demon wasn't such an asset, he would have fulfilled that promise long ago.

The sacks were emptied. "Branath..." Zolgon still sat, observing the funny little faces of despair through a telescopic lens. "Use draconic fire. I don't want to risk the mages extinguishing the flames."

"Yes, your highness." Branath took a deep breath and the enormous magic circle changed. With the last shreds of her mana a single blue ball of flame fell, the last nail in the mages' coffin.

A pillar of flame rose back up with a bang louder than even Branath's previous spell. The barriers cracked open. Limbs and corpses flew over heaps of tossed, scorched earth. The entire building shook from the blast. The roof collapsed into the third story. The survivors fled in all directions like rats.

Branath turned back to Zolgon. "Wouldn't this risk killing Maker's champion, Doevm?"

Zolgon smiled as he replied. "Branath, do you think I'd make such a simple mistake after your mentorship? He's most likely protected by her, similar to how I'm protected by the God of Evil. And if he is dead…" Zolgon shrugged. "He probably wasn't worth the hassle."

He tossed his telescopic lens to one of the black powder workers behind him and took a deep breath before bellowing: "Charge!" At last the demons descended like vultures upon a corpse, ripe with a frenzied hunger for battle.

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