475. A Warlock Who Reached the Limits of the Arcane! Seven Golden Mountains!

Without hesitation, Allen cast an appraisal on the middle-aged warlock.

While stats alone couldn't determine a spellcaster's true strength, they still provided a useful reference.

After all, using standard tactics meant for a typical sorcerer against a close-combat battlemage with exceptional staff skills could easily end in disaster.

[Name: Ronnie Dickinson]

[Attributes: Strength 24, Agility 31, Constitution 31, Perception 99, Arcane 199]

Immediately...

Allen, who had just taken a step forward to strike, froze mid-motion as the warlock's stat panel appeared above his head.

Perception: 99!

Arcane: 199!

Good news: the enemy was a typical warlock—not like Vilgefortz from the original work, who could outfight witchers with his absurd melee prowess.

Bad news: this warlock was extremely powerful. A perception of 99 and an arcane stat just one point shy of 200.

Allen guessed that both values—like the warlock's physical attributes—had likely reached what was considered the Extreme: First tier in the Witcher Codex.

He immediately pushed aside any arrogance born from recently banishing an evil god—and any underestimation due to the warlock's calm, harmless demeanor. Allen became fully alert.

He was thinking...

The strength of those lightning bolts from earlier—even if cast instantly—shouldn't have been achievable under just extreme arcane limits. The speed, frequency, and power all exceeded what one would expect.

In fact, Allen shouldn't have been able to dodge them all. At least one should have struck him.

Which meant...

Either this warlock was simply an experimental subject with exceptionally high attributes,—or he was pretending, disguising himself as a normal warlock.

Considering that Ronnie Dickinson had strength, agility, and constitution comparable to an average witcher—top-tier for a mage—he had either undergone extensive training… or body modifications.

And either scenario proved one thing:

He was no ordinary lab warlock.

So why was he hiding his power?

"How unfortunate—you've made a foolish decision."

Ronnie Dickinson must have sensed the probing of the appraisal. The gentle, scholarly expression on his face turned cold.

The sparrow's chirping in the chamber came to an abrupt halt.

It was replaced by chaos—the thunder of countless footsteps shaking the entire lab.

He must've used some method to alert the guards, because as soon as the sealed bronze doors nearly a hundred meters away opened, Drakenborg's soldiers were charging straight in. But their arrival would still take a short moment. Meanwhile, roaring flames—carrying Elisha's fury—twisted the air and erupted from his hands.

Allen's thoughts raced as his hands crossed in front of him.

"Bang!"

A faint purple Heliotrop Sign flared to life, shielding him and repelling the fire.

Allen immediately sidestepped, ensuring the spell didn't spread to Danthe or Bond. Then, dispelling the sign, he launched forward just as the fire tongues reached him.

"Boom!"

The flames struck a half-height glass tank near the wall. The container shattered instantly, spilling a green, murky fluid that hissed and vaporized.

A nauseating stench filled the air.

"Die! Die! Die!" Elisha screamed, face twisted in rage. "You dare harm your creators, witcher scum!"

The pain of his severed legs had driven him half-mad. Even after the flames spewed forth, he continued to raise the temperature. The red turned incandescent white.

A serpentine blaze, like a twisted white snake, trailed Allen's movements.

The fire melted a steel table and completely liquefied the torture bench split by Ronnie's earlier lightning. But it couldn't catch Allen.

With fluid footwork, he continued to evade in the cramped space, which only made the room hotter—like an oven—under the pressure of the magical heat.

Fortunately, witcher physiology made them far more heat-resistant than mages.

The best way to stop Allen at this moment would've been to team up with Elisha and attack Danthe and Bond instead. But Ronnie Dickinson didn't do that.

Standing calmly a few meters behind Elisha, he didn't cast a single spell. He didn't even warn Elisha that his fire element was already spinning out of control.

He was watching Allen's agile movements…

No!

This wasn't just observation of an enemy to devise counter-strategies—it was scrutiny, analysis… curiosity.

Ronnie Dickinson was using Elisha's unhinged rage to test and record Allen's combat performance.

Opening the lab doors and letting in the guards—

—that was merely to add intense pressure and push Allen to his absolute limits.

Allen realized instantly that Ronnie had set his sights on his body.

Still, he betrayed no reaction. Maintaining his previous speed, he dodged Elisha's magic while rapidly closing the distance between him and the two Rissberg warlocks.

Allen's sudden approach triggered Elisha's deep instincts of danger.

"I'll kill you! Kill you! KILL YOU!" he howled, eyes bloodshot with rage. He seemed to have forgotten that a far more powerful warlock stood just behind him—still raising the temperature of his spell.

When the flame's white core suddenly tinged with a hint of ghostly blue—

"Aaaaaah!"

A shrill scream rang out.

The fire that had been chasing Allen suddenly reversed—like a tired bird returning to its nest—and surged straight into Elisha's own palm.

The wounds at the stumps of his legs, previously sealed by cauterization, burst open once more—but this time, what poured out wasn't blood…

It was fire.

The fire element inside Elisha's body erupted into chaos!

"Not going to save him?"

Under the cover of the recoiling flames, Allen silently approached.

"No," Ronnie Dickinson's emerald eyes shimmered with magical light, reflecting scenes of brutal combat and Allen's exhausted face. "The road to greatness has never had room for a second person. His purpose is fulfilled."

"And besides…"

Just as a silver longsword was about to cleave into Elisha's bloodied and agonized face, Ronnie raised his staff—topped with a skull—and, shedding his previously calm and gentle demeanor, burst into manic laughter: "Got you! My masterpiece!"

No incantation was uttered. The skull atop Ronnie Dickinson's staff shattered instantly.

A black sphere of magic emerged the moment it cracked, and in a flash, expanded into a two-meter-wide web. It lunged toward Allen, who seemed fully committed to his sword swing and too late to pull back.

"Watch out, Allen!"

Danthe shouted in desperation, his eyes wide with panic.

Ronnie Dickinson laughed wildly, "Too late!"

To capture a living specimen, one had to wait for the prey to drop its guard—wait until it was exhausted. The perfect moment to strike was always when the prey lunged for the bait.

He had plenty of experience in such things.

Then, in the very next instant—

The black web struck Allen. But it passed straight through him, like through thin air, and instead wrapped entirely around Elisha—who was screaming and engulfed in fire.

Immediately—

Elisha's screams ceased. He seemed completely sedated, all will to resist gone.

And then—

"Boom!"

Flames exploded upward like a blazing torch, licking the ceiling.

Yet even amidst the inferno, the black web remained tightly wrapped around the now-charred humanoid figure.

Where is my masterpiece...?

Ronnie Dickinson froze in disbelief.

"I'm the one who caught you."

A soft whisper echoed in his ear.

At that same moment came the sound of a magical barrier shattering.

Ronnie Dickinson whipped around—and locked eyes with a pair of cold, azure, beast-like pupils.

What kind of eyes were those?

A chilling aura of death swirled within them, like a storm and blizzard over a frozen sea in the heart of winter.

Ronnie Dickinson had never seen such eyes. Looking into them was like staring into death itself. But in the very next breath, he realized the grim reality of his situation.

His staff—its tip now empty—trembled slightly in his grip.

Ronnie Dickinson's filthy lab robe once again flickered with the glow of a magical shield.

Almost simultaneously—

"Clang!"

Another heavy strike landed, and the freshly conjured magical shield shattered instantly.

Yet Ronnie Dickinson remained completely unharmed—not even a single hair out of place, not having moved an inch from where he stood.

Clang!

Clang!

Clang!

------------------------

Five strikes per second!

"Stop struggling, child," Ronnie Dickinson sneered with apparent ease, though a faint unease tugged at him. "I could play this little game with you all day long."

"You've been through so many battles. How long can your stamina really hold out?"

"Even if you somehow manage to catch me off guard for a moment…"

He tugged open the front of his robe, revealing three differently colored gemstones glittering with radiant magical light, set as buttons on his black mage's robe.

"You must already know their names and functions—especially since you were cunning enough to steal some of them…"

In truth—

He had no reason to feel fear.

He could easily stop casting rapid defensive spells and instead trigger one of the instant-cast gems to knock the Witcher away—maybe even kill or capture him on the spot.

But instant-cast gems were expensive. In his century-long life, he'd only been able to gather five—at great cost in contributions and wealth.

Moreover—

A creeping sense of dread gnawed at his instincts. His intuition warned that if he stopped casting for even a second… he would die. That thought alone forced him to continue clumsily, even pathetically, re-casting his shields over and over again.

Still, as he had claimed, he could do this all day. Shields cost him nothing but magic and effort—but Witchers didn't have that kind of endurance.

'The advantage was his!'

So he suppressed his growing unease and continued to try persuading: "Why not surrender? Stay willingly—for the sake of humanity's future!"

"I can make the call. I'll have your two companions released. I'll order Evenson to let them—"

"No!" Danthe shouted desperately, despair tightening his voice as he saw Ronnie's masterful spellwork and the three gems that gave him an overwhelming advantage. "Don't listen to him! Let me stay—take Bond and escape!"

Ronnie Dickinson smirked with contempt. He didn't reply, preparing instead to continue his offer—

"Clang! Clang!"

A few more magical shields shattered. Then Allen suddenly stopped attacking.

Ronnie Dickinson assumed the Witcher had finally given up, and laughed, "A wise decision—"

Then, as he turned his head and once again looked into those piercing, ice-blue eyes—

It was as though a hand clutched his throat.

A suffocating terror surged through him, the cold grip of death sliding bony fingers across his heart.

Tap, tap~

The footsteps echoed like a death knell.

A flash of silver light—so bright, it stung the eyes.

He blinked—instinctively.

And in that instant, the world flipped upside down. His body felt strangely light, the ceiling spun…

Through a disoriented, spiraling perspective, he saw a headless corpse.

A black mage's robe, symbolizing his position in the High Council. And three gemstones—so familiar…

Suddenly, it all became clear to him—

He was dead.

"But… why didn't the gems activate?"

That was his final thought.

In the next moment—

Ronnie Dickinson, a warlock affiliated with Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization and a High Council sorcerer of the Conclave of Mages, fell into an eternal sleep.

----------------------

"Phew~"

Letting out a heavy breath, Allen crouched down in the pool of blood and quickly retrieved the three instant-cast gems from Ronnie Dickinson's chest.

One emerald, two rubies…

Heavy in his palm—the weight of wealth.

"No one gets rich without some unexpected windfalls..." he muttered, opening his reagent pouch and dropping them in.

After ambushing Vilgefortz, he had inquired about the price of instant-cast gems. He'd even thought of saving up to buy one as a gift for Lady Vera.

But he soon discovered they were priceless and not publicly sold—circulated only within the Wizard's Guild, and apparently only available to mages.

Which made sense.

After all, high-level spells couldn't be cast instantly. A gem capable of storing such a spell meant life or death—either your own or your enemy's.

As strategic assets, they were strictly regulated, never allowed to flow outside the Guild.

And yet today, he had claimed seven in a single battle.

"Tsk tsk." Having rescued Bond and vented his fury, Allen clicked his tongue in admiration and thought,

"The warlocks from the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization are really well-stocked. Merchants by profession really are different from academy scholars..."

He thought back to the warlocks he had encountered before. Those from Ban Ard might've held high positions, but not even Vice Dean Jenks, Tomas Moreau, or Monck carried instant-cast gems on their person.

But these Rissberg warlocks? He had barely encountered seven of them—and each had a gem.

Then again, maybe the Ban Ard warlocks didn't consider themselves at risk, being researchers and teachers within the academy. They likely didn't feel the need to carry such gems.

Whereas Drakenborg was essentially a prison, positioned at a critical junction, and the Rissberg warlocks often went out on assignments—naturally, they'd be far more cautious.

"Still," Allen thought, "the world's heading into chaos. Before long, whether from the academy or the organizations, every capable mage is going to be scrambling for instant-cast gems…"

Then again, even if the gems could mean the difference between life and death—they weren't something one could rely on completely.

Take Ronnie Dickinson, for example. He'd just died—even though he had three of them.

Granted, that was due to [Witcher] magic, which was unusual.

But there were other examples too.

Back in the Forest of Passolon, when he traveled with Vilgefortz, they'd been accompanied by Ban Ard's top-ranking warlocks. They knew they were going up against the Wild Hunt. And yet, among those who died, there had definitely been warlocks carrying instant-cast gems. But those gems never even activated—obliterated in an instant by the Wild Hunt's massive fireballs.

Thinking of that…

Allen rose to his feet and muttered, "Mm… When I get back, I need to increase my fire element affinity and learn the 'Standard Wild Hunt Fireball Spell' as soon as possible…"

At that moment—

Danthe, who had been shielding Bond and had already resigned himself to dying in Allen's place, found himself stunned.

He hadn't even had time to process his emotions before seeing Ronnie Dickinson's head cleanly severed by what looked like a very ordinary sword strike.

He looked down at the body wearing the High Council sorcerer's robe, his thoughts spinning. He opened his mouth, and out came a dumbfounded line:"That warlock… is dead?"

.....

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