THE WITCH DOCTOR IS HERE!(chapter 158)

Chapter 158

But there was no escape. A second vial sailed through the air, and where it shattered, the ground erupted. Black, writhing tendrils burst from the stone, wrapping around legs and arms, dragging screaming wizards into the dark. "Hold the line!" someone shouted — but their voice was cut short as a dagger flashed through the air, burying itself in their throat. Panic spread. Spells flew wildly. The air burned with curses and hexes— 

But the witch doctor never flinched. He walked through the fire and lightning, untouched and uncaring. Every step brought death. A flick of his wrist sent another vial spinning, and where it burst, the stone itself began to melt — a corrosive acid that spread with terrifying speed. They fought. They died. One battlemage, desperate, raised his wand and prepared to Apparate— 

But the poison in the air had done its work. His mind fractured, his senses blurred— And with a sickening *crack*, his body folded inward, his legs and arms twisting in ways they never should. He hit the ground in a broken heap. The scarred leader bellowed, his voice a mix of rage and fear. "COME OUT AND FIGHT!" The witch doctor tilted his head — and then, finally, he moved. One step. Two. A blur of motion— 

And then he was among them. He didn't use his wand. He didn't need it. A knife flashed in his hand, and a throat opened in a spray of crimson. A vial exploded against a shield, and the wizard behind it collapsed as their body dissolved from the inside out. The leader charged, his wand blazing with raw power— The witch doctor caught his wrist. 

There was no sound — no spell — just a sharp, snapping twist. The leader's arm broke, his wand falling uselessly to the ground. The knife followed, and his life ended a heartbeat later. The last few tried to run. But the mine was no longer theirs. Illusions turned against them, twisting paths into endless mazes. The walls themselves shifted, stone closing behind them. They screamed— But there was no escape. When the witch doctor finally stood alone in the silent, blood-soaked cavern, he tilted his head upward. There was no joy in his work. No satisfaction. Only silence — and the promise of more blood to come. 

-scene change-

The Amazon rainforest stretched endlessly — a dense, suffocating expanse of green where sunlight barely touched the ground. The air was humid and thick, alive with the sounds of birds and insects, but beneath it all was a tension — an unnatural stillness. Deep within the trees lay the Order of Merlin's outpost, a crude but fortified encampment surrounded by protective wards. Fires burned in massive stone braziers, casting flickering shadows over the hooded figures that moved among the ruins of ancient stone altars. The Acolytes of Flame gathered in clusters, their low murmurs blending into the rustling of leaves, while the three Warlocks of Ash stood watch, their demonic masks gleaming in the firelight. And above them all, levitating with an air of absolute control, the Arcane Archon waited — his eyes glowing like twin stars beneath his shimmering, ethereal robes.

The first explosion came without warning — a thunderous crack as the entrance gate erupted in a cloud of fire and splintered wood. Dust and debris filled the air, and before the Acolytes could react, a cascade of glass vials sailed through the haze. They shattered on impact, and the jungle floor became a battlefield of chaos. From one burst a wave of liquid flame, igniting the ground in a roaring inferno. Another released a cloud of jagged ice, spikes impaling the closest acolytes where they stood. A third erupted into a corrosive mist, and the screams that followed were wet and gurgling as flesh melted from bone. The Acolytes scrambled to defend themselves, their wands flashing with fireballs and lightning — but their spells were wild and unfocused, fear already taking root.

"THE WITCH DOCTOR IS HERE!" one of them cried — but the warning came too late. Another vial hit the ground, and the very air turned against them. A gale of razor-sharp wind howled through the encampment, slicing through robes and flesh alike. Limbs were severed, bodies collapsed, and blood soaked the soil. The few Acolytes who managed to conjure barriers watched in horror as a black, viscous fluid spread across their shields — and then began to eat through them, dissolving their defenses with terrifying ease. One by one, they fell — some torn apart by elemental fury, others dying slowly and painfully as toxins reduced them to convulsing heaps.

The Warlocks of Ash stepped forward, their masks betraying no emotion. They moved with practiced coordination, their wands raised as they unleashed a barrage of destructive magic. A storm of fire and lightning filled the clearing, and the very ground shook with their power. From the flames rose massive constructs — hulking beasts of molten rock and crackling energy that surged toward the dark figure emerging from the smoke. The witch doctor was silent as ever, his mask reflecting the inferno — and then he moved. With a flick of his hand, a blackthorn wand slid into his grip. "Confringo." The word was barely whispered, but the effect was immediate — an explosion ripped through the air, sending one construct hurtling backward in a shower of molten debris.

"Incendio Tria!" one Warlock roared, unleashing a towering inferno — but the flames parted as the witch doctor stepped through them, unharmed. A slashing motion with his wand and a slicing curse flashed out — the Warlock's arm separated from his body in a spray of blood. Before the man could even scream, another spell followed — "Diffindo Maxima" — and his torso split open, spilling his insides onto the forest floor. The remaining Warlocks redoubled their efforts, one conjuring a storm of jagged obsidian shards while the other summoned a massive serpent of living flame. But their desperation only fueled the witch doctor's rage.

The memory of his family's tombstones burned in his mind — and his brutality followed. "Sectumsempra!" The air itself screamed as invisible blades tore through the battlefield. The serpent of fire burst apart, and the shards of obsidian were swept aside as one Warlock fell to his knees, his body opening in deep, agonizing gashes. "Crucio," the witch doctor whispered, and the final Warlock's screams filled the night — high-pitched and broken as his body convulsed, his bones cracking under the relentless agony. He didn't stop the curse — not until blood leaked from the Warlock's eyes and his heart finally gave out.

The clearing fell silent, the only sound the crackling of flames and the rustling of trees. And then there was only one. The Arcane Archon descended slowly, his glowing eyes meeting the witch doctor's unblinking mask. Power radiated from the sorcerer like heat, and the air warped around him. The ground trembled beneath his feet. But the witch doctor did not falter — not now. The true battle was about to begin.

The Arcane Archon hovered above the battlefield, his robes rippling with raw magical energy. The air shimmered around him, distorted by the sheer force of his power. Yet even in the face of the carnage, his voice remained calm, almost curious. "Who are you?" he asked, his glowing eyes locked on the witch doctor's unmoving form. "Why this slaughter? What do you hope to gain from the blood you spill?"

The witch doctor stood silent, the mask a blank and uncaring visage. The Arcane Archon's fingers tightened around his staff. "Speak!" he demanded, his voice carrying the weight of command magic. "If you have come for vengeance, say it. If you seek justice, claim it. But do not hide behind silence like a coward." Still, the witch doctor said nothing. The wind hissed through the clearing, and the flames crackled around the shattered remains of the Order's outpost.

Then, at last, the witch doctor spoke — a single word, cold and cutting: "Weaklings."