Chapter 6: The Mage’s Battle

Wayne's heart pounded as he flipped through the Book of Greed in a fevered rush. His hands trembled—not only because he had just signed an unequal contract, but also because the contract's target turned out not to be human at all. It was… a dog.

At the very moment the contract was sealed, the second page sprang to life with a table of contents. As he opened the section devoted to the Spirit of Vengeance, the first subordinate revealed itself in horrifying detail.

Before his eyes, a grotesque image materialized—a mangled, half-rotted hound. One side of its face was marred by decay: its gums bared in a permanent snarl, one eye a milky gray while the other was nothing but a hollow, pitch-black socket. Its ribs jutted out from a sagging belly where all internal organs had long vanished. The remaining black fur clung desperately to its decaying flesh, and a sickly, yellowish fluid oozed like glue, patching its shattered body together. Even as an image, the stench was almost tangible—Wayne could almost smell the putrid odor, and he gagged, nearly vomiting in the back of the taxi.

"Hey, buddy," the taxi driver snapped, his tone threatening. "If you puke in my car, I'm tossing you out."

"Not my fault—your car reeks," Wayne retorted, his cheeks burning with embarrassment as the driver grumbled in protest.

Once the awkward exchange passed, Wayne resumed poring over the pages dedicated to the Spirit of Vengeance. The book offered both good and bad news. The Spirit—his new subordinate—was not merely a vengeful ghost; it was a magical creature forged by the Book of Greed. As Wayne's bound servant, it would act on his behalf, its every action fueled solely by Wayne's magical energy. But there was a catch: Wayne had no inherent magic of his own. His ability to sign the contract had come entirely because William's spell had been forced upon him. Without his master's magical energy, the spirit would starve into madness and eventually vanish.

Two grim possibilities emerged for the spirit's fate:

It could turn on its master, a ravenous fiend roaming the night as a new urban legend.Or it could wither away, cursing its master with its dying breath.

Wayne shuddered at the thought. He tried to reassure himself that dogs were loyal and that this creature—no matter how ghastly—would never betray him. At least, that's what he hoped.

There was a small consolation: the contract and its sacrificial mechanic had granted Wayne two abilities. He now had an uncanny sense of smell and a supernatural sixth sense—a beastly intuition he could use without expending magic. But these abilities were mere support skills. Not a single offensive spell or attack ability had manifested.

As the taxi rolled toward the warehouse district, Wayne's frustration grew. He had opened the Book of Greed and inadvertently bound himself to a spirit, and at the same time, he had been granted some "boon" abilities. Yet, everything felt half-baked—more supportive than combative. He cursed his lack of magical power. His newfound enhancements were useful for tracking and sensing danger, but they wouldn't help him fend off an onslaught if things turned ugly.

By the time the taxi reached the dilapidated Warehouse District—specifically, building F-66—it was nearly dusk. Wayne slumped in his seat, feeling weak and hopeless. To him, the cluster of warehouses loomed like ravenous beasts waiting to tear him apart. The Death Cult's outpost was within those buildings, and he wondered if he still had time to learn any useful magic before facing them.

Veronica, ever decisive, had already set off on an alternate route to the rear of the F-66 warehouse. They planned a pincer movement—a full encirclement of the cultists.

"Wayne," William called out, flashing two fingers in a mocking salute as he tugged him along, "I admire your guts, even if you're trembling like a leaf. I know you're scared out of your mind, but you came along—and that's what counts."

Wayne forced a laugh. "Sure, I came along. Not out of bravery or conviction, but because I'm terrified of missing my chance to get out of here alive. Who knows when I'll next see a real mage?"

"Relax," William assured him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Veronica's fierce, and with me around, you'll be just fine."

Veronica's reputation did speak for itself—her striking features and unyielding determination had a way of drawing fire away from the weak. Yet Wayne couldn't help but feel like he was the weak link.

By 6:00 PM, the sun had sunk completely beneath the horizon, and sparse streetlights began to illuminate the warehouse district. A dense fog, soft as gauze, draped itself over London City. Wayne's new supernatural senses kicked in, and the haze brought with it an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Every instinct told him that London's nights were fraught with danger. All he wanted was to crawl into bed and hide under layers of blankets.

But the fog also made the journey back treacherous, so he clung to William's side as they approached the warehouse outpost.

"Deathly aura… barriers… this is it…" William murmured as he scanned the area. He pulled a black hooded cloak from his bag and draped it over his massive frame before tossing one to Wayne. It was Veronica's black robe—a garment far too large and imposing on Wayne's slight build.

"Stick with me," William instructed. "When trouble breaks out, you just fall back. We'll handle the rest."

Using the cover of darkness and fog, William strode confidently into the warehouse, moving past a rudimentary barrier that served as a low-level alarm. The barrier, designed to detect intruders, was calibrated to ordinary death cultists—not someone with Wayne's thick aura of decay. His presence was almost ignored by the barrier, a fact that both comforted and unnerved him.

As they advanced, Wayne hoped that the barrier might also channel some magical energy—if only he could harness it to summon a true subordinate, one with offensive capabilities. But once again, the Book of Greed had shown its capricious nature. It had only bound him to that grotesque dog-spirit, which now offered nothing more than enhanced smell and eerie perception.

Dismayed, Wayne's frustration grew. Here he was, thrust into the life of a mage, yet completely devoid of any real power. All he could do was hope that this contract might evolve with time, or that he'd eventually learn to tap into his latent magic. In that moment, he longed with all his heart to become a true mage.

At the warehouse entrance, William listened intently, his senses alert. After a brief moment, Wayne's gaze hardened. He felt utterly inadequate, his voice small as he muttered, "This is pathetic. Is that really all there is to a mage's work?"

Soon, William's ears caught a faint murmur—prayers. The cultists had begun their mass supplication to the Death Goddess. With practiced stealth, William eased open the heavy warehouse door and slipped inside, motioning for Wayne to follow. Reluctantly, Wayne trailed behind.

Inside, the scene was surreal. A group of about twenty robed figures, their faces mostly hidden beneath hoods, stood in a circle around a design drawn with candles on the concrete floor. Their hands were clenched in fervent prayer, voices merging into a haunting chorus. The dim light barely revealed their expressions, but the intensity in their eyes—hidden though they were—spoke of fanaticism and wrath.

Wayne's stomach churned as he passed a row of metal shelves. Instinctively, he picked up a crowbar and clutched it tightly, deciding to feign participation. He forced a smile and, with a shaky voice, began to chant along with the group, his eyes fixed on a familiar inverted triangle drawn in wax.

There was no blood, no sacrifice—only the eerie devotion of these cultists. As their prayers swelled, the candles' flames flickered, and for a moment the triangle plunged into total darkness. Then, as if awakened by their fervor, eight tendrils emerged from the darkened symbol, twisting toward the warehouse ceiling in a chaotic, disordered dance.

Transfixed, Wayne could barely register the moment when a low, resonant whisper filled his ears, asking if he would sacrifice everything he had—if he was willing to offer himself completely. For a split second, he wondered if the Death Goddess herself was speaking. But then he paused, confused—why did the voice sound so... masculine?

Before he could piece his thoughts together, the murmur abruptly stopped. Wayne snapped back to reality and realized that every cultist had now turned to stare at him. Suddenly, he was the center of attention. His heart pounded as he swallowed hard, the oppressive darkness and the fierce eyes of the robed figures making him feel utterly exposed.

Out of the silence, a commanding voice rang out from the circle—likely from their leader. With a single sweeping gesture, the leader signaled his followers to close in on Wayne. "Intruder," he boomed, "this is not your place. Tonight, you shall receive the Death Goddess's blessing and become one of us."

Wayne's mind raced as he backed away, pressing the crowbar against his chest in a futile shield. It seemed that his presence—marked by his overwhelming aura of decay—had marked him as one of their own, or perhaps as a sacrificial offering. He could only hope that the promise of protection from William was real.

Before Wayne could muster another thought, a group of about twenty cultists brandished metal pipes and advanced menacingly. Beads of sweat poured down his face as he stammered, "This is just a small spat, right? There's no need for an all-out brawl—we could settle this with our fists and avoid… well, jail time."

Suddenly, a crash resounded from the far end of the warehouse. The tall, graceful figure of Veronica burst through a high window, shattering the glass with a single, precise throw. In her hand, she wielded a glass jar which she hurled at the center of the inverted triangle.

The jar shattered with a crisp sound, and a plume of vibrant green mist erupted, accompanied by a sudden burst of rapid plant growth. Lush vines and leaves exploded forth, twisting around the dark symbol and causing the eight tendrils to wither and droop limp as if drained of power.

"Damn it—nature's own wrath!" one cultist roared.

"Seize the heretic! She's ruined our sacred ritual; she must pay dearly!" the leader bellowed as his followers, enraged, redirected their anger toward Veronica.

At that very moment, the warehouse lights snapped on. William, ever the opportunist, scrambled to locate the power switch on the wall. With a determined glint in her eyes, Veronica narrowed them and calmly withdrew a small, exquisitely crafted handgun from her pouch. "Nobody move—one twitch and I open fire," she commanded, her voice icy and controlled.

In unison, the cultists halted. Their once-hysterical shouts dwindled to murmurs as they reluctantly dropped their metal pipes, aligning themselves neatly against the wall under William's terse orders.

Wayne stood frozen in disbelief. Was that all there was to this brutal contest of faith? A timid band of zealots, cowering before a single small handgun while the leader barked orders? It was almost laughable—if not for the grim reality of the situation.

As Wayne surveyed the scene, he couldn't help but think: This was the harsh contest of belief, the very battle of mages in this dark underworld. And here he was—an ordinary man with a crowbar, forced into a conflict he never wanted.

Just then, the cult leader advanced toward him, his eyes burning with fanatic fury. "Intruder! You are not welcome here," he spat, and with a swift motion, his followers surged forward to pin Wayne down. Whether it was their heightened sense of his deathly aura or mere blind obedience, they overpowered him swiftly.

"Enough!" William shouted, his face contorting with anger. "You promised to protect me!"

With adrenaline surging, Wayne managed to press his crowbar to his chest, summoning what little courage he had left. He muttered, "Alright then—if it's a fight you want, let's do this with our fists. I'm not about to let you drag me down into a bloodbath."

Before the confrontation could escalate further, a flash of movement caught everyone's eye. From a shattered high window at the far end of the warehouse, Veronica leaped into the fray with astonishing speed—almost like a bullet on a sprint. In her hand, she brandished the glass jar once more, hurling it directly at the center of the dark triangle.

The jar smashed, releasing that same, vibrant green mist and a burst of vigorous plant life that shattered the cult's morbid concentration. The leader's eyes widened in horror as the dark tendrils shriveled and collapsed.

"Damn it—all of nature's wrath!" one of the cultists howled, enraged.

Veronica's defiance ignited chaos. The cultists, now disoriented and fearful, hesitated as the confrontation took on a new, unpredictable form. William, standing beside Wayne, grinned and hollered, "That's the spirit! Now let's show these fanatics that we're not to be trifled with!"

In that moment, Wayne's heart pounded with a mix of terror and determination. Surrounded by the opposing forces of dark faith and the raw power of nature, he realized that despite his lack of magic, he was forced to fight—to prove that even an ordinary man could stand up against the madness consuming the night.

As the battle lines were drawn in the eerie glow of flickering warehouse lights and creeping green vines, Wayne tightened his grip on the crowbar, ready to do whatever it took to survive another night in this cursed, unpredictable world.