Battle 3

A Wizard's Hand—level zero spell, the magical equivalent of a child's crayon doodle. Useful for lifting apples or flipping pages in a grimoire. Mildly amusing in tavern pranks.

But this? This was not a single hand. This was a symphony of sorcery. A hellstorm of fingers, palms, and eldritch rage.

Hundreds of Wizard's Hands, glowing with arcane fury, rained down pure destruction. It wasn't just arcane missiles—it was a blizzard, a meteor storm of purple-blue bolts that screamed through the air like pissed-off banshees. Each shot faster than an arrow, heavier than a war hammer, hotter than dragon breath.

General Seamos almost wet himself.

At first, he thought the entire Royal Wizard Corps had arrived. For a pile of dusty relics and half-melted noble jewelry? Impossible.

No. That's not protocol. Everyone knew the Royal Wizard Corps only deployed en masse if the enemy was literally scratching the palace doors.

Wizards were rarer than griffin eggs. They were pampered, fed only soft white bread and fine wine while the rest of the army chomped boiled roots and old regrets. They didn't sleep near noisy soldiers, didn't march in rain, and certainly didn't bleed for peasants.

So why—WHY—was there a walking apocalypse hovering over the ridge?

The figure descended slowly, cloaked in midnight-black robes, his face buried deep in a hood of shadows. Around him, the glowing hands spiraled in perfect formation, each firing nonstop, perfectly synchronized like a battalion of angry celestial pianists.

This wasn't spellcasting. This was spell-conducting.

Each arcane missile hit with terrifying precision. Orcs screamed. Orcs flew. Orcs ceased to be. Heads popped like spoiled fruit. Limbs tumbled through the air like ghastly streamers.

And the black-robed figure kept walking. Like a man on a calm evening stroll. Through a charnel house.

Seamos gawked. "Is that... Medivh?" he whispered.

For a second, it seemed plausible. The last time he saw that kind of power, it had been the legendary Guardian.

But no. Medivh wouldn't bother with cantrips. Medivh wouldn't hide his face. Medivh wouldn't show up here like a last-minute cavalry made of nightmares.

"General Seamos," the wizard's voice crackled through the air, old and steady, like thunder rolling down a library aisle. "Take your men and retreat. This field belongs to me now."

Seamos blinked. The soldier in him screamed to refuse—orders were orders, damn it! But he looked around. His men—what remained—were barely standing. And in their bloodshot, dirt-smeared faces, he saw something terrifying.

Hope.

If he didn't give the order, they'd all throw themselves back into the meat grinder. Out of duty. Out of pride. Out of sheer goddamn stubbornness.

But what if they didn't have to die?

The wizard tapped his chest. A Royal Wizard badge gleamed. Real. Undeniable.

Then, using a flicker of Wizard's Message, the stranger whispered a backup plan into Seamos's brain that made the general blink twice and mutter, "You're joking."

He wasn't.

Seamos roared to his troops: "Griffin Legion! The main force is clear! We're retreating—NOW!"

And this time, no one argued.

As the humans pulled back, the black-robed wizard raised his arms again.

And the hands followed.

The mountain groaned with raw arcane fury.

The storm was only beginning.