Seven minutes had passed since Michael had summoned the skeletons. With one gone already, the other would vanish on its own in three more.
That was the drawback. The undead weren’t intelligent, and they weren’t permanent. Still, they had their uses. They could scout ahead, spring traps, or serve as bait—just like the assassin had proven a moment ago.
Michael glanced into the fog. The haze swirled faintly, curling and shifting like it had a will of its own. It distorted sight, bent sound, and pressed on instincts until even a veteran’s senses could be misled.
What you saw here might not be what was really there.
And the inverse was true as well—what was real could vanish into nothing if the mist decided to conceal it.
That made the thought itch in the back of his skull: perhaps the assassin hadn’t killed his skeleton by mistake. Perhaps it had been bait. A lure to draw him closer. If so, then it had worked... though the end result hadn’t been in the assassin’s favor.
An hour and a half later.
Michael’s panel flickered at the edge of his vision:
He hadn’t expected it to climb this fast, but the climb hadn’t come free.
The high level advantage he carried wasn’t an illusion. But the advantage didn’t make him untouchable.
Three different times he’d been forced to run. Not out of cowardice, but survival. Against a warhammer-wielding brute whose close-range pressure threatened to smash him flat. Against a swordswoman whose footwork was so sharp that even his spear barely kept her at bay. And against a storm of flame from a trained mage.
The reality was clear. His strength could carry him far, but not through everything.
Of course, all these people were just three levels at most away from him at most.
[Active Participants: 218]
The number was falling quickly.
Michael knew once it hit a hundred, the challenge would end.
Seventy-five points. He only needed twenty-five more. If luck held, one or two opponents might be enough.
Michael pressed forward, pace quickening, boots crunching faintly on the mist-damp ground.
Then the world lit up.
A sphere of roaring fire burst out of the haze, slamming toward him with violent force.
Heat seared the air, the mist hissing as it boiled away. Michael dove aside, the blast smashing into the ground where he’d stood a heartbeat earlier, leaving a scorched crater.
His skeleton warriors behind him was torn to pieces by the blast.
An awakener stepped out of the thinning fog, staff raised, eyes cold and calculating as they continued to cast more spells.
[Class Identified: Fire Mage]
Michael narrowed his eyes.
Level 20. Same as me.
In real life, this opponent was just like him—a Level 40 Awakener.
But that was just it.
Unlike him, this was a true mage. Their spells chained seamlessly together, one flowing into the next without pause.
Fireball to suppress. A wall of flame to cut off angles. Blinding sparks to cover movement.
It was the rhythm of someone who had chosen the mage path fully, not someone split between magic and steel.
Michael couldn’t help but feel a flicker of envy. If not for his undead feeding him significant feedback every time they advanced—if not for the sheer physical power of his race—this was the kind of mage he might’ve been.
One entirely devoted to spells, not half-branching into close combat.
Michael clenched his spear tighter.
Though imperfect, it almost made him perfect.
A mage with strong close combat was just as terrifying as a strong combat supernatural with strong magic to boost.
And he was just that. Though, a mere prototype currently.
Another fireball streaked toward Michael, and this time Michael didn’t dodge.
He slammed his spear into the ground, his hands in the air, his fingers then lit with mana, drawing circles in the air as he conjured a shield of mana.
The impact shook him, flames crackling across his defenses before the shield shattered.
The mage frowned, clearly surprised he’d taken it head-on.
"Not bad," Michael muttered, eyes cold. "But not enough."
Michael surged forward, spear tight in his grip, even as his free hand carved glowing circles through the air. The runes snapped into existence in a flare of pale light, his mana coiling into them like blood into veins.
The fire mage’s staff whirled, flames spiraling outward in a blinding cascade.
"Acid Shot!" Michael barked, hurling green bolts from his fingertips. They sizzled through the fog forcing the mage to pivot sideways, cloak whipping from the heat of his own spellwork.
The mage answered instantly, fire runes bursting to life as he thrust his staff forward. A fire lance tore toward Michael with precision.
Michael slammed his heel into the ground, glyphs exploding around his boots.
A jagged shaft of pale energy erupted from the soil, colliding with the lance in an ear-splitting crack.
Mana residue sprayed like sparks from clashing steel.
Persistent bastard, Michael thought grimly, already sketching the next circle mid-charge.
"Blind Curse!" Black smoke spiraled from the runes he traced, surging toward the mage’s eyes.
But the man didn’t even flinch. His staff snapped once, twice—brilliant sparks flared, and his pupils glowed with unnatural sharpness.
The counter was immediate, instinctual.
Michael pressed harder.
"Bone Armour!" Ghostly plates clamped around his chest and arms, rattling as flames crashed into him.
The mage hammered him with spell after spell—fireball, firestorm, sparks—each one flowing into the next, runes igniting and dying in flawless rhythm. His casting speed was monstrous, his mana seemingly bottomless.
The clash turned into a storm.
Michael hurled an Acid Ball. The mage countered with a Flame Wall. Michael conjured Mana Arrows in a brutal rain, each dissolved in jets of searing fire.
When Michael poured mana into a sharp, brutal beam—"Death Ray!"—the mage rolled aside, cloak singed but body intact, already sketching the next circle before the smoke cleared.
Michael gritted his teeth. If he couldn’t outspell him, then he’d overpower him.
He drove mana into his veins, his muscles swelling, his bones hardening. "Bull Strength! Iron Skin! Limit Burst!" Veins lit like molten rivers under his skin.
Another circle flared at his palm.
Sparks shrieked as a fireball detonated harmlessly across its pale surface.
Still the mage did not falter.
Michael lunged, spear cleaving in a brutal arc, but the mage backpedaled, staff glowing, another spell already forming.
Michael growled, his body screaming under the strain.
Then he pushed further. "Berserk!"
The world bled red. His muscles quivered with monstrous power, his movements blurring. Each step tore through the firestorm—"Ghostwind Steps!"—the ground buckling under his speed as he closed the gap.
The mage raised his staff in desperation, half a circle still hanging incomplete in the air—
—but Michael was already there, spear gleaming bone-white, cutting down through flame and smoke to end it.
But just as his spear was about to hit, an arrow appeared in front of his face.