Duke's mind was foggy, the wind howling in his ears as pain lanced through his ribs like a hot poker. Groggily, he blinked, expecting the scorched halls of Northshire Abbey—but no. His vision swam with the twisted silhouettes of Elwynn Forest's gnarled trees, dark and ominous.
"Boy, can you hear me?"
The voice was low, masked in a false calm. Duke, still gagged by pain and semi-consciousness, immediately knew this was no familiar friend. He tried to answer, but only managed to cough up a blood bubble that popped like a grotesque balloon.
Then he noticed the dagger.
It was buried in his right side, neatly lodged between ribs. Paralysis poison dulled the agony, but only slightly. Pain flared through his chest with every heartbeat, and Duke was certain he could feel his own lungs gurgling.
"Tch. If only you hadn't made such a mess of Sir Brando today, boy," the assailant sneered. "Maybe you'd have gotten lucky. The Brando family could've made you a gate wizard—feed you scraps, maybe even throw you a bone. But no, you had to be clever."
Duke tried to curse, scream, do anything to express how monumentally screwed he felt—but all that came out was another grotesque sputter.
So this was it? The noble's revenge? Not with grand armies or legal punishment—no, just a back-alley shank in the ribs and a one-way ticket to Fishman Buffet.
"See that?" the rogue whispered, yanking Duke's head toward the misty lake ahead. "Perfect little village of murder and scales. A few fish-headed murlocs, a dumb kid who went on a midnight stroll, and a kingdom that just shrugs its shoulders. No evidence. Just murloc drool."
Duke trembled, dread curling around his spine as he imagined himself being chewed into sashimi.
"Dead already? Pity." The rogue sounded genuinely disappointed. "Was hoping to record the screams on a magic crystal for Sir Brando. Ah well, fish scraps will do."
The rogue crouched, grabbing Duke by the legs with all the tenderness of a sack of potatoes. But the moment he tried to lift—
No, not vanished. Teleported? No again. Behind him.
"Really? Then you won't mind if I use the same method on you," came Duke's voice, colder than a grave in Winter Veil.
A blazing inferno the size of a basin crashed into him like a meteor. The ground exploded, the trees caught fire, and the rogue was launched like a ragdoll on fire. Screaming.
But Duke wasn't celebrating.
"Again... One's not enough."
He nearly puked from the magical recoil, but pushed forward. His hands shook as he formed another fireball, and this one came slower.
"Casting time extended. Spell power increased. Please survive."
The rogue, charred but moving, lifted his face. His eyes—bloodshot, burning with rage—locked on Duke.
You. Are. Dead. They said.
"No," Duke growled. "You're the roast tonight."
And the second Pyroblast ignited in his palms.
The system kept beeping: "The host has detected a backlash of mana, the chance of spell failure has increased by 38.78%, and the balanced input of fire elements has automatically begun... The casting time has been extended to 8 seconds, and the power of the spell has increased..."
If he had a choice, Duke would never stand there stupidly and rub the fireball for seven seconds. The tragedy is that Duke, the so-called magic apprentice, has only this one spell. He mastered the Pyroblast for no reason, but he can't even do the Fireball before Pyroblast.
Facing a thief with high agility, high speed, and strength many times stronger than himself, Duke knew very well that his other melee attack methods would be ineffective.
The only option is to use Pyroblast!
The thief was still rolling on the ground covered in flames. Although the flames wrapped around his body could cause continuous damage in addition to the instant damage of Pyroblast, Duke could clearly see that the fire was weakening.
8 seconds to live or die.
When the thief regains his mobility, it will be Duke's death again.
And the forest held its breath.