CHAPTER 111: ENTER THE CLOWN

The Archmage moved first, a massive wooden wand materializing in his hand with a shimmer of gold light.

For such a kind-looking old man, he sure didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

With a swift, practiced sweep of his wand, a ring of runes ignited behind him—each one flaring to life in a blaze of elemental color: fiery crimson, icy blue, crackling violet, and more. They hung in the air like celestial sigils, spinning slowly, pulsing with contained power.

The air warped under their pressure—heat shimmered, frost slithered across the stone, and static snapped at the ends of the Archmage’s beard. The runes beat in steady rhythm, like the breath of something ancient and divine drawn into waking.

"Arrogant child," he muttered, almost amused.

Then the runes responded in kind, releasing streams of elemental lasers—fire, ice, lightning, and wind—each one twisting through the air like serpents of pure force. It was the Archmage’s signature style: a fusion of raw elemental manipulation with refined rune artistry.

Unlike most spellcasters Marcus had seen, the Archmage didn’t finesse his magic—he overpowered reality with it.

Marcus, Cynthia, and Victoria reacted instantly, their bodies flickering with arcane light as they blinked across the chamber, landing beside the Archmage and the massive dragon’s looming form. Coordination was key—they couldn’t afford to be split up.

But the masked figure didn’t just stand still.

He moved—and not like a man, but like a puppet unhinged, limbs flailing with strange precision. He darted across the vast stone arena, his footsteps light, almost playful. The lasers homed in on him, relentless and hungry.

They struck inches away—stone shattered, steam hissed—but not a single shot hit its mark.

"Is that

supposed to be the skill of an Archmage!?" the masked figure cackled, his voice shrill and theatrical. He twirled mid-dash, dodging another blast with all the grace of a mad matador teasing a raging bull.

"He’s fast..." Cynthia muttered, brows furrowed.

The Archmage simply chuckled. "Quite arrogant. But this will be a good lesson..."

"Lesson?" Marcus asked, glancing over, confused.

Behind them, the dragon’s deep voice rumbled with amusement, its glowing eyes half-lidded and relaxed despite the chaos. "I agree," it murmured, like an old king watching a festival unfold.

The masked figure continued to dart and roll, still untouched, the lasers chasing him in an elegant, fruitless ballet.

"A lesson...? Please, do elaborate," the clown jeered, spinning midair as a bolt of lightning missed his shoulder by a hair.

"Mind your own business," the Archmage replied coolly. Then he flicked his wand downward, inscribing a massive crimson rune beneath his feet. A geyser of searing fire erupted—explosive and blinding.

The masked figure tumbled away, his cloak smoldering but still intact. Stone cracked and molten heat seared the edges of the arena.

He stood and dusted himself off.

"How rude..."

Without missing a beat, the Archmage turned and patted Marcus on the back with a mischievous grin. "You’re a student, aren’t you?"

Marcus blinked, then grinned. "I think I get what you’re hinting at."

He stepped forward, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles with a smirk. His eyes lit with challenge.

The dragon let out a low, rumbling laugh, clearly entertained. "You truly are bold, old man... turning a battle into a classroom."

The Archmage shrugged, his expression unbothered. "Students don’t learn unless they bleed. And with you and I here, we can stop whatever plan this fool thinks he’s enacting."

He ceased his magical barrage, allowing Marcus to take center stage.

"Are you sure we’re not underestimating him?" the dragon asked, his tone serious now.

The Archmage raised a brow. "Do you truly believe this clown can defeat you, of all beings?"

The dragon scoffed with a grin. "Of course not."

Elsewhere, Cynthia and Victoria exchanged a look.

"So... do we take turns or something?" Cynthia asked, chuckling awkwardly.

"Yeah, kinda intrigued myself," Victoria said, eyes narrowing as she watched the masked figure move. "No way I’m just standing here while Marcus gets all the fun."

The Archmage laughed, tapping their backs with his staff like a coach urging players onto the field. "Go wild."

And they did. Cynthia twirled once, arms rippling with fluid motion, like a tide about to crash. Water circled her feet and rose up like a serpent coiling to strike.

Victoria, in contrast, was still—fire wreathing her hands, dark flame licking her shoulders like a crown. Focused. Lethal.

"Let’s see him dance around this," Victoria muttered, flames curling around her fingers.

Cynthia grinned. "Hope he brought an umbrella."

Marcus, meanwhile, had already engaged.

For some unfathomable reason, he’d opted for melee combat first—his twin daggers gleaming with crackling runes, his feet moving in a steady rhythm.

But for him? It wasn’t a choice.

A man who could dodge elemental lasers and a fire geyser without breaking a sweat couldn’t be targeted conventionally. Magic wouldn’t land unless he was slowed.

And Marcus—wasn’t an Archmage.

Not yet.

Still, the scene that unfolded was breathtaking.

Marcus moved like a predator—fluid and fast—while the masked figure countered with the unorthodox grace of something inhuman. The two danced in the center of the ruined arena, clashing like shadows under moonlight.

Even surrounded on three sides, the masked figure showed no fear. His porcelain mask never cracked, never faltered.

Almost as if he wasn’t the threat.

Almost as if he was a distraction.

’What’s this bastard hiding?’ Marcus narrowed his eyes, then struck—two swift slashes, aimed at the head and chest.

But the masked figure dipped low, spun sideways, and slid between the blades like liquid light, his laughter never stopping.

"You’re testing me, aren’t you?" the masked man cooed, ducking another blow.

"Took you long enough to notice," Marcus smirked, then suddenly stepped back, blades lowered.

The masked figure blinked—just for a second—confused by the sudden retreat.

Then he noticed it.

To his right—a searing dark fireball and a crashing torrent of water—hurtling toward him like divine judgment.

The fireball spiraled like a comet, trailing black smoke that hissed against the cave’s humid air. The torrent roared beside it, glinting like polished steel under the magical light.

Victoria and Cynthia had entered the fray.

And they weren’t holding back.