Barbarian's Adventure in a Fantasy World-Chapter 316: The Four Pillars of Hell—Necrobix (5)

Some time earlier, inside the Mage Tower, the Tower Master crossed spells with Necrobix.

Darkness burst like a storm front, and the Tower Master slipped out of the explosion with a rippling step. His condition was dire. The robe that had wrapped his frame lay in tatters scattered across the battlements, and the bones that composed his body were cracked in several places and cleanly broken in others. Even so, he did not fall. He gathered himself, balanced his weight across splintered legs, and stared at Necrobix with eyes that refused to dim.

“That attack would have killed an Elder Dragon a dozen times over,” Necrobix observed, its tone almost appreciative. “You do possess the strength to be called the mightiest mage of the Mortal Realm.”

“In that case, it would be pleasant if you returned where you came from,” the Tower Master replied, and the words were acid in his throat.

“That is not possible. Piercing Round.”

The air whipped, and a bullet too clean to be seen cut forward. The Tower Master did not hesitate. He lifted a hand and traced a sigil that was already waiting inside his will.

“Sever Space,” the Tower Master chanted.

A slice opened before him. The bullet entered the wound in reality and vanished.

“Rejoin Space,” the Tower Master chanted again.

The severed segment unfolded behind Necrobix, precisely where its back should have been safe. The Piercing Round struck the spot directly between its shoulders. However, nothing happened.

“That is very close to the correct answer,” Necrobix said, unhurried and completely unruffled. “However, it remains my power. It cannot harm me.”

The Tower Master did not bother to argue. He twitched a finger made of carved bone. “Detonate.”

Necrobix rocked as if something had blown inside itself. Its eyes widened a fraction.

“You hid a spell inside my spell,” it said. “Even I did not notice.”

“And yet you did not receive so much as a bruise,” the Tower Master muttered with a click of the tongue.

He had hidden a charge within Necrobix’s own attack, carried it home when the Piercing Round returned through the seam in space, and triggered it inside the target. It was the equivalent of planting a bomb within a body. The method should have been decisive against anything that lived. Yet, Necrobix treated it as an inconvenience. The realization tasted like iron.

This was becoming untenable. Each form of dark magic that Necrobix loosed carried the authority of death. Ordinary defenses and standard counters did not apply. It felt as if his mind would burst simply from tracking and answering the shapes before they set. No civilized world should have allowed such a principle to move unchallenged.

That power is absurd, the Tower Master thought, not as complaint but as diagnosis. Necrobix changed whatever it touched into nothing, stripping away events as if they had not been written. To call it mere dark magic did not capture the brutality of the thing.

“You are strong,” Necrobix said again. This time, the recognition was pure. Even while the authority that killed concepts flowed through its workings, the lich before it still refused to die. He continued to respond, and more than once, he had answered with insightful counterattacks. Necrobix was genuinely surprised, but it knew how the Tower Master was defending against it.

“You are using Circle Magic,” it said.

“An old man’s old craft,” the Tower Master answered, and the voice that rattled through his chest cavity held a hint of grim pride.

“That is not the relevant part,” Necrobix continued. “You are casting several spells at once.”

The Tower Master had severed space, then spread the severed pocket, then stabilized the interior so it would not collapse, and then reopened the cut behind Necrobix’s back. He had also planted a second payload in the vector of the first and set it to trigger upon arrival. By Necrobix’s count, seventeen discrete workings had run in parallel.

That was how the Tower Master endured the authority of death. He matched a Pillar of Hell by layering mind and method.

“It should not be possible,” Necrobix murmured.

This was not a matter of talent. Magic required delicacy that bordered on fragility. Attempting to cast too many spells at once usually meant the mind tore itself to pieces. The Tower Master had been operating for an extended period without the slightest slur in his timing.

“You modified your mind,” it concluded.

“One advantage of becoming a lich,” the Tower Master replied, and now the pride was not hidden at all, “is that I am no longer bound by the same physical constraints.”

He had partitioned his mind. He had granted each partition an aspect of personality so that every facet could hold a separate incantation ready. He had rebuilt the theater in which his thoughts performed until the stage could hold an ensemble rather than a single player.

“All for magic,” he said, and there was no trace of apology in the words. “It is my proprietary method. How do you like it?”

“Madness,” Necrobix answered, and the word held no condemnation. It held awe. It was a solution even demons did not attempt, a cruelty of self engineered in the name of art. “If you had been active when I roamed the world, you would have been known as the worst of black mages.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” the Tower Master said dryly. “Now it is my turn. Surviving you has been a labor.”

Because his mind moved in chorus, he could fight while preparing magics that required long incantations. From the opening exchange until this moment, several of those workings had been ticking toward completion. The Tower Master lifted an arm that trembled despite his will. The prepared spell released.

Necrobix’s gaze sharpened. “This is interesting.”

“Take it,” the Tower Master said, and the heavens opened.

Columns of radiance filled the world. Necrobix vanished inside a deluge of light so bright that even the tower’s broken ramparts gleamed like glass. The power tasted holy, which should have been impossible for a mere spell. Elian, who had watched with his heart lodged high in his throat, exhaled a ragged sound that was almost a shout.

“It is working,” he breathed.

Within that light, demons should not remain whole. Even the greatest of them should feel the edge. Elian began to move toward the Tower Master.

“Master, we have won—”

“Do not approach, fool.”

The Tower Master flung him backward with a gesture and clicked his tongue again.

“I knew it would not take,” he murmured, and there was a sliver of wounded pride beneath the words. “It still stings to be reminded.”

“You mimicked holy power with magic,” Necrobix said as the brilliance guttered and its outline reappeared, unmarked and calm. “That is astonishing.”

Elian’s pupils dilated. “There is not a single wound.”

“Do not be unfair,” Necrobix replied. “That was very dangerous. You did pierce my defense. Witness my fingertip.”

It lifted a hand and showed the end of one finger. A faint scorch marred the tip, the kind of mark one received by pressing down the wick of a candle to snuff it.

That was all. The trump the Tower Master had nurtured for an age had burned the end of a finger. Joy drained from the faces along the ramparts. Despair crept in its place. The Tower Master did not try to comfort anyone.

“So you can kill holy power as well,” he muttered. “That’s madness.”

“I am the one who is surprised,” Necrobix answered, and for the first time, its voice held the slightest thread of heat. “You broke through death. You are dangerous. Your reputation is justified. It would be wise to dispose of you quickly.”

It reached out. The Tower Master formed the next defense. He did not have the time. Necrobix stilled and tilted its head.

“It seems I can’t use much of my power,” it said. “The other fronts drew more power than planned.”

Elian’s eyes flicked to his master. The Tower Master’s sockets narrowed. Necrobix’s presence was thinning, and it was not a trick to draw another spell.

“This was enjoyable, Tower Master,” Necrobix said. “We will meet again.”

“You think I will permit that?”

The Tower Master moved his hands faster than any human flesh could have borne. He raked the place where Necrobix had stood with a net of mana that represented nearly all the power he could exert in a single instant.

Something caught. Necrobix’s eyes actually brightened with interest.

“You intruded even here. You are truly impressive,” it said, smiling. The expression was as thin as a blade. “I have decided. I will kill you.”

The silhouette thinned like frost and vanished. The Tower Master sagged until he finally let himself sit.

“Damn it all,” he said to no one. “At my age, this kind of labor is intolerable.”

“Is it over?” Elian asked him, wavering on his feet.

“Yes,” the Tower Master said. “It has been a century since I spent this much at once. Help me stand.”

Elian slipped under his arm and bore part of his weight, and his face remained knotted with confusion. “Did we win?”

“Do you hear yourself?” the Tower Master asked him. “It misjudged its draw while pulling strength from the other sites.”

“What does that mean?”

“Necrobix is not only here.” The Tower Master clicked his tongue in open distaste. “There are three bodies on the Mortal Realm. One stood in the elven sacred ground, one stood here, and one stood in the dwarves’ holy land.”

Elian gulped. “How is that possible?”

“Look there,” the Tower Master said.

Elian followed the pointing finger to the place where Necrobix had evaporated. A human corpse lay where the demon had been.

“What is that?”

“The reason it can appear in three places at once,” the Tower Master said. “This is a calamity.”

A monster of that magnitude had descended in person. The Tower Master could not defeat it. The worst part was that he still could not name the shape of its ability. He had not seen its bottom. For the first time in a very long while, he felt a wall with both hands.

“It cannot be helped,” he said at last.

He had wanted to be left alone to his study, but the world would not allow it. He would require help.

“I would prefer freedom, but there is no choice,” he said. “We must ask for help. Elian, preserve the body. I will analyze it later.”

“Y-yes.”

The Tower Master disappeared. Elian stood alone in a ruin of scorched stone and falling dust.

***

The fight between Ketal and Necrobix ended. The pressure that had weighed upon the dwarves’ holy land eased as if a mountain had been lifted from their chests. Even so, Grombir and Serena did not step forward at once. The memory of that presence was enough to make their legs feel as if they belonged to other people.

Ketal arrived a moment later, and both of them struggled to find their breath.

“What happened?” Serena asked Ketal.

“We won,” Ketal said. “For now.”

Grombir stared. “What?”

“Truly,” Serena said, and the word almost broke in the middle. “Is that true?”

By every visible measure, it had to be. One of the Four Pillars of Hell had been driven from the Mortal Realm. The conclusion seemed obvious. Ketal’s expression was not triumphant—It was thoughtful.

“I am not sure,” he said.

Necrobix had allowed his final cut to land too easily. It had felt as if the body had gone slack before the blade reached its neck.

“Was it a clone?” Serena asked him.

“No. It was not an avatar,” Ketal answered. “It was the original.”

That much he could state with confidence, and yet the end did not satisfy him. “I do not know whether I truly defeated Necrobix.”

Grombir frowned. It was difficult to reconcile. Ketal had said he faced the true body, and then he had cut off its head. If that did not count as winning, he didn’t know what would.

“We should confirm,” Ketal said at last. “Grombir, can you call Hephaite again?”

“Hephaite...,” Grombir echoed, then shook his head. “I will go try to pray. Give me a moment.”

He hurried toward the temple. Ketal returned to their lodging and asked a different question.

“Do you know what happened?” he said to the Abomination inside him.

“Do you think I bother to remember every petty trick of the weak?” the Abomination replied in a tone of supreme disinterest.

“So you do not know,” Ketal said.

“I do not care,” it corrected.

“That is the same thing.”

“You little—”

“Serena,” Ketal said, ignoring the simmering retort. “Do you know?”

She shook her head. “I do not. The information given to the Holy Sword barely mentions the Four Pillars. We have almost nothing.”

“Then we wait for Hephaite.”

An hour passed. Grombir returned and asked Ketal to come. His face had set hard.

“There is no connection,” Grombir said.

Ketal looked at him for a long second. “What do you mean?”

“No matter how I pray, my prayer does not reach the heavens.”

“Did something happen to Hephaite?”

“That is not the feeling,” Grombir said. “It feels as if the path itself has been severed.”

“Did the demons do it?”

“That is what it seems.”

He did not know by what method, but the result was plain. The line between heaven and earth had been cut. Perhaps they could not hold it shut for long, but for the time being, they could not expect help from above.

“That is awkward,” Ketal said.

It meant they had no easy way to verify what Necrobix had done to stand in three places at once, no way to ask how to interpret the body that had fallen in the tower, and no way to confirm what had truly retreated from his axe. Grombir’s face did not reflect worry; it reflected respect.

“You fought Necrobix,” he said, and he spoke the name with deliberate care. “You faced one of the Four Pillars of Hell and prevailed. It was not an avatar.”

“That is true,” Ketal said, although the uncertainty still pressed behind his ribs.

“It is extraordinary,” Grombir said, and the words came out hushed. He had known Ketal possessed strength that defied measure, but knowing it and watching it erase Necrobix’s assault were different things entirely.

“Even if Necrobix fled by some contrivance, it spent enough power that it will find it difficult to move on the Mortal Realm for a time,” he continued. “For now, this is not a problem we must solve today.”

“That is a reasonable conclusion,” Ketal said.

However, that did not settle the thorn in his throat. It felt as if something small and hard had lodged just behind his tongue and would not move no matter how much water he drank.

“You are tired from facing a great enemy,” Grombir said, pressing gently toward closure. “That is why your mind keeps circling. Rest first.”

“That will not be possible,” another voice said, and it did not come from anyone in the room. “Dwarf King, Ketal’s judgement is likely correct.”

“Who goes there?” Grombir snapped, and his hand found his weapon by reflex.

Space cracked, and lines like fractures crawled across the air and widened. Grombir’s face went white.

“How...?” he said.

This was Mantamia, the dwarves’ holy land. Layers of defenses and holy barriers made intrusion from outside functionally impossible. Raphael himself had been unable to thread the interior and had chosen to break in from the front with force. Yet the space inside the holy land was opening like a door.

Whoever opened it had to have stood well above Raphael.

“Peace, head of the foolish little dwarves,” said the voice from beyond. “Have you forgotten my voice so quickly?”

A figure became visible through the parting. It was a being made of bones, carved and bound with will. Grombir’s eyes widened.

“The Tower Master,” he said.

“It has been too long,” Ketal said, and this time his smile was unguarded. He had not expected to see this ally here, inside Mantamia.

The Tower Master looked straight at him and spoke with none of his usual archness. “The situation requires cooperation. Will you help?”

“I think I can,” Ketal said, and his answer came without hesitation.