The Legendary Mage (Alavin)

Chapter 23

A series of wild raids swept through the forest like a tempest stripping leaves from trees, appearing without warning and ending in the blink of an eye. The Botanic Haven Protégé called Ogmundr, guarding Nysah, retreated more than ten paces to ensure a safe distance. With a Gold-Veined Bronzesword in hand, he pointed the blade at the shadowy figure. The sword shimmered with a cold light, and his presence became fierce and unyielding.

Three men lay in the aftermath, one dead, two grievously injured. The tang of blood wafted through the woods. The two wounded Protégés groaned in pain on the ground, struggling to rise but collapsing again due to the severity of their injuries.

The figure in the darkness slowly rose, eyes cold and sharp as knives, radiating murderous intent, with arcs of electricity crackling over their form, revealing their features.

"Alavin? Is it you!" Nysah, still shaken, couldn't believe the scene before her eyes. She had firsthand experience with Alavin's strength, which was indeed wild, like that of an untamed beast. But his true power was not much different from hers—or so she thought. Tonight, he seemed like a different person. Those icy eyes made her shiver, and she dared not meet his gaze.

"You're not a Stage III Novice Mage!" Ogmundr was equally shocked. The series of fierce and fluid attacks was like a rehearsed performance, executed in one breath, finishing a deadly assault in an instant. Each movement was imbued with ferocity.

Alavin stood in the dark for a moment, then slowly retreated, picking up scattered throwing knives. "Want to play this game? I'm in it to the end. If you can't kill me, I'll kill you."

"Arrogant! What are you to dare defy me?" Ogmundr's face darkened, his aura intensifying. The Gold-Veined Bronzesword began to vibrate slightly, emitting a pleasing ring as the blade's energy surged, filling the forest with an oppressive intent to kill.

"Alavin, you've got some nerve, attacking your fellow Protégés. The Cobalt Strike won't let you off for this," Nysah exclaimed, suddenly realizing. They hadn’t even laid a hand on Alavin, and he dared to ambush them?

"Save your disgusting flattery. Don't think you can do whatever you want just because you're pretty. You're not worthy to take my life!"

"Stop wasting time on him! End him, I want him dead..." The swordsman struggled to lift his head. His face twisted in pain and anger, glaring malevolently at Alavin from the darkness.

"You brought this upon yourselves; don't blame us. Ogmundr, we can't let him escape," Nysah urged, feeling a profound threat from Alavin's demonstrated strength and brutality.

"Ogmundr, finish him, what are you waiting for!" The swordsman suddenly sprang up, trying to distance himself from Alavin.

Alavin erupted in violence, charging straight at the swordsman. This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

The swordsman recoiled, ignoring his pain and any concern for his image, rolling and crawling towards Ogmundr, screaming, "Kill him! Kill him!"

”Acting recklessly before me? You will regret this." Ogmundr decisively intercepted, moving with the swiftness of a lightning. He first arrived beside the swordsman, thrusting his sword and casting five swift shadows of his blade, each fiercely targeting Alavin's heart, shoulders, brow, abdomen, and throat. The swordplay was intricate and deadly, making it impossible to discern which was real and which was a feint.

Alavin did not flinch or dodge, meeting the attack head-on. In a critical moment, his Dawnedge Blade was drawn, and a powerful force surged through him, unleashing a sword's energy that boiled

over. Everyone felt the cold edge as if it were slicing through their very flesh, making their hair stand on end.

A splash of blood!

Alavin and Ogmundr passed by each other, blood spraying in the air.

Ogmundr managed to carve three deep wounds into Alavin, each strike perilous. Alavin's ancient sword grazed Ogmundr's neck, continuing its attack without diminishing, unfazed and unturned. His target remained the swordsman.

The swordsman, in mid-flight, turned his head in terror as the sharp edge of the Dawnedge Blade rapidly enlarged in his pupils.

"No..." The Protégé screamed, but his voice abruptly cut off as his head was cleaved by the ancient sword, tumbling forward, eyes wide with fear.

Silence fell over the dark forest, so profound one could hear a pin drop, and even breathing seemed to freeze.

Ogmundr, with his back to Alavin, touched his neck in disbelief. Blood? There was blood! Just a cut, not much blood, but how could he, a Novice Mage of Stage VII, be wounded by a mere servant?

The other Protégé shuddered violently, scrambling backward. His gaze on Alavin was like that of a wild beast.

Alavin stood beside the body of the swordsman, his complexion pale, and his clothes stained red with blood. His chest, shoulders, and abdomen were pierced by the sword. The injuries were severe, and he was bleeding profusely, yet his demeanor and expression were even more terrifying.

"Ogmundr! Ogmundr!" Nysah's screams snapped Ogmundr back to reality. Her hands conjured flames, tense and ready for confrontation.

"Alavin, no one can save you today," Ogmundr shouted, his rage boiling over as he charged towards Alavin, holding nothing back.

Alavin, clutching his most severe wound, calmly retreated a few steps, then turned and vanished into the night without a word.

"Chase him! Don't let him escape," Nysah ordered the other Protégé.

The sturdy man glanced at the two fallen comrades, clenched his teeth, and rose to pursue.

"Don't fear him! He's badly wounded. He won't last long."

"Alavin just got lucky with a surprise attack; he's no match for us."

"Surround him and end it."

Nysah and the others hastened their pursuit, shouting to remind each other, determined not to show any weakness.

Alavin's lips were pressed tight, clutching the bleeding wound as he sprinted through the dark, forested mountains. The injury seemed grave, yet Alavin was not sensitive to pain; he could endure. Over the past eight years, he had suffered countless wounds, many far more severe than this. To him, this was but a scratch.