The small, button-sized magical device held in Elvin's hand is called FlashMirror. As soon as he pulled the FlashMirror out, he aimed it at Kyle and his companion, activating its recording function.
The moment the gray-robed mage parted her lips to chant, the sky darkened abruptly. Blood-red flames coiled above their heads, casting a menacing glow.
Elvin's heart sank. A terrible premonition suddenly clawed at his spine, freezing him to his core. Today, they might not going to make it out alive.
Without hesitation, he shifted the FlashMirror's focus to the swirling crimson flames. The magical array at the center of the tiny mirror spun rapidly, emitting a piercing blue light.
Then it happened.
From within the blood-colored vortex, a jet of black fire roared forth, hurtling toward them with terrifying speed. Elvin gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers tightly—with a sharp "crack," the FlashMirror shattered into dust in his palm.
A split second later, the black flames engulfed them. The scorching heat consumed everything in its wake. Elvin didn't even have time to scream before the fire swallowed him whole, his soul twisting and disintegrating in the blaze.
His three companions suffered the same fate. Their silhouettes flickered briefly within the inferno before vanishing entirely—not even a trace of ash remained.
Rhine Duchy - Ducal Castle - The Duke's Privy Chamber
Frederick von Stern, Duke of the Rhine Duchy, sat behind a grand wooden desk, holding a quill crafted from an imperial eagle's feather. He was in the midst of drafting a letter on pristine, high-quality parchment.
Half an hour ago, he had received an urgent missive from his nephew, Aldric.
The contents were troubling—Aldric's efforts to become the personal disciple of the renowned mage Isaac Grimwell were not going well. He sought his uncle's assistance once more.
Frowning, Duke Stern mentally reviewed his connections. Then, he recalled someone. A mage who had already ascended to the eleventh tier — far beyond the reach of the Rhein family. However, in his youth, that very mage had owed their family a great favor. Perhaps, just perhaps, this mage could have chance to speak to the legendary twelfth-tier mage, Isaac Grimwell.
Out of respect, the Duke carefully selected his finest writing materials—the eagle-feather quill, the specially treated royal parchment.
Every detail needed to convey his family's utmost deference.
Each word, each sentence, had to be meticulously crafted.
As he concentrated on composing the letter, a sudden glow illuminated the corner of the room. The enchanted communication crystal, resting on a bronze stand, flickered to life.
A silent projection emerged on the wall before him.
Irritated by the interruption, the Duke cast a cursory glance at the image.
Then he froze.
In the recording, taken from Elvin's perspective, the cataclysmic black flames surged forward, as if crashing directly into the Duke himself. Instinctively, he staggered backward, his knees bumping against his heavy chair before he collapsed into it.
And then he saw it.
His nephew, Aldric, stood directly before Elvin when the recording was made. That meant the Duke now could have the clearest view of Aldric's final moments—his face twisted in agony, his eyes filled with despair, his lips forming silent, desperate screams.
But what truly horrified the Duke was what followed.
Even after Aldric's body had been incinerated, his very soul were torn apart, reduced to nothing but ashes within the relentless black flames.
Then, the projection ended.
The Duke sat motionless, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his forehead drenched in cold sweat.
No.
Impossible!
No one would dare use Soulflare Annihilation on the continent of Nolan.
That forbidden fire spell had been designed specifically to eradicate high-level mages. Not only did it burn the target's physical body, but it also consumed their very soul, ensuring complete and utter destruction.
Therefore, fifty years ago, it was jointly declared an extremely evil forbidden spell by the two most prominent magic associations of the Arcane Empire and the Frostmoon Empire, and its use was strictly prohibited for all magicians.
It had been banned outright, its use deemed an unspeakable crime.
Any mage reckless enough to invoke it would be hunted down mercilessly. No borders. No allegiances. Just execution.
This recording had to be fake.
It had to be.
The dim silver glow of the memory crystal embedded in the wall. The projection had already been recorded and stored within the crystal's core.
As long as magic power was infused into the memory crystal, the image could be projected onto the wall once again.
However, the scene was far too terrifying—he no longer had the courage to watch it again, to carefully study and judge whether it was truly a prank.
Because deep within his heart, a profound fear had already taken root.
No.
He refused to believe it.
This had to be a hoax.
Suddenly, an alarming thought struck him.
He shot up from his seat, nearly knocking the chair over, and bolted from the room.
He had to check the soul lamps.
The soul lamps of the Stern family were housed in a heavily secured underground chamber. These ethereal lanterns, tied to the very life force of the family's most important members, would flicker when one was in danger and extinguish entirely upon death.
The moment the Duke burst into the chamber, his eyes went straight to the circular altar at the center of the room.
Three lamps sat atop the altar.
Two of them glowed with a steady silver light.
The third, Aldric's lamp, was dark.
The Duke's vision blurred. His knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed onto the cold stone floor.
Behind him, two of his most trusted swordsmen had followed, catching him just in time.
They looked toward the altar, understanding instantly why their liege had reacted so violently.
A single glance at the extinguished soul lamp was all it took.
The two swordsmen exchanged glances, their faces pale with shock.
But the Duke had already steeled himself.
His expression returned to its usual calm, though the redness in his eyes and the slight twitch in his jaw betrayed his inner fury.
Something else lingered in his mind—a fragment of the recording he had missed at the very start.
A figure in a gray robe.
His voice was ice when he spoke.
"Lucas. Go and invite Magus Edmund Blackwood. Leading him directly to the Council Chamber."
Lucas nodded and departed immediately, his movements swift and precise.
"Marcus." The Duke turned to the other swordsman.
"As you see, Rhine Duchy needs your mentor's assistance. Please find a way to bring him to the Council Chamber."
Marcus's gaze swept over the extinguished soul lamp, and he gave a heavy nod.
Then he bowed slightly and sprinted off.
His mentor was a legendary swordmaster, long retired but still unmatched in swordsmanship within the Rhine Duchy.
Mere moments after they left, the castle's great bell tolled.
Its deep, resonant chime had not been heard in over twenty years, not since the war with the White Stone Duchy.
Orders were issued swiftly.
"Gather all high-ranking swordsmen not currently on duty. Have them assemble outside the castle within fifteen minutes."
Then came the final decree, one that sent ripples of unease through the entire duchy.
"From this moment forth, the Rhine Duchy is officially under the highest state of emergency."