The Archmetamagician: The Weave Collapses Again

Anser opened his eyes and met the cloudy gaze of the old priest. After nodding in greeting, he pointed at Zahir and asked, ”Do you still have any spell slots?”

”I do.”

The old priest snapped back to his senses and immediately cast a healing spell on Zahir.

Taking advantage of the moment, Anser stood up and turned to leave. The people around him quickly parted, opening a path.

”That’s amazing—you’re practically omnipotent! I hereby proclaim you the Child of Miracles!”

Bratt chased after him, leaping onto Anser’s back and lavishing him with shameless flattery.

He was so excited that there was no trace of his usual steadiness.

”Get down, get down—don’t you have any idea how heavy you are?” Anser snapped irritably as he shoved him away.

He himself hadn’t expected that he could serve as a stabilizer for the Weave. If those wizards ever found out, they would definitely drag him back and tie him up to use him.

Then again, those mage types didn’t seem to have the ability to catch him right now.

Finn ran over, a hint of expectation in his dull eyes. ”Is he alive?”

”He’s alive.”

”Mm.”

”Um… can this be eaten?”

As he spoke, Finn lifted the enormous crab leg in his hand.

”Uh…”

Anser couldn’t quite make sense of his train of thought.

Bratt said resentfully, ”What do you want that for? Cut off the ears and collect the loot—come on, come on.”

He grabbed Finn and ran off, and Finn casually tossed the crab leg to Anser.

Anser swept his gaze across the battlefield. The fighting was basically over. Everyone was cleaning up the field and treating the wounded.

At this point, the human combat force should number several hundred or even over a thousand people, of all kinds—Flaming Fist soldiers, clerics, adventurers, civic officials, civilians… a complete mix.

He spotted quite a few familiar faces among them.

Meanwhile, many people were cutting off monster heads and ears, even breaking into shouting matches and shoving over them. The scene suddenly became somewhat absurd.

The battle earlier had been far too chaotic. A single goblin might have more than a dozen arrows stuck in it and several sword wounds. Which one was the fatal blow, and who exactly should get the credit for it?

”Whoever grabs it gets it!”

A life-and-death racial war had united everyone, yet profit made all of them selfish again.

Seeing this, Anser hurriedly retrieved the three backpacks and, carrying Finn’s crab, climbed onto a tall, broken slab of rock. Afraid the two of them wouldn’t be able to see, he reinforced the staff once more with a Light spell.

The sky at the horizon was turning pale. The air reeked of blood, constantly assaulting the nose. The ground was sticky and foul, corpses lay everywhere—it was like a hellish slaughterhouse.

Looking at the scene before him, he still… couldn’t get used to it.

It wasn’t fear, but a shock to his way of thinking and values.

Here, adventurers seemed accustomed to how fragile and fleeting life was, like a flickering flame. Even Bratt, who belonged to a good-aligned camp, had nothing but loot on his mind and felt nothing at all about how shocking and terrifying it was that so many had died in battle.

Everyone was struggling desperately to live—only, some people’s ”struggle” was brutally literal.

Heavy footsteps sounded. A short, stocky red-bearded dwarf stopped beneath the broken slab, looked up, and laughed. ”Hey, rookie.”

”Who are you calling a rookie?”

”I’m calling you a rookie.”

”Haha…” Anser laughed twice, stood up, and jumped down from the slab. ”What does a rookie want with me?”

Only then did Soladin react. His face darkened. ”I came over out of goodwill to talk some sense into you, and instead you mock me. You really don’t know how to respect your seniors.”

”Respect is something you keep in your heart.” Seeing the injuries all over him, Anser reined in his smile. ”You’re hurt?”

”How could anyone not get hurt in this kind of fight? As long as you’re not dead, that’s good enough.”

Soladin looked Anser over. Seeing that his cloak was spotless and his face free of any bloodstains, he suddenly felt that his words were a bit inaccurate.

”If you’re hurt, you could still die.”

Anser took a sheathed, oddly shaped dagger from his pack. When he drew it, a section of dark-blue short blade was revealed, its curve strange yet keen. ”Take a look at this.”

”Good stuff.”

Soladin gave it a very high evaluation at a glance. He carefully pinched the hilt, lifted it to his nose, and took a light sniff. His expression changed slightly.

After observing for a moment, Soladin handed the dagger back to him.

”Don’t touch the blade. Extremely poisonous—not applied afterward. It’s a good piece, fine quality, though its hardness isn’t enough. Still, this poison alone is worth a thousand gold coins…”

Anser understood. This thing was an assassination weapon—unsuitable for head-on combat. Against a Chuul, it probably wouldn’t even be able to break through the defenses. Its uses were relatively limited.

No one in the team liked using daggers, and for the moment he didn’t know whether he should keep it or sell it.

”Keep it for now. Letting this thing circulate outside wouldn’t be good for you,” Soladin said with a pointed undertone.

”Something going on?”

Anser caught the implication in his words. Had his recent performance been too eye-catching, drawing unwanted attention?

”Do you know the Order of Blue Fire?” Soladin asked gravely.

”That evil organization from the time of the Arcane Cataclysm?” Anser said, puzzled.

”Their origins are unclear, but there really is such an organization in the city. Many mages or apprentices have joined them. They’re spreading claims that you stole the power of some holy lord and have labeled you a heretic,” Soladin warned.

Anser was momentarily speechless. A cult organization slapping a label on him—this was seriously absurd.

”Don’t take it lightly. Those people are completely fanatical.”

Soladin scanned the surroundings and stepped a bit closer. ”Also, the ducal council has issued a forced conscription order to form a battle group, led by the surviving Flaming Fist. The objective is to retake Baldur’s Gate, and most likely to provide support to the Upper City as well…”

”Forced conscription—signing a magic contract?”

Anser frowned slightly. The fact that Soladin had come specifically to inform him meant he had already been marked.

”Yes. The treatment is generous, but refusal isn’t an option,” Soladin emphasized. ”The Lords’ Alliance has been slow to dispatch reinforcements. The dukes need to save themselves and can’t consider that much anymore.”

”What are you saying?”

”Leave immediately. You have no backing and you’re a spellcaster—they’ll use you without restraint. Ending up in situations even more dangerous than Zahir’s wouldn’t be surprising…”

”And you?” Anser asked.

”I have the Iron Mountain Clan behind me. They don’t dare force me,” Soladin said with confidence. He wasn’t earning money for himself alone.

”Thank you.”

Anser meant it sincerely. The two of them weren’t especially close, yet Soladin going this far was beyond reproach.

He looked at the chaotic battlefield. ”But what about my loot?”

”Are you stupid? Entrust it to Rand,” Soladin said impatiently. ”Followers of Tyr won’t let you take even the slightest loss—others don’t have that kind of relationship.”

”Don’t waste time. Go to the west coast. There are plenty of fishing villages and small towns there. At most, the Kuo-toa will blockade the River Chionthar—they don’t have the guts to go to the Sword Coast.”

With that, Soladin waved his hand and turned to leave.

The sky was gradually brightening, and people had already begun to notice this area.

Anser’s thoughts were in turmoil, but he didn’t dare hesitate. He lightly tapped his staff and dispelled the Light spell so as not to draw too much attention.

Then he jumped down from the broken slab and found Bratt and the others, who were in the middle of fighting with people over loot.

”Let’s go!”

”What’s wrong?”

”I’ll explain on the way.”

Bratt and the others were confused, but sensing that something was off with Anser’s mood, they could only shoulder their packs, grab the crab meat, and follow behind him.

Anser found Rand, tossed him the large bundle of battered equipment and monster ears, and asked him to help sort out and dispose of the loot that probably should belong to him.

Rand agreed readily. He was busy, but he would never refuse any reasonable request Anser made.

Without Anser, who knew how many more people would have died today—let alone the fact that he had saved Zahir’s life.

Rand didn’t ask where Anser was going. He simply gave him a big hug and pressed a platinum badge into his hand: blue-backed, shield-shaped, palm-sized, bearing the holy emblem of Tyr, the god of justice—a set of balanced scales upon a warhammer.

Anser didn’t refuse. After a brief farewell, the three of them left the chaotic battlefield.

They didn’t follow the coast. Instead, they first returned to the city, weaving through its streets and alleys, heading west until they entered the open wilderness.

By full daylight, the wilderness was dotted everywhere with tents of all kinds, scattered across the land like multicolored mushrooms sprouting after rain.

There were also many people sleeping out in the open in small groups—refugees who had fled the city during the rainy night.

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