Chapter 43: The Grand Illusion of Baroque Vincent

The clamor of the marketplace was, in that instant, choked off by an invisible hand.

Baroque Vincent’s form blurred into an afterimage, almost imperceptible to the naked eye.

He tore through the air, emitting a piercing shriek akin to fabric being ripped asunder.

The bluestone path beneath his feet instantly shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. Violent force-field magic surged and coalesced in his palm, twisting the very light around it, as he lunged directly for the girl standing mere inches away!

‘It’s done!’

An explosion of unbridled ecstasy detonated within his mind.

He could already envision the girl’s face contorted in a mixture of shock and terror, anticipate the horrified shriek of that old, six-ringed relic, and picture Klein’s stoic face twisting into an unsightly grimace of impotent fury!

Yet, nothing of the sort transpired.

The earth-shattering impact he had so vividly anticipated ultimately dissolved into nothing more than a gentle wisp of breeze.

This breeze brushed against Lia’s cheek, merely stirring a few soft strands of her hair.

Lia, who had been curiously examining the brightly polished six-ring emblem on Horace’s chest, suddenly sensed a presence behind her and instinctively turned her head.

A young man, clad in a brand-new seven-ring mage robe, stood rigidly in an utterly bizarre posture.

His body was pitched forward, frozen in a predatory lunge, one hand extended before him, fingers splayed wide.

A grotesque smile, a disturbing blend of ecstasy, triumph, and cruelty, was plastered across his face.

He remained utterly motionless, resembling a comical statue instantly turned to stone.

Lia blinked, a flurry of unspoken questions clouding her expression.

‘Who… is this person? Is this the capital’s latest performance art?’

Instinctively, she glanced towards Klein.

Klein’s expression remained utterly impassive, yet his deep blue eyes, passing over Lia’s head, met Horace’s gaze for a fleeting moment.

The tenderness that had graced Horace’s face had vanished, replaced by the mischievous glint of an old rascal who had just stumbled upon a new toy.

He gave Klein an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes conveying a clear message: ‘Leave this to me.’

Klein’s gaze calmly shifted away, a silent acknowledgment of his assent.

All of this transpired in the blink of an eye.

Meanwhile, within Baroque Vincent’s mental landscape, an earth-shattering battle was just beginning to unfold.

He felt his colossal force-field hand precisely clamp around the girl’s neck, the delicate sensation sending shivers of exhilaration through him.

“Release her!”

The white-haired, six-ringed elder roared, charging forward, his body wreathed in insignificant elemental fluctuations.

“An overconfident fool!”

Baroque Vincent didn’t even deign to give him a proper glance. With a dismissive backhand wave, a force-field barrier materialized out of thin air. The old man shrieked, spewing blood, and was sent hurtling backward.

“Lia!”

Klein’s furious roar echoed from nearby, imbued with an unprecedented sense of panic.

Baroque Vincent glanced back, witnessing Klein streaking towards him like a bolt of lightning, countless spell models encircling his form and radiating an aura of destruction.

“Too late!”

Baroque Vincent let out a maniacal laugh, casually snatching the old man with his Mage’s Hand. With a powerful thrust of his feet, his body shot backward like a cannonball, instantly putting dozens of meters between them.

“Don’t even think of escaping!”

Klein relentlessly pursued from behind, a torrent of spells raining down upon him.

Yet Baroque Vincent felt as though he had divine assistance; his speed was absolute, allowing him to deftly weave and leap between buildings, leaving those deadly spells trailing in his wake.

When evasion became impossible, he would simply use the old man he held as a shield, forcing Klein to interrupt his spellcasting.

Klein’s distance grew ever wider, until he was left to roar in frustrated defiance behind him, his figure shrinking into a mere speck.

“A mere Klein, nothing but this!”

Baroque Vincent let out a triumphant laugh. He glanced down at the unconscious old man, deciding to take him along.

Though this old fellow was weak, he was still a six-ring mage, and bringing him back would undoubtedly count as a meritorious deed.

With Lia held in one hand and the unconscious old man lifted by his Mage’s Hand, he departed towards his destination, brimming with high spirits.

***

In reality.

Lia watched the man frozen in his peculiar pose, who then suddenly began to walk through the streets at a steady, if not rapid, pace.

His face still bore that ecstatic grin, yet his eyes were utterly vacant and devoid of life.

“He… what happened to him?” Lia whispered, sidling closer to Klein.

Klein gazed at the retreating figure, his face devoid of emotion. “Presumably,” he said, “he’s fulfilled his life’s dream.”

Lia: ‘?’

Horace, walking behind, had one hand casually clasped behind his back while the other rested lightly on Baroque Vincent’s shoulder, as if gently guiding a drunken junior.

A warm smile graced his features as he murmured softly into Baroque Vincent’s ear, “Yes, this way. You’re doing splendidly, young man.”

Within his illusion, Baroque Vincent merely felt a gentle wind supporting him, seemingly propelling him forward with increased speed.

In this peculiar formation, the four individuals traversed several bustling streets.

Lia, trailing behind Klein, observed the seven-ring mage moving like a marionette in front of them, and the nine-ring Archmage beside him, grinning like an old fox. She felt her worldview once again undergoing a subtle shift.

‘Is this truly how top-tier mages engage in battle?’

‘No physical blows, just sheer mental projection?’

***

The capital city, within the pleasure palace known as the “Gilded Birdcage.”

Inside a room shielded by dozens of layers of enchantments, Marcus, Green, and Old Hal were leisurely engaged in a game of magic cards.

“It appears our little genius, Baroque Vincent, has met with failure,” Green declared, tossing his cards onto the table with undisguised mockery in his voice.

“Hardly surprising,” Old Hal muttered, not even lifting his head as he intently studied the flow of magic across his cards. “My only curiosity is whether he’ll return alive.”

Marcus exhaled a plume of cigar smoke, remarking slowly, “It would be for the best if he died. With his demise, the Vincent family’s mining operations in the south…”

Bang!

Before he could finish his sentence, the door to their private room was violently kicked open.

Baroque Vincent strode in with booming steps, his mage robe slightly disheveled, but his face was flushed with extreme exhilaration.

“Gentlemen! I have returned!”

He spread his arms wide, announcing triumphantly, his voice booming like a conquering monarch.

The three men in the private room all froze in surprise.

‘He’s back? And still full of life?’

Baroque Vincent approached the card table, slamming his hands heavily onto its surface, his face radiating an irrepressible arrogance.

“Mission accomplished! It was even simpler than I’d imagined!”

He began to describe it vividly: “That little girl, Lia, is nothing but a pretty face! The moment I made my move, she didn’t even have time to react!”

“Then there was some short-sighted old man who tried to play the hero, but he was merely an old-timer who’d clung to his seniority to reach the Sixth Ring. I took him down with a single move!”

“And the most laughable of all was Klein!”

Baroque Vincent erupted into an exaggerated peal of laughter.

“You all sang his praises as if he were a god, but what was the outcome? His casting speed is certainly fast, yet there’s a noticeable stutter in the transition between his spell models!

I simply used the most basic force-field deflection to render all his attacks useless! He couldn’t even catch my shadow, left to eat dust in my wake! Does that level qualify as genius? Hmph! I see him as nothing more than an overrated weakling!”

Baroque Vincent grew increasingly agitated as he spoke, raising his empty left hand as if it clutched some priceless treasure.

“Gentlemen, from this day forward, all the secrets within that girl’s mind belong to us!”

A profound silence descended upon the room.

The expressions on Green’s and Old Hal’s faces grew peculiar. They exchanged a glance, both detecting a profound confusion in the other’s eyes.

Marcus’s countenance, however, steadily darkened.

He stared intently at Baroque Vincent’s face, contorted by excitement, then glanced at his utterly empty hand. An ominous premonition began to creep into Marcus’s heart.

“Baroque Vincent,” Marcus’s voice was hoarse and low, “you claimed to have captured Lia.”

“Precisely!” Baroque Vincent puffed out his chest with pride.

“Then where is she?”

“Huh?” Baroque Vincent let out a sound as if he’d heard the most absurd joke. He raised his left hand, waving it before Marcus’s eyes. “Lord Marcus, are your old eyes failing you? Isn’t she right here in my hand?”

Marcus’s pupils abruptly constricted.

“Then… what about that six-ring Archmage you claimed to have brought back?” Green interjected, unable to contain his curiosity.

“Oh, that old relic,” Baroque Vincent said dismissively, turning impatiently to the empty space behind him. “Hey! Old man! Stop playing dead! Announce your name yourself; let these gentlemen hear the name of such a useless individual!”

The room remained in a profound silence.

Just as Baroque Vincent was preparing to scold again, a gentle, aged voice abruptly resonated from the doorway.

“Were you calling for me, young man?”

All eyes turned towards the source of the voice.

Standing in the doorway, unnoticed until now, was an old man with hair and beard as white as snow.

He wore a faded six-ring mage robe, and a kind, benevolent smile graced his face, making him seem like a lost passerby who had simply wandered into the wrong room.

Behind him, Klein’s figure stood like a statue sculpted from shadow itself.

Lia, however, poked out half her small head from behind Klein, holding a paper bag full of “Caramel Puff Fruits” in her hand, munching away as she peered curiously into the room.

Baroque Vincent, seeing the old man, displayed a look of disdain. He completely failed to notice Klein and Lia behind him, merely addressing the old man impatiently, “Yes, you! Quickly tell Lord Marcus your name!”

The old man continued to smile. He bowed slightly towards Marcus and the others in the private room, executing an impeccable gesture of old noble etiquette.

Then, unhurriedly, he began to speak, his voice clear and reaching every ear.

“I am Horace von Eisenberg.”

The moment that name fell, Marcus’s hand, poised to lift his wine glass, froze abruptly.

Eisenberg… Horace…

This name, circulating only among the highest echelons of the kingdom’s power, like a forbidden word, unleashed a colossal wave in his mind. The color was visibly draining from his face.

However, Baroque Vincent, utterly consumed by his triumph, noticed none of this. He impatiently turned back to Marcus, seeking praise.

“Did you hear that, Lord Marcus? He said his name is Horace von Eisenberg, some obscure country noble with no reputation to speak of…”

His words abruptly ceased.

For he finally saw that the expensive cigar clamped between Marcus’s fingers had fallen onto the valuable carpet, burning a small, black hole.

And Green and Old Hal, seated across the card table, looked as if they had witnessed a demon god emerging from the abyss, their eyes wide with terror that threatened to spill from their sockets.