Chapter 73: The Tainted Alchemist

War Mage!

The moment Bourne laid eyes on the war mages of the Nether military, a torrent of information about Cormyr flooded his mind.

In the days to come, Cormyr’s war mages would gain great renown across the continent of Faerûn, masters of magic in warfare. Hardened by brutal training, their magic would become unmatched, and on the battlefield they would be unstoppable.

Confronted by this sudden rush of memory, Bourne’s expression darkened.

He realized, almost at once, that Cormyr seemed to have been established right beside the borders of Netheril. With the collapse of the Weave, the floating cities falling, and the Netherese scattered across the land, Uncle John’s knightly tradition, the Netheril court mages, and the military’s first generation war mages—all these were precursors to Cormyr’s future Purple Dragon Knights, Royal Mage Corps, and War Mages!

A weight settled in Bourne’s heart. Sometimes, the ability to see through history is not a blessing. People are creatures of emotion, and after living here for so long, he had come to regard Netheril as his second homeland. The nation was on the verge of its rise, yet he could already glimpse its decline through the haze of time.

Bourne clenched his fist in silence, his desire for strength burning more fiercely than ever.

Fortunately, everyone’s attention was fixed on the battle; no one noticed his change in mood.

The conflict was nearing its end. The hundred-meter area around them had become a ruined wasteland. Nearly half of the eight Corrupted had been slain, the rest cowering amid the debris. Though the military had suffered no casualties, many were wounded. The war mages, inexperienced on their first outing, not only failed to turn the tide but became a liability, each bearing wounds.

Hussein watched from above, his face darkening. Moments ago, he had boasted to the Count about his new profession, the fusion of martial and magical combat, extolling the virtues of their training. Yet, in the blink of an eye, reality had delivered a harsh slap. Despite their excellent equipment, the war mages were not the main force, merely supporting from the flanks, and even so, they had suffered heavy losses. Clearly, their training had been far too lenient. Hussein resolved to increase their regimen tenfold when he returned.

Perhaps sensing the hopelessness of escape, the four remaining Corrupted let out beast-like howls.

By now, Hussein and the Count had descended to the ground, and the flagging morale instantly surged.

With his wealth of experience, Hussein immediately sensed danger. He spun and shouted, “Everyone, fall back three hundred meters! Quickly!”

The army’s discipline showed its advantage at once. The tight cordon around the ruins dissolved in response to Hussein’s command, retreating swiftly and in good order.

At that moment, a surge of despair, hatred, and agony erupted from deep within the ruins—a wave of evil energy, sweeping outward.

The Count snorted coldly, producing a crystal orb and tossing it forward. A magical barrier sprang up around them, blocking the evil aura. Yet a portion, stubborn and black, seeped through, and several soldiers who failed to retreat in time were instantly corroded, melting like candles in flame, leaving only puddles of blackened water.

“What a potent evil aura!”

The Count’s expression grew grave. The crystal orb atop the barrier was already covered in cracks.

Sixth-level magic: [Spell Nullification Barrier]!

This could counter fourth-level magic and similar effects, especially large-scale pure energy attacks.

A crazed, raspy voice echoed from the black miasma. “Heh... so it’s Mentor Iolum. Who would have thought even you would be stirred from your rest!”

Mentor?

Hussein glanced at the Count in surprise. Only those accepted as pupils would address someone as mentor. Before Conchenio established the academy system, apprenticeship was the norm. Students at the academy called their teachers “professor,” but truly exceptional ones, favored by their instructors, might be taken as pupils, and would address their teacher as “mentor”—much as a master accepts a disciple, conferring greater resources and guidance.

The Count frowned, his gaze fixed ahead.

As the evil aura gradually dissipated, its owner’s form emerged.

“Ferguson?”

Though the Fallen’s appearance was not as distorted as the Corrupted, they were nearly unrecognizable. Still, the Count identified him by his form and the tattered remains of his scholar’s robes.

“Heh... I am the mentor’s favorite pupil after all. No matter what I become, teacher will always love me…”

Ferguson’s voice faded, his demeanor shifting between weeping and manic laughter, muttering to himself as if oblivious to the world.

The Count closed his eyes briefly, his expression marked by sorrow.

“Scholar Ferguson?”

Bourne’s face was peculiar. His grandfather had few students, but only two had achieved any distinction: the chronicler Rodney, and the scholar before them, Ferguson.

The title of “scholar” was not easily won. Profound learning was a prerequisite, and it required the endorsement of at least three other scholars.

Not only was Ferguson a scholar, but also a mid-level arcanist, once regarded as the most promising candidate to inherit the Count’s mantle as a high arcanist.

Yet he had vanished mysteriously ten years ago, with no further news. Bourne had never expected their reunion would be under such dire circumstances.

Still, it was not Ferguson’s fate that astonished Bourne, but rather the Count’s own peculiar trait.

Why was it that every promising pupil ended up at odds with him—rebellion, corruption...

Bourne silently prayed this would not be inherited. To have every talented disciple turn traitor or worse—perhaps even commit murder...

“Ferguson, stop. Come with me and petition the Lord of Order (the Radiant Lord Amaunator); you still have a sliver of hope for survival.”

The Count’s voice was heavy.

It seemed Ferguson held a high place in Grandfather’s heart, willing even to seek the favor of a deity. At this point, though arcanists did not shun the gods, neither did they hold much interest.

But Ferguson was now a Corrupted Scholar, the evil taint in his very bones; even bathing in holy water would not suffice. Even if the corruption could be cleansed, the man might be utterly ruined.

He would no longer be even an ordinary person, and the forbidden knowledge he had acquired would remain. Unless a god intervened personally, erasing both body and memory...

But then, would he still be himself?

“No! Teacher, we have uncovered the secret of the Great One. We are about to seize the power of the Great One, heh heh heh…”

Ferguson was nearly mad. “Teacher, join us. It only costs a little—you too can become a Great One…”

Alas.

Watching his deranged pupil, the Count sighed. Hussein, beside him, laid a hand on the Count’s shoulder, saying, “He’s no longer the student you remember.”

With that, Hussein acted first. He drew a huge two-handed sword from his back, blazing fire wrapping around its blade.

Hussein moved swiftly, swinging his sword down at Ferguson’s position.

Ferguson flashed a wicked, evil smile, dodging nimbly, then unleashed a torrent of malevolent energy, which Hussein cleaved apart with his flaming blade.

“Heh heh heh…”

Unmoved by Ferguson’s eerie laughter, Hussein knew his weapon was already corroded by the evil energy.

It was not his first encounter with the Fallen. Seizing the moment as Ferguson dodged away, Hussein quickly dispatched the nearest Corrupted.

His actions infuriated Ferguson.

“Get him! Kill him!”

Ferguson shouted, and the three remaining Corrupted lunged at Hussein. Ferguson raised a finger, flicking out dagger-like nails, slicing his palm open as dark blood flowed.

Though unhinged, Ferguson’s spellcasting was unimpaired.

Bourne instantly recognized the incantation as fourth-level magic: [Ice Storm]. Ferguson finished the spell in less than three seconds, casting it forth.

But how could its power be so great?

Though [Ice Storm] was a fourth-level spell, in Ferguson’s hands it rivaled high-level sixth-level magic.

This was blood metamagic—a unique technique among Corrupted Scholars, amplifying spells by infusing them with one’s own blood. The enhanced magic would rise by two levels in potency, without occupying a higher spell slot.

No sooner had Ferguson finished one spell than another formed in his other hand.

With the metamagic effect, Ferguson transformed mid-level spells into high-level ones, unleashing a furious bombardment.