Reinventing Magic: An Inventor's Tale

Chapter 114: The Seal Unbroken

On the same day as the battle between Gregor and Kael, the Arcane Council made their move.

With most of the King’s forces deployed to conquer Bryndis, Valoria—the royal capital—stood vulnerable. Only twenty thousand soldiers remained to guard its towering walls, a fragile defense against the storm about to descend upon them.

Above the city, Zarathor hovered in the sky, his gaze fixed on the fortress below. His expression was cold, calculating, as he prepared to unleash devastation upon Valoria’s defenses. Thirteen loyal acolytes, clad in dark robes, floated behind him in silent anticipation.

"It’s time," Zarathor murmured.

He raised his hand toward the heavens, the air crackling as he began to summon his power. Energy surged, forming into a sphere above his palm—a spell of the eighth tier, rivaling the destructive force of Kael’s proton sphere.

At first, the energy flared red, pulsing like a living heart. Then, it shifted to yellow, its glow intensifying. Finally, it condensed into a brilliant blue, shrinking as its density increased. The sphere no longer resembled mere magic—it was a miniature sun, burning with unfathomable energy, ready to bring ruin upon the capital.

With a flick of his wrist, Zarathor hurled it downward.

The spell struck Valoria’s walls—and the world shattered.

Stone exploded outward in a cataclysmic wave, vaporizing guards where they stood. One moment, they manned their posts; the next, they were dust, erased before they could even scream.

"Destroy everything."

Twelve acolytes vanished in a blur of shadows, descending upon the city like a plague. Only Zarathor and his right hand, Fausto, remained, watching as flames engulfed the capital.

Beneath them, Valoria burned.

The air in Valoria was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning stone. The once-impenetrable western wall was now a smoldering ruin, its remnants scattered like broken teeth across the ravaged earth.

Fires raged unchecked through the city, their hungry tongues licking at homes, temples, and barracks alike. Screams echoed through the streets—some of terror, others of pain, but most fell silent far too quickly.

High above the carnage, Zarathor watched with detached satisfaction. His right hand, Fausto, hovered beside him, his dark robes fluttering in the heated updrafts. The acolyte’s face was hidden beneath his hood, but the faint smirk curling his lips was audible in his voice.

"Valoria burns as easily as parchment," he mused. "One would think the so-called ’greatest kingdom’ would have better defenses."

Zarathor did not respond. His gaze remained fixed on the palace, its gilded spires gleaming defiantly amidst the chaos.

Inside those walls, the king would be scrambling.

A pity he would not live long enough to regret his arrogance.

---

Throne Room – Royal Palace

King Julius Ardania’s knuckles whitened around the arms of his throne. The guard’s words still hung in the air like a death sentence.

"The western wall is gone. Obliterated."

His advisors stood frozen, their faces pale, their eyes darting between him and the trembling soldier. Only one among them dared to speak—Lord Vexis, the aging spymaster, his voice a rasp of urgency.

"Your Majesty, we must evacuate. If the wall fell so easily, the palace won’t hold—"

"Evacuate?" Julius’s voice was a whip-crack of disdain. "I am the king. I do not flee like a cowering dog."

Vexis stiffened. "Sire, with all due respect, the army is gone. We have twenty thousand men against whatever just annihilated our defenses in a single strike. This is not pride—this is suicide!"

A muscle twitched in Julius’s jaw. His mind raced, calculating, weighing options with the same cold precision that had won him the throne.

He had survived assassinations, betrayals, even the wrath of his own bloodline. He would not die here, in his own capital, to some nameless attacker.

"Summon the remaining mages," he commanded. "Have them erect whatever barriers they can. And send word to the eastern garrison—"

A deafening boom shook the palace.

The stained-glass windows shattered inward, shards raining down like crystalline daggers. The very floor trembled, throwing several advisors off their feet.

Then—silence.

Julius slowly turned toward the grand doors.

They were melting.

The ornate gold inlays dripped like wax, pooling in shimmering puddles as the wood blackened and curled, devoured by an unseen force. Outside, the sentinels—loyal warriors clad in steel—let out strangled cries before collapsing mid-step, their bodies withering to ash before they even hit the ground.

A figure stepped through the dissolving wreckage.

Clad in dark robes, his face obscured by a hood, the intruder moved with an unnatural grace. Behind him, shadows slithered across the floor, coiling and twisting as though alive—predatory in their movements, seething with malice.

Julius’s blood turned to ice.

He didn’t recognize the presence. But something about it—something primal, something suffocating—told him that whoever stood before him was no ordinary foe.

"Who the hell are you?"

His voice was sharp, demanding, but beneath it lay unease.

The Arcane Council’s leader tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood. "King Julius," he murmured, his tone devoid of warmth. "How... disappointing."

The words hung heavy in the chamber, carrying with them an unnatural weight, pressing down on the air like a storm about to break.

Julius straightened, forcing steel into his tone. "You dare attack my city? My throne?"

Zarathor responded with a single, deliberate step forward.

"I do not dare," he said. "I act."

Another step. The shadows at his feet writhed, stretching toward the throne like grasping fingers.

"And your throne?" A pause. "I will turn it to ashes."

Julius’s hand twitched toward the dagger hidden in his sleeve—a blade laced with the same poison that had killed his father.

Zarathor noticed.

He smiled.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, reality shattered.

Agony erupted through Julius’s body, unseen forces tearing through him like fire and ice at once. His vision blurred, the world twisting at the edges as pain consumed him.

"Now," Zarathor murmured, turning away, his voice barely more than a whisper, "let’s proceed to the seal."

Zarathor and Fausto moved deeper into the hidden passage, a place so secret that even the king himself was unaware of its existence.

The corridor led them into a vast chamber, its walls lined with ancient inscriptions that pulsed faintly with residual magic. At the heart of the room lay a colossal crystal, hovering above an intricately designed magic circle etched into the stone floor.

The crystal swirled with vibrant currents of mana, its glow shifting in rhythmic pulses as it fed energy into the magic circle below. The seal was ancient, its power unquestionable—a barrier designed to restrain something far greater than mere men dared to comprehend.

Zarathor’s hand hovered just inches from the swirling crystal, its pulsing mana casting flickering shadows across his hooded face. Then—he froze.

Fausto narrowed his eyes, sensing the abrupt hesitation. "Master?" he asked, his voice low, wary.

Zarathor didn’t answer immediately. His fingers twitched, his breath shallow. Something—no, someone—had vanished. The ripple of that departure resonated through him like a distant tremor, subtle yet undeniable.

Then he understood.

Gregor.

The moment of his demise had sent a pulse across the unseen threads of power, a death-knell felt not by the living, but by those attuned to forces far greater than flesh and blood.

Slowly, Zarathor lowered his hand, curling his fingers into a fist. "It seems... the battle has ended," he murmured, more to himself than to Fausto.

Fausto glanced at the seal, then back at Zarathor. "Does that change anything?"

Zarathor was silent for a moment. Then, ever so slightly, he smiled.

"No," he said. "It merely confirms that the time has come."

He turned away from the crystal, his robes shifting like liquid shadow. The seal would wait—but not for long.

Zarathor turned back to the massive crystal, his gray eyes gleaming with purpose. The swirling mana within it pulsed violently, sensing the imminent disruption to its ancient equilibrium.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his hand.

"Destroy the circle," he commanded, his voice carrying an undeniable finality. "Let’s open the rift."

Fausto bowed his head slightly before extending both arms outward. The thirteen acolytes behind him reacted instantly, their dark robes billowing as they channeled raw energy into the chamber.

The magic circle beneath the crystal flickered, its ancient runes resisting, struggling to hold their form.

Zarathor uttered a single incantation, his words dripping with power.

The chamber trembled.

Cracks splintered across the floor, racing toward the edges of the circle. Arcane energy, once structured and contained, now writhed in chaos. The crystal flared violently, its light shifting from serene blue to searing white.

Then—it shattered.

A deafening roar erupted as the seal collapsed, unleashing a torrent of energy. The very air split apart, revealing a swirling abyss—a rift stretching beyond comprehension, pulsating with unrestrained power.

A sinister wind rushed through, pulling at robes and scattering debris.

Fausto watched in silent awe. "It’s done," he murmured.

Zarathor smiled. "Yes. And now... it begins."