**Chapter 55**
—
The world of the 6th-circle elven mage, **Sephia**, unfolded beneath her feet.
It was a realm of the mind—a *world apart*—where no external interference could intrude, and from which neither combatant could escape until one of them died.
A frozen wasteland stretched endlessly, its horizon gleaming with the pallid shimmer of crystal.
Facing her, **Walter of the Blood Flame**—a 6th-circle crimson mage—unfurled his own world. Behind him, his mental landscape took form.
> “An operating ward…?”
No, not quite.
As Dale stepped back behind Sephia, he caught his breath.
Rows of hospital beds, chained patients, and the rusted gleam of grotesque instruments filled the scene. Screams echoed from all directions—not pleas for mercy, but desperate wails begging for death.
And soon Dale understood—this was no place of healing.
Walter of the Blood Flame, Elder of the Red Tower, Commander of the Sixth Unit of the infamous *Black-Crimson Order*—a unit feared as a legion of demons.
The world reflected behind him was that very laboratory—the experimental chamber of the Sixth Unit that he himself had commanded.
A **biological laboratory of the Red Tower**.
Once, in his pursuit of *power and truth*, Walter had long since forsaken all that should bind a man to decency. A living hell where living captives were subjected to endless horrors.
> “Do you know why they call me *Blood Flame*?”
Standing before that hellish lab, Walter asked calmly.
Sephia did not reply. Her crystalline tundra surged with flowing streams of blue mana.
> “Do you know what happens to the human body,” Walter continued, “when its blood is heated to the boiling point?”
At the word *subject*, Dale’s brows furrowed.
> “How many captives,” Walter said softly, “do you think were sacrificed to perfect the most efficient formula for lethal explosion spells?”
Behind him, countless “subjects” were burning in flames. He varied the intensity of fire on each one, gauging the most efficient ratio of flame for maximum lethality. The sight turned Dale’s stomach.
> “Do you know how to mix volt-type spell formulas to achieve the highest efficiency with the smallest amount of mana?”
How many prisoners had been butchered in the Red Tower’s laboratories, all in the name of “magical research and collaboration”?
> “Do you know what distance yields the most effective kill radius for an explosion?”
The scene before them was a manifestation of Walter’s inner world, yet its origin was unmistakably real.
> “Progress,” Walter intoned, “is directly proportional to the blood shed for it. The wheel of history rolls forward only through blood.”
The conviction of a madman—unyielding, absolute. A demon wearing human skin stood before them.
> “I understand now,” Sephia said coldly, finally raising her head.
> “That you are filth beyond redemption.”
> “Understand? What could you possibly understand?” Walter sneered. “To test hypotheses through experiment, to build the tower of wisdom upon proven results—this is the proper pursuit of magic! You cowardly blues, trembling before blood, dare to claim moral ground? Can such fools grasp our ideals?”
Sephia said nothing.
> “Do you truly believe progress can be achieved without spilling blood?”
> “You are a beast,” she said at last. “So vile that even hell would not claim you.”
And as the 6th-circle elven mage began to summon her power, Dale stepped in front of her.
> “Dale, step back!”
> “No, I can’t.”
His black surcoat fluttered—the *Shadow Mantle*—as he faced the Elder of the Red Tower and his nightmarish world.
The “World of Thought” of a high mage was the reflection of his soul. The hellscape before them *was* Walter’s inner truth.
To the Red Tower, *power* was the supreme law. To shed blood in its pursuit was simply a “sacrifice for the greater good.”
The endless screams of the tormented filled the air, begging to die. Dale’s heart clenched with unbearable rage.
He could never forgive the Red Tower—nor the Empire that permitted it.
> “You are not the only one who cannot forgive him, Master.”
> “Ha! A mere 3rd-circle whelp dares stand against me?”
Walter scoffed, seeing the storm of dark-blue mana swirling at Dale’s feet.
> “Your meager talent made you arrogant enough to challenge the heavens themselves?”
To a 6th-circle mage, Dale was no more than a child—and ordinarily, that difference in rank would have been insurmountable.
> “You’ll regret your foolishness in the flames of hell!”
Walter’s six circles blazed crimson as he unleashed torrents of mana. The chained test subjects broke free.
> “Blood! More blood!”
A horde of burning, frenzied bodies charged forward—like a tide of living bombs.
> “It is only through blood that the wheel of the world turns!”
The vision of a high mage’s world was no mere illusion—it had *weight*, *will*, and *impact*.
Sephia’s world trembled.
The crystalline tundra began to crack.
*Craaaack—!*
Rifts tore through the frozen plain, and from them howled an avalanche of frost and storm.
> “Hah! You think that can stop the wheel of blood?”
Walter snapped his fingers. Every test subject exploded at once. Their blood scattered in a storm of fire, flooding Sephia’s world in crimson.
> “Let it resound.”
Behind the frozen horizon, Sephia snapped her own fingers.
A pure, crystalline dissonance rang out—eerily beautiful and deeply unsettling. Blue motes of mana drifted through the air.
> **《Blue Dissonance》**
> “Web of Dissonance.”
The floating blue motes connected, weaving into a vast spiderweb that caught the rushing waves of flaming blood and extinguished them.
At that instant, Dale moved. The Shadow Mantle flared, and a flood of darkness surged outward like a tidal wave.
A shrill, inhuman screech echoed.
The *Shadow Lurkers* had awakened beneath the shadowed lake—the same power Dale had gained when he slew the Orc Warlord.
> **《Shadow Lurker》**
> “…!”
Walter’s eyes widened. A 3rd-circle mage should never have been capable of this. But Dale was no ordinary 3rd-circle magician.
Nor was Walter facing him alone.
> “Be careful, Dale.”
> “With a teacher like you guarding my back, what could go wrong?”
Dale smiled faintly. Blue mages specialized not in attack, but in negation—blocking and nullifying magic through layered defense and control.
And Sephia was no ordinary blue mage—she was a 6th-circle *elven* one. There could be no stronger ally.
Dark waters spread as Dale leapt forward—straight into Walter’s infernal operating ward.
> “You insolent brat!” Walter roared. “Burn!”
The six crimson circles blazed, and mana poured forth like a storm of missiles. Explosions hammered down from above.
Yet Dale never faltered.
> “Flare.”
Sephia’s voice rang out.
The missiles veered off course, drawn to the blue motes fluttering around her—like heat-seeking weapons diverted by flares.
The gap closed. Wherever Dale’s feet struck, the lake of shadows expanded.
A mage’s world was his domain—but step foot upon it, and the invader’s will could seep in. Dale pressed forward relentlessly.
> “Protect me, my slaves!”
New test subjects poured forth, aflame, their bodies begging for release. Dale’s blade of shadow cut through them without hesitation—swift, brutal strokes more fitting for a swordsman than a mage.
They exploded—yet failed to engulf him.
> “Blue Quarantine.”
Sephia whispered, and the explosion froze—sealed inside a transparent blue cube.
A prison of magic.
> “Exact coordinates, perfectly isolated,” she murmured.
> “You wretched blue whore!” Walter bellowed.
But the Elder’s insults changed nothing. The 6th-circle elf was impenetrable.
The dark lake spread farther. Shadow Lurkers erupted, their spined tendrils lashing at Walter. He raised walls of flame in defense—but it was no use.
> “Tell me, Walter,” Dale said coldly, “where is your perfect formula for killing now?”
> “Damn you, child!” Walter screamed, unleashing another storm of fire.
> “Reassignment of quarantine zones,” Sephia intoned.
Every blast dissolved, isolated before it could reach Dale. Her precision was inhuman—her control absolute.
Among 6th-circle mages, elves were exceptional. The difference in grace and affinity was beyond measure.
And now Walter understood: he was the fly caught in Sephia’s web.
From the depths of shadow, countless tendrils surged forward.
In battle, once a swordsman closes the distance with a mage, the fight is already over.
And Dale’s swordsmanship had long since surpassed that of an ordinary knight.
> “S-Stay back…!”
The *Black Prince* stood before him.
What always happened when a mage allowed a swordsman to come too close—happened again.
Walter, desperate to defend against the writhing tendrils, failed to block Dale’s final charge.
The blade of shadow fell.
*Shrrkk!*
Flesh tore. Blood sprayed.
> “Aaaagh!”
Walter screamed. Dale tilted his head slightly.
> “Why do you scream?”
*Shrrkk!*
Another swing. Another spray of blood.
> “Wasn’t this the progress you spoke of—built on blood?” Dale asked quietly.
> “Didn’t you say the wheel of history rolls only through blood?”
The shadow blade fell again and again, not to kill but to make him suffer—to grind his creed into his own flesh.
> “You should be rejoicing,” Dale murmured, “for now it is *your* blood turning history’s wheel.”
> “P-please…” Walter gasped. “Kill me…”
But no swift death came. Only endless agony as the wheel kept turning.
> “A wheel that turns only through the blood of innocents,” Dale said, voice cold as the void, “is better off shattered.”
And the **Destroyer of the Wheel** swung his blade one final time—denying not only the Elder before him, but the Red Tower and the Empire’s very creed.
*Shrrkk!*
A tendril of shadow pierced Walter’s chest and tore him apart like a grinder’s teeth.
Sephia only watched in silence, her expression heavy.
The remains of Walter of the Blood Flame scattered into nothing. His world collapsed.
Only the crystalline tundra remained—stained red with blood.
