Pain! Excruciating pain!
Luge had never experienced such an explosive, scorching full-body massage. Searing heat mingled with bursting concussions, the tremendous impact driving him back uncontrollably. Enveloped in a suffocating crush, it felt as though that momentary, colossal force wasn't merely shoving him against the wall, but thrusting him into another world altogether. Over twenty fire bolts slammed into him in dense, rapid succession, feeling like repeated steamrollings. The air churned amid spraying sparks; every breath he drew burned with searing agony.
Yet he also wanted to laugh. He didn't know what kind of hide Half-Man had given him, but it was astonishingly flame-resistant and remarkably tough. In fact, calling it flame-resistant didn't even do it justice—it practically possessed a faint affinity for fire.
And when he could just barely perceive the current state of the fellow who had hurled all those combustibles around, he wanted to laugh even harder. A fifth-rank apprentice was nothing more than this! In truth, however, his vision had already blurred, and he doubted he could squeeze a sound from his throat. Tears, snot, and blood smeared across his entire face. His head buzzed, his ears rang incessantly, and he couldn't even tell if he was missing a piece of himself. That was only because he had instinctively shielded his head with his forearms just now. Thank goodness for this dark red hide, and thank goodness he had learned Demonskin before running around out here.
Thank goodness. A countless string of "thank goodnesses" had brought him to this point and kept him from turning into a charred, mangled corpse.
He breathed heavily, unable to care about the discomfort from the lingering waves of heat in the air.
Right now, propped against the wall, he could do nothing besides gasp for breath.
After who knew how long, his dizziness had subsided considerably. He began testing his limbs, wiped his mouth and nose to clear his airway, and fumbled toward his storage pouch. Only then did his battered, sluggish brain realize that the well-fitting robe he had acquired not long ago was completely ruined. He took out a flask of Big Dumb Hum's blood and threw his head back to down it in a fierce gulp. Without throwing his body into the motion, he wasn't even sure he could swallow the stuff properly.
Using too much force in that single surge, he slipped from where he leaned and ended up lying flat on the ground. His body gradually recovered under the nourishment of Big Dumb Hum's blood.
*This blood has been sitting around for a few too many days; the potency seems a bit degraded,* he thought.
Once his vision wasn't quite so blurry, the first thing he did was brace the back of his head against the ground and tilt it sideways, looking across the passage toward the figure who had crossed paths with him some distance away.
Seeing that the person was also lying on the ground, occasionally twitching, Luge finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Unsure whether the other was also recuperating or relying on some trick he had never seen before, Luge suppressed the anxious urgency in his heart.
Every few moments, he would check on the man's condition.
It felt like a race of recuperative power against an imagined foe. He genuinely hoped his worries were for nothing; if the other man didn't recover, things would be far safer.
Time slowed in the grip of anxiety and dread—much like when those fire bolts had struck. Though it had happened in the blink of an eye, it had felt agonizingly drawn out, as if he could have named every single bolt that hit him in turn. For instance, the one that caught his armpit could be called "Little Pit," and the one that burned all the hair off his head could be dubbed "Bald Burn."
Luge stretched his legs. Feeling good enough, he braced against the cave wall and stood up.
Stirring his mental power, he cast a zero-ring spell on himself first: Boiling Spirit.
*Don't say I didn't give you a chance, unknown buddy; it's been long enough,* he thought.
Of course, he had also been carefully maintaining Fetid Skin the entire time. Afraid that the man might thrash about and slip out of range, he had even nudged forward across the ground on his head earlier.
Thanks to Big Dumb Hum's blood, he'd be sure to share more roast meat with him once he got back.
Creeping along the cave wall, Luge observed his opponent. Judging by the man's spasms, his experience told him the fellow was almost certainly incapacitated by Fetid Skin. Targets with physical bodies really were easier to handle, or perhaps this person simply wasn't as formidable as that near-incorporeal entity from last time.
The figure on the ground wore a hood, leaving only stubble visible on the lower half of his face.
Luge's barely recovered body still ached all over; he had neither the mood nor the need to study the fellow.
He came to a stop at a suitable distance.
From the looks of it, the man's zero-ring spell slot had likely been solidified with Fire Bolt. Moreover, it wasn't a standard solidification; it had clearly been modified or combined with other techniques, granting it terrifying power.
Even though the man was already reduced to this state, Luge still didn't dare approach recklessly. Modern apprentice wizards all practiced the third-generation meditation method, and a fifth-rank apprentice wizard possessed at least five temporary spell slots. If the fellow suddenly sprang a big surprise, Luge really wouldn't be able to withstand it right now.
He reinforced himself with Bull's Strength once more, then drew a short spear from his storage pouch and weighed it in his hand.
He didn't rush to strike.
First came three consecutive rays of frost, every one striking the man's ankles, freezing them solid against the ground.
Throughout the barrage, the opponent made no violent attempt to retaliate; it seemed he wasn't faking.
Another Ray of Frost shot straight for his face, but was partially blocked since the man lay on his side.
Then Luge squared his stance, swung his arm back in a wide arc, and hurled two short spears in rapid succession.
Unfortunately, his marksmanship was limited. Only one struck the torso dead-center, while the other grazed the scalp, but it was enough to end the nameless fellow's twitching.
Luge swayed, slid down against the cave wall, and sat on the ground.
*Clack! Clack!*
A burst of footsteps made him tense up again just as he exhaled. Though bolstered by Bull's Strength, he still couldn't run fast right now—yet even if he couldn't run fast, he would have to try.
"It's me, little fellow. Nicely done."
Baonte strolled into view holding the grayish-white serpent, not looking the least bit disheveled.
*He definitely thought I was dead,* Luge thought.
"This apprentice is probably named Lante. He's on the weaker side, and after taking two punches from me, I figured leaving him to you wouldn't be an issue. But that level of danger is something you had to be prepared to face the moment you chose to stay. Moving forward, this might just be the bare minimum," Baonte said, taking in Luge's indescribably battered state. "It seems he's made some progress since I last saw him. Or perhaps I miscalculated—you haven't even reached the third rank of apprentice wizard yet, have you?"
"I just... haven't mastered many spells," Luge said.
With Fetid Skin proven in actual combat against a fifth-rank apprentice wizard, his confidence had bolstered somewhat. Besides, he had only been playing along with their questioning earlier; he had never intended to carry out any commission for a lord wizard. Once he got his share of benefits, he would look for a chance to slip away, return to hiding, and continue meditating. Completing his second demonic mark as soon as possible was what he really needed to do.
"Perhaps in a few days you truly ought to leave with that cook who plays with fire," Baonte said, tossing over a dark green potion vial. "On the house," he added.
Luge caught it, but didn't drink it. Instead, he solemnly stowed it away in his storage pouch.
Baonte saw this and paid it no mind, walking over to the corpse pinned to the ground by the short spear.
A storage pouch was tossed his way. Luge raised a hand and caught it, pulling on his shoulder, which had yet to recover and had been strained further by forcing the spear throws.
After a moment's thought, Luge stood up under Baonte's surprised gaze, walked over to the corpse, and stripped off the man's robes and boots.
"I didn't bring a spare," he explained.
Tearing open the damaged seams, he pulled the hooded robe over himself in two or three swift motions.
Standing aside, Baonte looked over his body—indistinguishable from any ordinary kobold's—and his eyes showed a glimmer of understanding.
Chapter 36