Hey, Big Cute Archimonde, Eat My Poisoned Throwing Knives of Justice!

Principal Archimonde's supposedly foolproof assassination had failed.

There had been nothing wrong with his technique or methods. It was simply poor intelligence work. After overlooking one rather fatal issue, even more terrible problems had followed in quick succession. But now was not the time to discuss methods or patch loopholes. For the ambitious Archimonde, the most important thing was to survive first...

Facing Sarkir, who was unleashing his full personal firepower in the Great Lecture Hall while demons from the Twisting Nether constantly joined the battle, was truly an enormous challenge.

Though the teacher and student turned bitter enemies both possessed Argus's finest casting abilities and profound studies of the Arcane Path, Archimonde was clearly far inferior to Sarkir in the secondary discipline of "warlock."

Chiefly because, as the principal of the Arcane Academy, he simply could not openly draw from and refine the knowledge bestowed by fel energy to obtain the power he craved, as the retired Sarkir could.

Sarkir knew every one of Archimonde's tricks. Yet faced with the bizarre spells Sarkir casually cast one after another, the principal could barely mount an effective defense, let alone counterattack.

Within the first ten seconds of their clash, more than six major curses had been placed upon Archimonde.

The sacrificial flames of Brimstone Fire seared his flesh. The biting chill brought by Corruption was like drinking poisoned wine, making his organs ache in agony. The Curse of Weakness drained his strength, while the Curse of Tongues tangled Archimonde's tongue and severely slowed his chanting.

The most inconspicuous Curse of Elements was devastatingly lethal, temporarily sealing all of the arcane master's Energy Resistance and turning him into a literal "glass cannon," allowing every Shadow Bolt to inflict crushing critical strikes upon him.

If all of those were merely weakening effects, then the Curse of Doom Sarkir personally placed upon him at the cost of crushing a demon skull artifact at his side was true "death by a thousand cuts."

It caused neither physical nor mental harm, but it was a countdown that devoured Life Force.

Demonic laughter, deep and thunderous as a great bell, echoed in Archimonde's heart. It drew closer as his resistance weakened, as though a gateway to the Twisting Nether were opening inside his body.

Sarkir had turned him into a "living sacrifice" with fel energy!

Once the Curse of Doom's countdown reached zero, his life and flesh would become bait to summon powerful demons. When the doomguards guarding the Dark Titan in the Twisting Nether answered the call, his life would reach its final moment.

Archimonde had seen an explanation of this curse in an Awakeners' Cult grimoire. Yet even with his Casting Talent, he could not turn this powerful curse's casting structure into an instant spell. In Sarkir's hands, however, casting such a curse was as easy as swinging a stick at a stray dog.

That alone proved that in this magical bombardment between masters, Sarkir had elevated himself to another realm through fel infusion and the Benefactor's blessing.

Perhaps his power now rivaled that of the legendary Primordial Sorcerer Augure.

After all, Archimonde had personally measured Sarkir's head circumference. The decrepit old man he had called "mentor" for so many years truly possessed the potential to rival a primordial sorcerer.

Sarkir had fulfilled his "talent" through another, more extreme path.

"Kneel!"

As Sarkir roared, the Man'ari master warlock, whose very body had become twisted, cast out a mass of fel-wrapped energy with his former elegance. Archimonde, who was enduring the dreadful curses and using ventriloquist casting to freeze the surrounding demon servants, was struck head-on.

His heavy magical shield shattered as he endured Sarkir's towering fury. Hit by Death Coil, he saw hallucinations in that instant.

He saw himself lying dismembered at Sarkir's feet. He saw his skull fashioned into an artifact and held aloft by that old madman. He saw his flesh thrown into sacrificial flames, becoming food fought over by demons.

He saw his soul cast into black flames and tempered for ten thousand years.

Most importantly, he saw his failure!

His pursuit of authority, ambition, and power would end tonight. There was no longer any way to resist the arrival of this moment.

"Ah!"

Archimonde knew he had been Dragged Into the state warlocks excelled at most: "fear." He knew he had to break free immediately, or he would become a lamb awaiting slaughter.

So he bit the tip of his tongue, using the pain to force himself awake for one brief instant. Then he crushed the magic gem meant to replenish his mana, calling arcane energy upon himself. In an instant, that pure, powerful mana raced around him like lightning and poured into his weakened body.

The strengthening brought by the arcane freed the principal from the humiliation of fear. Mastering Arcane Tri-Aspect Transformation, he used a precise Blink to break through and transported himself to a high platform on the second floor of the lecture hall, evading the bites of Sarkir's demon servants below.

But before he could catch his breath, the vast darkness blanketing the Great Lecture Hall seemed to come alive.

The moment Sarkir's raised left hand came down like a warhammer, those animated shadows roared and slammed into the principal's body.

That Shadow Fury was both precise and vicious, striking Archimonde squarely while Blink was still on cooldown.

He had no other choice but to endure it with a shield. Yet the Ice Barrier he hastily raised was torn apart in an instant, and Archimonde's body was ripped open along with it by the explosion of darkness.

Blood splattered!

It was like a water-filled bag being crushed open, blood spraying from his wounds.

As Archimonde cried out in pain and was forced to one knee, none of that blood went to waste. As if controlled by invisible hands, it swirled around him. Under Sarkir's astonishing control of mana, its Life Force was extracted and transformed into fel energy, placing another Calamity Mark upon Archimonde.

With that mark, even if Archimonde was outside Sarkir's line of sight, the powerful and ruthless old warlock could accurately locate him and hurl one lethal warlock spell after another at him.

In truth, once the battle had become so utterly one-sided, Archimonde had realized the cruel truth.

Sarkir, with one foot in Demon Ascension, was fully capable of commanding demons to kill him, the traitor, in a short time. Yet the old madman had not done so. Like carving meat with a knife, he kept bleeding Archimonde and inflicting pain upon him.

He regarded it as punishment during an execution, a way to soothe the bitter loss in his heart.

It seemed Archimonde's betrayal had truly wounded the old sorcerer deeply...

But realizing that was undeniably Good News for Archimonde.

Sarkir's offensive was fierce, but he had completely lost the rationality a caster should possess. Toying with prey was no good habit, old fool!

You taught me that yourself.

Covered in blood, Archimonde endured the agony of feeling as though he were being cut apart a thousand times. His study of the warlock path might not run as deep as Sarkir's, and the fel gifts he had received were nowhere near those bestowed upon the Awakeners who had openly "embraced demons," but Archimonde had not come this far merely by flattering those in power.

He had his own talent and his own diligence. A thousand years of unwavering cultivation had long given him his own unique casting logic and understanding.

He might not wield the endless destruction granted by fel energy as freely as Sarkir, but he also possessed his own understanding of this special power, so utterly different from the Arcane Path...

"Bang!"

At Sarkir's command, two hulking fel lords serving as guards simultaneously hurled heavy demonsteel axes toward the high place where Archimonde hid. The spinning blades struck the second-floor platform like heavy artillery, smashing apart the passage connecting its sturdy structure to the building's main body.

Amid flying stone, Archimonde fell along with the platform beneath his feet.

He tried to Blink in midair to change position, but Sarkir raised a hand and struck him again with a Death Coil.

Though he had protected his mind this time and avoided being dragged into fear, the impact of fel energy still disrupted his casting. Several arcane mirror images Archimonde had just created burst like bubbles. He had intended to retreat under their cover, but was precisely exposed and slammed to the ground flailing amid the flames of a fel eruption.

"Heh heh."

The old sorcerer discarded the ruby staff in his hand. He no longer needed that auxiliary object that had once represented "wisdom."

Supporting his hunched body, warped by spinal mutations, he limped forward. With a casual grasp, the crystal spellbreaking blade Archimonde had specially forged to assassinate him spun into Sarkir's hand.

Guarded by powerful fel lords, Sarkir carried the blade and slowly approached Archimonde, whose left leg had been injured in the fall.

What he intended to do was self-evident.

"You once lavishly praised the shape of my skull as comparable to that of Primordial Sorcerer Augure. I knew it was not praise. But my disciple, I also know that your skull is equally perfect..."

Fel flames burned in Sarkir's eyes like ghostly fires drifting through the darkest graveyard. He spoke in a ghastly voice:

"I will bring your skull before the Benefactor. I will polish and carve it with the most perfect craftsmanship. I will let your head and eyes remain by my side throughout this Dark Night Era. I will take you across these stars that cannot escape calamity, and together, we will witness the final moment when the physical universe marches toward its fel apocalypse.

"Archimonde, my proudest disciple, my child...

"My son..."

"No, please!"

Curled amid the rubble, Archimonde had never been so wretched and miserable.

His injured leg made it difficult for him to stand. Every casting tool in his hands had also been destroyed in that brief but fierce clash between teacher and student. Only the ritual staff representing his identity as the academy's principal remained. Yet the Staff of Edicts, wreathed in arcane radiance, could not help him resist Sarkir's killing intent.

He wailed:

"Give me another chance! Mentor, father! I was only Deceived by power. Give me another chance."

"I gave you many chances, child. I even wanted to leave you all the dark glory of the Benefactor's frail future."

Sarkir directed the fel lords to step forward and seize Archimonde. He said regretfully:

"But all of this was your own choice."

"Then... then..."

Archimonde seemed to lower his head in shame. He appeared to stop struggling.

Under the cold gazes of the high-ranking warlocks who had emerged from all across the Land of Chaos, Archimonde struggled to his feet against a stone pillar. He seemed to have decided to accept his fate.

But as the fel lords approached, the spell he had been preparing for nearly half a minute was finally unleashed as the principal lifted his head with a savage, ferocious expression.

"Then please die! I have to live!"

Dark green fel energy burst from his bloodstained fingertips. But it was not hurled out through the overly crude casting style of the fel path. Instead, Archimonde restrained it with his outstanding casting attainments, shaping it into an arcane spell technique that was both exquisite and deadly.

The arcane runes coiling around his arm and twitching uncontrollably showed that Archimonde himself could not fully control this grand spell. He had to draw upon all his mana to suppress its instability.

This was his unique application of fel energy, researched by himself—a secret spell even Sarkir had never seen.

The instant that beam, compressed to such an extreme by fel energy that it had turned black, burst from Archimonde's fingertips, Sarkir's eyes went wide.

He fully sensed the spell's deadly aura. That chill as though facing death itself, along with the roar of energy, made Sarkir leap aside in a motion utterly unsuited to his twisted body. He casually seized a high-ranking warlock who had not yet understood what was happening and turned him into a "human shield."

The black light struck a guarding fel lord. The instant it hit, the creature collapsed like a crumbling stone statue.

But it was not over!

Like light encountering its first mirror and undergoing a precise, deadly refraction, the black light leaped to the high-ranking warlock in front of Sarkir. The man did not even have time to make a sound before both body and soul were shattered. He could not even flee into a soulstone before the dark beam jumped again.

The third, the fourth, the fifth...

Only after the ninth victim fell did the black beam, after multiple refractions, finally strike Sarkir, who had sacrificed his own demon guard to place a demon blood shield upon himself.

The demon blood shield, which could resist repeated lethal attacks, shattered instantly. The black beam pierced Sarkir's heart like an arrow.

Yet the countless refractions had severely damaged the spell's destructive power. Moreover, Archimonde had not truly completed it. This was merely a "half-finished product" of a perfect creation.

"Pfft!"

The dumbfounded old sorcerer opened his mouth and spat out vicious black blood. His Demon Armor was shattered by the strike, and his entire body swayed like a fallen leaf in the wind.

But he ultimately endured it.

Perhaps the Benefactor's generous blessing had granted him Life Force far exceeding that of ordinary Man'ari.

In any case, when Archimonde saw Sarkir brace himself against a wall, raise his head, and wave a hand to form a new fel vortex, he broke down. He had exhausted all his mana and strength just to unleash that final attack.

He had already used the deadliest spell currently at his disposal, yet he still could not defeat his absurdly powerful mentor.

Fortunately, the grand spell he had privately named Finger of Death had cleared away those troublesome obstacles. Archimonde cast his mentor a vicious look, then turned and limped away.

Sarkir needed rest after taking a Finger of Death head-on, but when he saw Archimonde fleeing, he still struggled to raise the spellbreaking blade in his hand and hurl it at his disciple.

Do not think Eredar sorcerers were all frail casters. Their race had the traditional Jed'hin Training, mandatory for every adult male. Just like bare-chested gladiators battling the fiercest Talbuk, they used their bodies and fists to collide and fight.

Every man raised under this tradition was skilled in martial arts.

The spellbreaking blade whistled through the air and embedded itself in Archimonde's back, only a finger's width from his neck. But it ultimately missed its mark.

Sarkir could only watch his disciple scream and crawl away from the area on all fours in utter disgrace. He turned back and roared at the demons leaping out of the fel vortex behind him:

"Find him! Catch him! Kill him! Bring me his head!"

"Awooo!"

The savage roars of violent demons answered Sarkir, but Sarkir himself did not pursue.

On one hand, his rebellious disciple's final counterattack had truly been fierce and sharp, leaving him wounded. On the other, Sarkir had already sensed the crisis of the coup. He had to push the operation forward ahead of schedule.

Fortunately, the Awakeners' Cult had prepared for this coup for far too long.

They had long arranged every aspect of it. The ritual meant to summon the demon vanguard lay beneath the Great Lecture Hall, and it had already begun. All that remained was for him to preside over it.

Elsewhere, Archimonde fled the main area of the lecture hall in a wretched state. Panting, he tried to reach behind himself and pull out the spellbreaking blade embedded in his back.

But it had lodged in an awkward spot in his flesh, and in his current condition, it was difficult to remove.

The demons' roars were also drawing near, forcing Archimonde to pull himself together and keep fleeing like a lame Talbuk. He saw his followers being hunted by the Awakeners' Cult warlocks throughout the dark lecture hall, but he no longer had the leisure to maintain his image as an "excellent educator."

He had to escape!

His miserable state was not entirely bad. Though the assassination of Sarkir had failed, the two Grand Executors would instead trust him more because of it.

The only regret was that he would not have the chance to inherit all of Sarkir's prestige.

But that did not matter. No matter who killed Sarkir, he would become the only candidate to be Argus's most outstanding caster.

The Grand Executor's position, symbolizing wisdom, would still be his.

He merely needed to lie low and wait...

But patience was a virtue, and it was what Ambitious Persons lacked least.

"Principal! How did you end up like this?"

Just as Archimonde rushed out of a passage that had begun to shake, a surprised cry came from the side. He turned and saw the sisters Saloras and Oreses, whom he greatly valued, running toward him.

Wonderful.

His confidants were still alive.

Archimonde breathed a sigh of relief and was about to call them over to support him and remove the spellbreaking blade lodged in his flesh. But the next moment, his keen eyes spotted the bloodstained demon sword in Saloras's hand.

That was the weapon of Galasum, his most loyal servant...

"Traitors!"

Archimonde's rage erupted in that instant.

He raised a finger and squeezed out his last remaining mana, intending to summon flames and burn these two little bitches to death in this desperate place.

How laughable. The Arcane Academy's greatest traitor had not hesitated when betraying his mentor and "father," yet when he suffered betrayal from his students, he wished he could eat their flesh and sleep on their skins.

Sure enough, Archimonde, who had resolved to do great things, was nothing but a hypocritical double-standard hypocrite.

Seeing themselves exposed, the Twins no longer bothered pretending. Together, they unleashed flames and frost, forcing the weakened Archimonde back into the pitch-black passage.

The principal, built like a giant, retreated in frustration.

If that Finger of Death had not drained all his strength and mana just now, how could he possibly have failed to deal with two little bitches?

But as he struggled to raise a shield and continuously retreated beneath the barrage of fire and frost, a burst of searing pain suddenly erupted in his back. It felt as though something had struck his flesh and shattered, inflicting a numbing curse upon him.

Besieged from both front and back, Archimonde turned around and saw Diakum Zastinus, who had supposedly "died," blocking his escape route in an incomparably righteous stance. The assassination poison throwing knives he continually hurled struck his chest, waist, abdomen, and neck just as he turned.

Those vicious things shattered upon entering his body. The icy numbness left Archimonde unable even to control his muscles. Under the continuous piercing of poisoned throwing knives, he finally collapsed to the ground.

Watching Dick stride toward him, the cornered Archimonde finally understood every cause and consequence.

Why Sarkir had suddenly learned of his betrayal plot; why the Twins, sent to execute Dick, had defected at such a moment; and why Commander Kil'jaeden had worn that strange, subtle smile he had struggled to suppress when Archimonde reported to the two Grand Executors at the Seat of the Triumvirate...

"So... you were the traitor... You were the venomous snake!"

Archimonde groaned in pain and despair:

"But Diakum, why?"

"Pfft!"

A battle sword carrying a curse effect pierced Archimonde's heart from the front.

As Dick pressed down on the principal's shoulder and reached out to pull the Spellbreaker Crystal Blade from his back, the high-ranking guard spoke softly:

"For Argus!"

"Hypocrite..."

"Pfft!"

The crystal blade was raised high, then viciously brought down beneath the gazes of the approaching Twins.

The principal's final curse was cut short. Amid spraying blood, Dick seized that blue head, whose eyes remained wide in death, by the hair and lifted it high.

The blade that had been meant to sever Sarkir's head had ultimately fallen upon another's neck, with fate's sigh.

Dick, who had remained serious all night, finally smiled.

He discarded the shattered spellbreaking blade in his hand and admired the "Archimonde's Skull" with its furious, wide-open eyes as though it were fate's supreme gift. Then he turned to the Twins and said:

"We won! Kids, we—"

Boom!

The thunderous blast cut off Dick's explanation.

He felt the destructive force erupt behind him and could only lunge forward, knocking the twins to the ground and raising the shield activated by the Arcanite Crystal array to protect all three of them.

Amid the twins' screams, Dick watched as the entire Great Lecture Hall shattered under the devastation of the dark green Fel Beam erupting from underground.

Countless demons cheered as they rushed out of the pillar of light. The winged demon bats shrieked as they dove toward the sky lit by fel energy, as though the Burning Legion's invasion had already begun.

But then Dick saw those demon bats scatter in terror.

A blazing golden veil of light burst from high above and spread downward, forming a radiant wall that blocked every demon from advancing any farther.

"Do you hear it?"

In the lecture hall, where falling rubble continued to crash down, he softly asked the protected twins:

"That song..."

"Huh?"

The twins heard nothing.

They looked at Commander Dick in fear and confusion as he held Archimonde's head and listened intently.

He heard that familiar, ethereal melody and said:

"It's the Naaru's song, the song of the Holy Light... They've come! The Holy Light hasn't abandoned us!"

P.S.:

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve. There will be two updates tomorrow to wrap up this plot point.