"Was he suffering a backlash from the wraiths?"
Dago looked slightly stunned, caught somewhat off guard by the outcome.
The wraiths Maflin had forcibly enslaved now resembled piranhas that had caught the scent of blood, savagely tearing into their former master's battered Soul Body.
Maflin's final trump-card spell had been forcibly suppressed and interrupted by himself. Perhaps the spell's failure had caused a backlash of power,
or perhaps, after his physical body perished, he no longer possessed the strength to suppress the countless wraiths he had controlled.
That was what had led to this situation.
Dago raised his head and saw countless colored orbs of varying sizes surging toward him through the air.
They were pure soul particles.
He spread his arms, like a believer embracing truth, and even more like a greedy abyssal behemoth.
"Whew—"
Like a gale pressing against his face, Dago closed his eyes and felt his soul power steadily soar, rapidly approaching a certain threshold.
It was the barrier of qualitative change between the Second Circle and Third Circle.
Crack.
It was as if he had heard the sound of some shackle deep within his soul breaking apart.
Pain.
An extreme pain, as though he were being soaked in magma.
Yet Dago remained expressionless.
In this cruel Wizarding World, pain was the companion of strength. Only those who could endure monotony and agonizing pain could touch the hem of truth's robe.
Boom!
It was as though a gray torrent had erupted from Dago's body.
Billowing gray smoke shrouded his entire body, gathering without dispersing like a dense gray cloud.
The gray cloud churned ceaselessly, as if something was about to be born within it.
Elemental particles cheered, arranged themselves, and reassembled.
Around the battlefield, Third-Ring Wizards stood frozen where they were.
They were not merely shocked.