When Alban reached out and grabbed Oleg's arm, Oleg even kindly gave him a hand.
In Oleg's eyes, Alban's condition was probably the legendary "magical backlash"—though the North District Wizards had little ability to cast magic themselves, they never tired of talking enthusiastically about magical concepts.
According to rumors in the North District, when wizards failed to cast a spell, they suffered magical backlash. In mild cases, they might be drained of strength and break out in cold sweat; in severe cases, their lives could even be at risk.
So when Alban took a small step back, his face deathly pale, Oleg loyally offered him his arm.
Brothers might quarrel within the walls, but together they faced insults from without.
Oleg had originally wanted to crack a joke at Alban's expense, mocking him for being half-baked and daring to scare people in the street before fully mastering the spell.
But before the joke could leave his mouth, he keenly sensed that something was wrong.
The hand Alban had clamped around his arm was far too strong.
It felt as though it were about to crush the bone in his arm!
"Help me," Alban muttered. His voice was like a whisper, too indistinct to make out clearly. "Help me, and you help everyone. You help the North District... I can't do it alone."
"What are you talking about?" Oleg grimaced and sucked in a cold breath. "Where did you get that kind of strength?!"
Then he saw Alban turn his head, his eyes red and his expression fanatical as he looked at him.
"Just this once." There was pleading in Alban's gaze, along with savagery and guilt. "Just this once."
He repeated those words as the black spell mark on his forehead suddenly blazed bright. Like a massive vortex, it swallowed