The Greatest Archmage To Have Ever Lived [OP MC, LitRPG]

"Hmm."

And this was a hmm of assessment made as Sael's gaze swept across the courtyard, taking in the scene.

Two factions. Weapons drawn. Magic prepared. The Duke with his sword raised, mid-strike, frozen in the moment before violence would have erupted.

And now, all of them staring at him.

Some of the faces showed fear. Others showed confusion. A few—particularly among the group opposing the Duke—showed something else entirely. Calculation. Hostility. The particular expression people wore when they were deciding whether to attack.

Several of those in the opposing faction had shifted their stances slightly. Subtle movements. Feet repositioning for better leverage. Hands adjusting grips on weapons. One mage's fingers were already glowing with preparatory magic, the light barely visible but unmistakably present.

They were considering attacking him.

Sael didn't announce himself.

He didn't raise his voice or make any grand proclamation. He simply raised one hand, fingers spreading in a gesture that looked almost casual, and spoke a single word.

"[Gravitational Anchor]."

The spell didn't make a sound. Just a subtle ripple in the air above the opposing faction, like heat shimmer on a summer road, and then—

They all fell.

Twenty-three people hit the courtyard stones in perfect unison. The impact was immediate and absolute. Bodies slammed down with enough force to crack flagstones. Weapons clattered from nerveless fingers. Someone's sword skittered across the ground and came to rest against a bench.

They couldn't move. Some tried, Sael could see the strain in their faces, the trembling in their limbs as they fought against the weight pressing down on them. But it was futile. The spell had increased local gravity by a factor of eight, maybe nine. Enough that even standing would require strength most of them simply didn't have.

A few of the stronger ones managed to lift their heads. Barely. Their faces were pressed against the stone, cheeks flattened, eyes bulging slightly with effort and what was probably terror.

The grass around them was flattened too, pressed into the earth like it had been stomped on by something massive. Small stones had sunk into the soil. One man's belt buckle had bent under the pressure, the metal creaking audibly.

The man named Robb was near the front of the group. His mouth was open, trying to form words, but all that came out was a strained wheeze.

Professor Veric looked worse. The man was flat on his stomach, one arm pinned beneath him at an angle that would probably hurt later. His face had gone red, then purple, veins standing out on his forehead as he struggled just to breathe against the weight.

One of the guards—a younger man Sael didn't recognize—was making a high, thin sound in the back of his throat. Not quite a scream. More like the noise someone made when their lungs couldn't expand enough to scream properly.

Sael stood at the edge of the effect radius, perfectly still, then he lowered his hand and stepped forward, dragging the unconscious form of Professor Carth with him. The man's body scraped across the stones, leaving a faint trail. Sael dropped him without ceremony in the space between the two factions—the no-man's-land that had formed when violence seemed imminent.

Carth didn't move or twitch. Sael looked at him for a moment, then looked up at the assembled crowd.

His gaze swept across Richter's side first, then across the prone forms of the opposition, still pinned to the ground and struggling to breathe.

"I looked at his memories," Sael said quietly.

His voice wasn't loud, but he made sure it carried with perfect clarity across the courtyard.

He didn't particularly care how any of them perceived him anymore. The anxiety that usually gnawed at him when speaking in front of crowds—the constant mental calculus of how his words might be received, what people might think—was simply absent. He'd calmed down considerably since the initial confrontation, but that calm hadn't brought back his usual social anxiety. If anything, it had burned it away. Sael had no sympathy left for these people. Not enough to waste energy worrying about their opinions of him, at the very least. Which was, in a sense, quite liberating.

He pointed at Carth.

"Professor Carth. Former head of Advanced Magical Theory. Currently Corrupted." He paused, as if considering his words. "The memories were... extensive. Detailed. He kept very thorough mental records of his activities, which is helpful. It made identifying his allies easier."

Sael's hand moved, gesturing toward the people pinned to the ground.

"Most of you were in those memories. Fellow Corrupted. People who heard the whispers and said yes. People who were offered their heart's desire and accepted." They disgusted him thoroughly. "I have a reasonably clear picture of the current situation."

He was quiet for a moment, studying them.

"I would recommend that you don't resist what comes next. It will be easier for everyone involved."

He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes had snagged on something. Someone. Two figures near the back of the pinned group, pressed to the ground like all the others but—

Sael's head tilted slightly.

He stared at them for a long moment.

Then his expression shifted into something that might have been confusion, or possibly consternation, or maybe just profound bewilderment.

"Wait," he said slowly.