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

The human—the professor, they'd called him—had barely managed to complete his fire spell before Sael ended it. He did not use overwhelming force or dramatic counterspells. The barrier went up, the flames dispersed, and Sael's hand shot out to catch the fleeing man by the ankle. It was methodical and efficient. The way one might swat a particularly slow fly.

Then the entire exchange—if it could be called that— had lasted perhaps two seconds.

Now the professor lay half dead on the scorched ground, Sael crouched beside him with one hand pressed against the man's chest. Whatever spell he'd cast next wasn't visible—no light show, no dramatic incantation—but Ozyaranthes could sense the magic at work. Something invasive and precise, threading through the professor's body.

The human started convulsing.

His back arched off the ground, muscles seizing in rhythmic spasms that looked decidedly unpleasant. His mouth opened in what might have been a scream, but no sound emerged, whether because Sael had silenced him or because his lungs couldn't coordinate themselves enough to produce noise was unclear.

Foam gathered at the corners of his lips.

Ozyaranthes tilted his head, watching with curiosity. This was, he supposed, what "almost killing someone to save them" looked like in practice. The Duke had gone pale and taken several steps back. His guards looked like they were reconsidering their career choices.

The convulsions intensified for a moment, then began to change character.

The professor's chest started to bulge. It wasn't in an evenly manner, or even from swelling or injury, but in a specific location just below his sternum. The flesh pushed outward as if something beneath was trying to force its way through, creating a visible lump that shifted and moved.

The lump traveled upward. Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, it moved from the professor's chest toward his throat. The man's convulsions had stopped now, replaced by a different kind of distress: his hands clawed at his neck, eyes bulging, face turning an unhealthy shade of purple as whatever was inside him pressed against his windpipe.

Sael maintained his position, hand still on the professor's chest, expression perfectly calm.

The lump reached the man's jaw.

His mouth stretched open wider than seemed anatomically reasonable, jaw distending. A wet, choking sound emerged, followed by what could only be described as the most undignified exit Ozyaranthes had ever witnessed.

The professor vomited.

And it wasn't food or bile, but something else entirely. A wisp of purple light spilled from his mouth, translucent and writhing, about the size of a human fist. It glowed with its own internal radiance and seemed to have no fixed shape, constantly shifting and reforming.

The purple wisp hovered for perhaps half a second, as if disoriented.

Then it bolted.

The thing moved with startling speed, shooting away from the professor's prone form. It wove through the air in an erratic pattern, zigging and zagging, heading for the treeline with obvious desperation.

Sael didn't stand. Didn't chase. Didn't even appear particularly concerned. No, he simply raised his free hand, fingers spread, and spoke a single word.

"[Purification]."

Lightning didn't fall from the sky—Ozyaranthes would have noticed storm clouds gathering—but that's what the spell resembled. A bolt of brilliant white light materialized above the fleeing wisp and struck downward with the speed and violence of a natural lightning strike.

The purple entity had no chance to dodge.

The light consumed it entirely, and for a brief instant, the wisp was visible inside the radiance. Then it simply wasn't. No explosion, no dramatic dissipation, just there one moment and gone the next.

The spell faded eventually, and silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the professor's ragged breathing as he lay on the ground, alive but unconscious.

Ozyaranthes examined his wing feathers with affected disinterest, preening at a few that had gotten slightly disheveled during the cart ride. The display of magical prowess had been adequate, he supposed. Certainly efficient. But it hardly warranted commentary from him.