The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 93 - 94: A Divine Spectacle

They were just soldiers—ordinary men who knew fear. And when faced with an enemy beyond their comprehension, one they could neither fight nor fathom, their only option was to flee.

Hutson had cut down every soldier who dared approach, yet he made no move to chase those who fled in terror. Even so, the battlefield had taken notice. More soldiers, drawn by the commotion, began converging on his position, determined to reinforce their failing ranks.

In their minds, no matter how powerful an opponent was, sheer numbers and coordinated tactics could always tip the scales. Even a Grand Knight had to respect the force of an army.

But Hutson remained impassive, his expression unreadable. With his sword in hand, he stepped forward—straight into the approaching mass of warriors.

He tore through them like a storm, swift and merciless. A tiger among sheep. Their armor might as well have been paper, their shields no more than twigs. Not a single strike could hold him back.

From beneath a battered wagon, Ed watched in stunned silence. His breath hitched as he took in the dazzling glow of Hutson’s magical shields—blue, white, and black light coiling around him like an ethereal shroud.

Then, as though witnessing a revelation, Ed’s expression changed. He fell to his knees beneath the wagon, his hands pressed together in fervent prayer. He began bowing, forehead striking the dirt over and over, his voice trembling with reverence.

Not far away, Roque had also seen everything. He had watched as Hutson, cloaked in his arcane defenses, carved through the enemy like a god of war.

One word echoed in Roque’s mind.

"Mystic."

A shiver ran down his spine.

Roque had spent years traveling as a merchant, encountering all manner of people and hearing countless tales. He had heard whispers of Mystics before—beings who wielded powers beyond mortal reach. But never had he expected to see one with his own eyes. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

And certainly not here, among a humble merchant caravan.

To Roque, Hutson had always been a fallen noble, a man who had spent the last of his wealth to buy passage with the caravan to the Kingdom of Doris. He had even examined Hutson’s hands once, noting the lack of calluses—a clear sign that this so-called "warrior" had never truly wielded a sword in earnest.

Many impoverished nobles carried weapons purely for display, hoping to keep up appearances despite their faded fortunes. Roque had assumed Hutson was no different.

But then Karim had spoken those fateful words. And when the army broke through the defenses, Roque had all but lost hope.

Yet now—now the battlefield belonged to Hutson.

And across the war-torn field, someone else had noticed him too.

Ives stood watching, his brow furrowed in disbelief.

A Mystic.

He recognized it instantly, and a chill ran through him.

Karim had already been an unexpected nuisance. But for there to be a Mystic among the merchants? That was beyond any nightmare he had imagined.

Mystics were legends, whispered of in dark taverns and told in hushed reverence. And yet, by some cruel twist of fate, he had stumbled into one today.

His original plan had been simple—eliminate all witnesses. No one could be left alive to expose his involvement.

But now, with a Mystic standing in his way, the situation had changed.

Ives weighed his options.

The caravan must still be slaughtered—no matter what. But perhaps, just perhaps, the Mystic’s presence was merely a coincidence.

Most Mystics cared little for the affairs of ordinary men. Even if this one had witnessed the massacre, there was no guarantee he would intervene further.

There was still room to maneuver.

Ives exhaled sharply, adjusting his strategy in an instant.

He strode forward, raising his voice.

"Stop! No one lay a hand on this esteemed lord!"

The soldiers around Hutson hesitated, glancing at one another in confusion. Wasn’t it Hutson who had been butchering them?

Still, they obeyed Ives’s command without question, immediately retreating from the Mage-Knight’s reach.

Hutson lowered his blade but made no move to pursue them.

Ives took a calculated breath, approaching carefully. As he neared, he removed his helmet, offering a disarming smile.

"My lord," he greeted smoothly, "it is an honor to make your acquaintance. I am Ives Brand, Knight Commander under Duke Theodor. Might I ask if you have any dealings with His Grace?"

Hutson’s expression remained impassive.

"I do not."

Ives’s smile didn’t falter, but internally, he reassessed his position. No connections to the Duke. That means I cannot use political leverage.

With the practiced grace of a court diplomat, he continued, voice laced with sincerity.

"My deepest apologies, my lord. Had I known you were among the caravan, I would never have allowed this unfortunate misunderstanding to occur. Please, allow me to make amends."

He spread his arms grandly.

"Take all the cargo, all the wealth. It is yours. Consider it a token of my remorse."

Ives was willing to sacrifice every ounce of profit if it meant ensuring his own survival.

Because the moment he had drawn near, his instincts had screamed at him—this man is dangerous.

A Grand Knight like himself should not have felt fear. Yet here he was, standing before Hutson, his every nerve on edge, his body warning him of a threat beyond reason.

But Hutson did not even blink.

"I have no interest," he said coldly.

He was not here to loot the dead. He wanted nothing to do with Ives’s crimes.

He only wanted to reach the Kingdom of Doris.

And he would not play the role of an accomplice.

Hutson had traveled with this merchant caravan for some time. They had no quarrel with him, nor he with them. If anything, they had treated him fairly, ensuring his safety throughout the journey. Of course, that was only because he had paid for their protection—but even so, there was no real enmity between them.

Ives hesitated, considering his next words carefully. Then, with a measured smile, he spoke.

"Since my lord has no interest in wealth, might I ask where you are headed? I can arrange for an escort to guide you on your way."

Hutson did not answer. Instead, his gaze shifted past Ives, his expression clouded with something between curiosity and wariness.

Ives noticed the intensity of his stare and frowned. He turned to follow Hutson’s gaze—only to be met with an impossible sight.

Karim’s corpse—lifeless just moments ago—had begun to glow.

A soft, milky-white radiance pulsed from his still form, expanding outward in gentle waves.

Hutson narrowed his eyes. Something was happening.

Focusing intently, he observed as countless particles of luminous energy—pure Light-element essence—flowed toward Karim, seeping into his body like a tide drawn to shore.

The Light is... healing him?

His wounds, fatal beyond any hope of recovery, were knitting together at an unnatural speed.

A frown crossed Hutson’s face. This isn’t right.

"Deep Blue," he commanded, his voice low. "Scan Karim. Check for any enchanted artifacts or magical energy sources."

Karim was not a mage. He had never practiced any meditation techniques. There should have been no reason—no possible reason—why Light-energy would pour into him with such precision, repairing his shattered body.

If he had been a Light-element sorcerer, it would have made sense. But he was merely a knight.

How could he possibly manipulate energy on such an intricate level?

A moment later, Deep Blue responded with cold certainty.

"No magical energy sources detected."

Hutson’s expression darkened.

That meant what he was witnessing was not the work of an artifact, nor a concealed spell. This was happening naturally.

And yet, Karim’s body continued to mend, suffused in light.

A dry chuckle escaped Hutson’s lips.

"Are you the Chosen of Light?" he muttered, half in jest, half in disbelief.

But the glow only intensified.

The swirling essence gathered, coiling around Karim like an ethereal cocoon. His entire form was now encased in the soft, pulsing radiance of a divine chrysalis.

Around them, the battlefield began to shift.

Ives stood rigid, a cold chill creeping down his spine. An inexplicable sense of dread gnawed at the edges of his mind.

The fighting had ceased.

Every soldier, every warrior—friend and foe alike—had turned their eyes toward the spectacle before them.

A hushed reverence swept over the field.

Karim, who had lain dead mere moments ago, now hovered above the ground, his body bathed in sacred luminescence. His very presence exuded an unearthly tranquility, yet the light was not harsh; it was warm, inviting, almost... comforting.

One by one, the soldiers lowered their weapons.

Some fell to their knees, trembling. Others pressed their foreheads to the dirt in silent devotion.

Whispers rippled through the ranks.

"A miracle..."

"A sign from the gods..."

"Divine intervention..."

Before them stood not a fallen warrior, but a man reborn in light.

To them, this was nothing short of a revelation.

A god’s will made manifest.