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The viridian death-magic that had infested sand and sky alike melted away in an instant, vanishing like frost beneath the morning sun.
Even Ian's own magic faltered, the surge of power around his body trembling under the storm. The golden force spread outward, sweeping toward him like an invisible hurricane.
It sought not only to smother his magic, But to strip away his very right to cast.
"This… is not normal magic."
Ian's expression hardened, grim and sharp. He could feel it, both the crushing weight of this force, and the strange, indelible trace that lingered within it.
"Yes. You're right."
Merlin's voice was calm, steady, carrying a resonance that seemed to echo through the desert air.
"I can sense your strength. Ordinary legendary wizards could never withstand the sheer essence of your power. But… it's unfortunate. Today, you still cannot defeat me."
He floated higher, his form suspended in the air as though the heavens themselves bore him aloft.
Behind him, The radiant wings unfurled and slowly transformed into a blazing golden corona, a sun halo burning at his back.
"Even legends are not equal. Between us lies a gulf. I walk a path that pierces the heavens, and I… have already stepped beyond. Half-god." Merlin lifted a single finger, pointing directly at Ian.
And in that instant, Ian felt it. The crushing weight, as though heaven and earth themselves were bearing down on him, pressing his very existence toward oblivion.
"I forged the art of the Breath. I intervened in the wars of kingdoms. All to take one step further. And now, you are the first wizard to taste what lies upon the road ahead."
"Survive… and chase me."
The words rang like divine proclamation, not merely spoken, but resounding across heaven and earth. From Merlin's fingertip bloomed a power suffused with law and order itself, A force that could not be defied.
An oracle.
Ian felt it with horrifying clarity: his very essence as a wizard was unraveling, dissolving into nothingness. His bond with magic, the heartbeat of his soul, blurred and faded, slipping away as though torn from his grasp.
Sweat beaded his brow.
"I am not a wizard. That is a false premise."
Ian's voice cut sharply through the pressure. He invoked the authority of paradox itself, first reasserting the reality of his magical existence, anchoring it against annihilation. Then, wielding the same law-infused resonance, he spoke again:
"Your power struck me… but in doing so, you have sealed yourself."
It was a statement aimed at shaping what would come, an assertion of future truth. Yet his stature fell short, he could not fully impose his will upon Merlin.
But, It was enough. The crushing suppression of magic that Merlin had unleashed was gone. Ian tore it away, freeing himself from the suffocating ban.
"Damn you! What are you?!"
Merlin's composure cracked, shock flashing across his face. He had forged a path to absolute mastery of magic itself, a bane meant to restrain every wizard under heaven.
And yet, His golden radiance had failed to strip Ian of the right to cast spells. Worse, it had recoiled, as though some hidden truth had turned it back upon him.
The realization struck him with a sharp, bewildered chill.
"Like I said, mutual frauds, both of us are cheaters."
Ian's voice carried a trace of wry mockery as his right to wield magic returned to him in full. Power surged in his veins once more, though his heart still thudded with lingering dread of Merlin's forbidden authority.
"Half-god, is it?"
Merlin's expression faltered, doubt flickering in his eyes.
"A wizard. Nothing more."
Ian rose again, black robes swirling like an eternal night amid the burning storm of fire-rain. The small wizard lifted his wand, and with a twist of his left hand, a spell whispered like flowing springs took on a form no words could contain.
A river.
A roaring, surging river burst forth where none should exist. It glimmered with light, water rippling and splashing, a cascade of sound at odds with the scorched desert, yet somehow profoundly harmonious.
But this river did not rise from the earth.
It poured from above, from the inverted, yellowed current of a celestial river hanging across the sky. A bridge of flowing water between heaven and earth, its waves shimmered with pure magical resonance.
"Yes, your magic is clever indeed. But ordinary spells cannot harm me. Of course…" Merlin sighed, his voice carrying both weariness and pride. "If I don't fight you with everything I have, I likely won't be able to break through that accursed authority of yours."
He floated a little higher, golden light still haloing his form.
"Shall we call it a draw?" he suggested at last.
Ian, however, only shook his head calmly, his expression unreadable.
"Truly? Not even a scratch? Archmage Merlin…" His black robes rippled in the storm, his eyes gleaming with defiance. "A wizard's greatest weapon has always been imagination. And right now, " his lips curled into a thin smile, ", I only want you to taste mine."
The words fell like thunder.
The heavenly river above began to steam. Then, like a dam burst, torrential rain crashed down from the sky. Sheets of water poured over Merlin, soaking him in an instant. He frowned, licking the rain from his lips. No curses, no hexes, no hidden spellwork. Just… water.
"Poison rain?" he muttered, catching the faintly strange tang on his tongue.
But he did not panic. Why would he? He was not only a master of magic, but a master of potions as well, perhaps the greatest polymath wizard in history. Poison was the last thing he feared.
From a safe distance, Ian's laughter rolled across the storm.
"No, not poison," Ian answered, almost cheerfully. "That, Merlin, is vintage dragon piss. Fortified with a few dozen strains of venereal disease that won't even exist for another thousand years."
Merlin's face twitched.
"Oh, and I threw in the Black Death for good measure. A pinch of anthrax. Some rabies virus, a dash of smallpox. Pity my dear uncle never got around to Ebola research, I'd have loved to add a splash of that too. But hey, one has to experiment sometime."
This was Ian's favorite kind of spell: self-invented magic. A unique strand of black sorcery only he could conceive. In the Nine Families' tomes, it would be dismissed as impractical, too slow-acting, too inefficient, too crude.
But right now?
Right now it hit harder than any Avada plague.
Perhaps it could not truly wound Merlin's body. But Ian was certain it had struck something deeper, Merlin's soul.
And indeed, The serene smile on the archmage's face froze, then shattered in an instant. Golden light flared violently around him, and without a word he turned into a streak of radiant brilliance, bolting away toward skies untouched by rain.
He did not understand half of Ian's terms, rabies, Ebola, anthrax. But his instincts screamed the truth: none of it was anything good.
"I win," Ian declared.
From within his drenched robes he produced a camera, raised it, and, click, captured the sight of Merlin's retreating form.
Far in the distance, the fleeing archmage's voice carried back, distorted with fury:
Merlin spat a torrent of curses, words no translation spell would ever want to render.
Ian only shook his head.
"How vulgar. No grace at all."
He smirked.
"Can't even lose with dignity."
(End of Chapter)