The duergar had assumed the human spellcaster would exhaust himself after a few spells. They hadn't expected the magic to just keep coming. Their psionic spells had much shorter range and couldn't reach him at all, which infuriated them.
As Ansel and the archer became a bigger and bigger threat, the duergar wanted to pull the battle line back. But everyone was locked in close combat—any attempt at retreat could turn into a full rout.
Still, as more and more of their slave troops were wiped out, the humans took the initiative and the battlefield slowly shifted away.
From his vantage point, Ansel watched as the nearest enemies were pushed to over forty meters away. That was beyond the theoretical spell range, but he could still hit them—his accuracy just dropped.
Probably tied to my casting stat.
His casting stat was Charisma—16, well above average. As his Charisma rose, his casting speed, spell range, and control over magic all improved slightly.
"Whew—"
He stopped casting for a moment, leaning on his staff to steady his breathing and ease the pressure in his skull.
Continuous spellcasting left him mentally drained. Nearly half his mana was gone, and a light emptiness pulsed through his body.
So even with "Magic Mastery", his mind and body couldn't handle unloading all his spells in one burst.
"Roooar—!"
Suddenly, a bellow shook the mountainsides on both sides, sending dust and small stones tumbling.
Startled, Ansel looked toward the sound—and saw a bald giant over three meters tall suddenly appear on the field, charging straight at Rand.
Enlarge spell.
The duergar warlord had entered the fight.
Ansel scrambled down the slope and jogged toward the battlefield.
Helping was secondary—the real issue was that standing up on the slope made him too obvious. If that bald giant decided to focus him, things would get ugly fast.
He ran a few steps closer and ducked behind the crowd, watching in secret.
On the field, the bald giant swung his warhammer with terrifying force. Rand focused on dodging, only counterattacking when he could.
Their fight was so fierce that everyone nearby gave them a wide berth to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
Ansel noticed Rand rarely casting 2nd-level divine spells—clearly the Weave's instability was affecting him. The duergar's psionics, on the other hand, didn't rely on the Weave at all.
Fortunately, it was daytime. Duergar were sunlight-sensitive, and paladins dealt mainly radiant damage, which worked well against them. Rand was barely managing to hold his own.
Just then, Zahir finished off his opponent and rushed in to join Rand against the giant.
Even so, the towering figure didn't seem any less fearsome. One hammer blow caught Rand as he dodged too slowly, smashing him to the ground. Blood trickled from the paladin's mouth, and his shield now had a visible dent.
Shame I don't know any support spells, Ansel thought with a sigh.
Right now he didn't dare attack. If the giant decided to go for him, Rand might not be able to stop him.
By chance, he glanced up and saw the sun glaring above the giant's head, and a thought struck him. Sunlight sensitivity…
As far as he knew, duergar had resistances to poison, illusions, and charm effects—but under sunlight, their perception was impaired.
And his draconic spell Command forced the target to make a Wisdom save. Fail, and they had to obey a one-word command.
His Wisdom shouldn't be that high.
With that in mind, he didn't hesitate. He quickly moved closer to the melee and called on his power with everything he had.
Stepping out from behind the line, he planted his staff in his left hand, pointed at the duergar warlord with his right, and shouted:
"Drop!"
An invisible magical pressure washed over the giant. He froze for a split second, eyes going blank, and reflexively let go of his warhammer.
Rand snapped to attention. Before the hammer hit the ground, he kicked it toward Zahir. Zahir scooped it up and hurled it up the slope.
The bald giant hadn't expected to lose his weapon in a momentary daze. Enraged, he turned, searching for the sneaky caster—but Ansel had already ducked back behind the crowd. Bratt and the others surged forward, cutting off the giant's line of sight.
"Rooo—argh—!"
Rand's sword carved a bloody groove into the giant's thigh, cutting his roar short.
The giant didn't dare split his focus again. He jumped back two steps, grabbed a fallen spear off the ground, and forced Rand and Zahir back.
Then, with a wave of his arm—he ran.
The other duergar and their slaves saw this and broke immediately, turning tail without a second thought.
"Roar! Raaah!"
The humans waved their weapons and shouted after them, going through the motions of pursuit, but didn't give chase—and didn't have the strength left to, anyway.
Shame about all that XP, Ansel thought, a little regretful—but he knew this was the best outcome.
With the paladins there, the humans could probably have won a straight fight, but how many would have survived was anyone's guess.
Ansel scanned the field. Only about a dozen people were still standing, and nearly all of them were wounded.
Corpses lay everywhere—severed limbs, spilled entrails, a carpet of blood. Just in the few steps he'd run, his boots were caked in sticky red mud. The clammy sensation made his skin crawl.
"Clean up the field, move!" Zahir shouted, calling everyone to action as he began using Lay on Hands and healing potions on the wounded.
Ansel glanced around and spotted a goblin that wasn't quite dead yet. His eyes lit up. He strode over and crushed its skull with a single blow of his staff.
[Target dead. You gain 3 combat XP...]
Not much XP, but zero risk. He grinned, flashing a row of white teeth.
Bratt couldn't help shivering at the sight. What a terrifying killing intent…
"Let someone else handle that. You take a break."
He hurried over and grabbed Ansel's arm, assuming Ansel was worried about his parents and venting on the creatures from below.
"Uh… okay." Ansel didn't insist. Keeping up a normal-person persona mattered.
"You're hurt?"
Bratt was covered in blood, clothes in tatters. He looked pretty bad.
"It's nothing, just scratches. Thanks to you," Bratt said, shaking his head lightly—only to pull at a cut on his neck and suck in a pained breath.
Footsteps approached. They both turned to see Rand striding toward them, helmet in his left hand. Blood streaked the corner of his mouth and his ear, and his breastplate had a deep dent.
"Thank you both for your help," he said, holding out a half-full vial of red potion to Bratt. "This is for you."
"In that case, I won't be polite," Bratt said with a grin, taking it—but not drinking it yet.
It was a healing potion, worth 50 gold a bottle. Even half a vial wasn't cheap.
"Your courage deserves more, but I'm nearly out of potions," Rand said with sincere admiration. Then he turned to Ansel. "And you, sir… I feel like I've seen you before."
"Uncle Rand, it's me—Ansel Holrayven. Do you remember Sow's Foot Bakery?" Ansel prompted.
His draconic bloodline had subtly altered his looks and build. His presence was completely different from before. Without context, no one would connect him to the old Ansel.
"You're… little Ansel?" Rand stared fixedly at the fine dragon scales on Ansel's face, barely believing it.
They hadn't seen each other in years. He simply couldn't reconcile this confident, mysterious spellcaster with the scrawny boy in his memory.
"It's me. My bloodline awakened by accident. I became a sorcerer," Ansel said with a smile.
"Good. That's… really good." Rand clapped his arm, lowering his head slightly. His expression was complicated, and there was a flicker of hesitation at the corner of his eyes.
Rand wasn't particularly tall, only about 1.7 meters. Ansel was half a head taller now, so he couldn't see Rand's face, but he could feel the man was holding something back.
"What's wrong?"
"You… shouldn't go back to the bakery," Rand said after a brief silence, deciding to tell him anyway.
Ansel's heart skipped. "Something happened to my parents?"
"Yeah. We spent all yesterday evacuating people. Your parents refused to leave—they wanted to look for you, but the priests talked them out of it. Later, some thugs broke into the bakery to rob the place… By the time we got there, it was too late. We could only bury the bodies in a hurry…"
Rand's grip tightened on Ansel's arm, as if he was afraid the young man might snap.
Ansel's breathing grew heavier. His emotions churned, a chaotic mess—but there wasn't much grief or regret. Instead, he felt a strange sense of relief, like a weight lifting from his chest.
It was heartless, maybe—but it was how he truly felt.
Because, in the end… he wasn't the original Ansel.