Chapter Seventy: The Failure of Maracas

Energy rapidly gathered, and in an instant, a blazing fire blast took shape, trailing a long tail as it shot toward the soul arrow sent forth by Maracas.

Moments later, flame and soul arrow collided, erupting in a violent explosion. Scorching winds swept the battlefield. Maracas’ power was formidable—now that he had ascended to the seventh rank, his shamanic sorcery could directly alter reality itself, a feat beyond the ordinary.

However, Maracas was currently distracted, needing to oversee the ritual and channel the divinity of captured beasts into Harlaz. This severely restricted the shaman lord’s strength—a fortunate turn for the elves.

“Allow me to go on alone now,” Patrick said to Aurelia. “Troll spellcasters are not easy foes. You all keep the troll rabble at bay and let me face this shaman lord of Zul’Aman myself.”

“But, wouldn’t that be—” Aurelia began, but seeing the certainty in Patrick’s eyes, she swallowed the rest of her words.

“We’ll be here, waiting to return to the Sun Sanctuary with you.”

Patrick gave a faint smile, affirming Aurelia’s request.

He summoned up his arcane might, gently floating forward toward the troll altar. Akil’zon and Nalorakk positioned themselves behind Maracas. After prolonged battle, both troll deities bore wounds, their expressions weary.

Seeing Patrick approach the altar, Maracas let out a hoarse laugh. His keen soul senses told him that this elven mage was merely sixth rank. To come alone against him seemed, in Maracas’ eyes, little more than suicide.

“It seems you are well prepared to face your nightmare,” Maracas’ words echoed directly in Patrick’s mind, spoken in flawless Common. Evidently, the troll spellcaster class had acquired some learning and knowledge, not merely the savagery of blood sacrifice.

Patrick couldn’t help but smile. Light flickered in his raised hand as five arcane missiles took shape. With a wave, he launched them at Maracas.

The missiles whistled through the air straight toward the shaman lord. Unhurried, Maracas summoned shadow energy in his palm, projecting it instantly to counter Patrick’s arcane assault.

Activating his spirit vision, Patrick observed Maracas manipulating shadow power with ease—a sign that he had begun to grasp the true essence of guiding energy with the mind. Judging by the shadow energies that had just canceled out his arcane missiles, Maracas’ strength far surpassed his own. Yet his spellcasting lacked refinement; he simply overwhelmed Patrick with brute force, a common shortcoming among troll mages.

Humans, in ages past, had been outmatched by elves in arcane talent. They compensated by perfecting control—achieving maximum effects with minimal mana, crafting exquisite spell circles with the simplest runes. Though most elves scoffed at this, history had proven humanity’s path to be the correct one.

“As a troll spellcaster, Maracas is already quite extraordinary,” Allen remarked. “He relies purely on his formidable power, dominating the beast gods and imposing his will to enslave them for his tribe’s benefit.”

But that was Allen’s assessment—what about himself?

“So you’re telling me I should just run away right now?” Patrick replied irritably.

“I hadn’t finished! Why must you interrupt? Great power isn’t invincibility. Vector casting, composite arcane sequence spells—did you learn those for nothing? A well-constructed complex spell sequence could easily defeat him. You’ve only cast a few arcane missiles so far; of course he’s unafraid.” Allen Moon-Saint was exasperated, scolding Patrick in a tone of frustrated mentorship.

“And where, here, would I have time to chant out a long spell and unleash a massive magic? Are you joking?”

“You’re so adorably dense. If there’s no time for a single large spell, why not use several smaller composite spells?”

“….”

That actually made sense. It must have been Allen’s poor explanation that led to the misunderstanding—yes, that had to be it. Best not to argue with Allen; any chance she got, she would unleash an endless stream of criticism.

“Do you feel it? Your soul is bleeding!” Maracas’ voice echoed again in Patrick’s mind.

This, too, was one of his signature catchphrases when casting the soul arrow. This time Maracas held nothing back, unleashing three soul arrows at once. Powerful shadow energy surged forth.

Patrick didn’t hesitate, gathering his strength for three searing fire blasts. He added a cunning twist: the middle fire blast concealed within it a blazing pyroblast.

He locked onto his vectors. The three fire blasts collided with the soul arrows, neutralizing them. The hidden pyroblast burst into Maracas’ field of vision.

Feeling the searing heat, Maracas faltered for the first time, though only for an instant. In the next moment, green light flared, and the shamanic mist that had filled the air flowed into Maracas, forming an impenetrable barrier.

The pyroblast struck the barrier, detonating in a violent explosion. Flames began to eat through the thick shield, but as the spell energy dwindled halfway through, it failed to break Maracas’ defenses.

Yet as Maracas exulted, the smoke cleared and two more pyroblasts flew at him. He wasted no time, conjuring another shamanic barrier. The twin pyroblasts struck, but still could not penetrate his defenses.

With a sneer, Maracas thought, “So, that is the extent of your power?”

He had little time to savor his triumph before three more pyroblasts came hurtling toward him. Again, he raised his barrier without hesitation, and again blocked Patrick’s assault. But this time, following close behind the pyroblasts, were ten volleys of arcane missiles. Drawing upon his metamagic expertise, Patrick unleashed ten volleys in an instant to follow up the attack.

The pyroblasts exploded against the shield, shattering half of it. The ten volleys of arcane missiles then hammered the weakened spot, breaking through in a flash. The arcane missiles struck Maracas directly, sending him flying.