Chapter Seventy-One: Rescuing the Spirit of the Wildcat

In the distance, Malakas slowly rose from the ground. It appeared as though he had been blasted far away, but Patrick, through his psychic perception, knew that he had suffered little harm. As the most powerful divine protector among the trolls, Malakas was already covered by a defensive layer the moment the arcane missiles approached him. So, while it looked as if the arcane missiles had sent Malakas flying, in truth he had only sustained some minor physical injuries—scarcely a scratch.

Watching the voodoo lord rise unhurriedly, Patrick knew his goal had been achieved. His main purpose was to interrupt the ritual and prevent the Amani trolls from obtaining the power of the animal god.

“Malakas harbors formidable voodoo power within his body; defeating him head-on is unlikely. However, by using spellcraft and combining minor composite spells, breaking his ritual is child’s play,” Allen’s voice echoed in Patrick’s mind.

“We mustn’t give Malakas another chance—the ritual must be destroyed in one decisive strike,” Patrick thought.

He began to weave divine energy into the surrounding space. Arcane power bent reality as Patrick flew directly toward Malakas’s altar.

Before the altar lay a large lynx, its four limbs pinned with skull-adorned daggers that shimmered with shadowy light. Nearby were jars and bottles belonging to the witch doctors, exuding fumes that sapped the lynx’s strength, leaving it helplessly pinned to the altar. Scattered about were corpses—trolls, high elves, even humans—their severed heads and flowing blood feeding the altar’s channels, which gave off a faint red glow. Behind the altar stood several large cauldrons, no doubt to ensure that, after the blood ritual, none of the “ingredients” would go to waste—a feast for the entire tribe.

Patrick hovered before the altar and sent a mental message to the lynx. The creature flicked its eyelids open to glance at him, then let them droop again, as if it had abandoned all hope.

Malakas had already regained his feet and returned to the altar. The cat-headed troll Halazzi lay nearby, glaring at Patrick in fury, yet unable to move under the weight of magical seals.

This was Patrick’s first close encounter with a troll spellcaster, and the thick stench of voodoo magic clinging to Malakas was so overpowering it made Patrick’s throat feel as though it were suffering an upper respiratory infection.

Suppressing his discomfort, Patrick guided arcane energy with his mind, warping the surrounding space and establishing a personal psychic “domain.” The arcane power gathered within him surged forth, slowly transforming into searing fire elementals. The air itself shimmered from the heat.

While Malakas was still on the ground, Patrick had already begun constructing a spell sequence: three explosive fireblasts, nested one within another. The first fireblast enveloped the second, and the third wrapped around both, forming a mighty sphere. Though it looked as if the three fireblasts had merged, within this great conflagration each spell’s elemental currents remained distinct, flowing independently, never intertwining.

The earlier probes and bursts of flame had all been set-ups, creating the opportunity for this strike. Malakas seemed to sense the gravity of the spell, his expression turning grim as green voodoo magic and black shadow energy wove together in his hands, preparing his own powerful spell.

Patrick’s fireblasts were ready, locked on Malakas’s position. Like a comet, the inferno trailed a blazing tail as it shot toward the voodoo lord.

Malakas was not to be outdone. His voodoo and shadow magic fused into a massive protective barrier, enveloping the entire altar and shielding his trolls.

The triple scorching fireblasts crashed into Malakas’s shield. In the ensuing explosion of light, each fireblast detonated one after another upon the black-green barrier. The searing flames flowed along the edges, engulfing Malakas and his followers, while the shockwave swept outwards.

Any trolls close to the altar but outside the barrier were instantly consumed by fire—struggling, screaming, then silenced forever, their bodies charred beyond recognition. Those farther away fared only slightly better, hurled back by the shockwave; some died instantly in the scorching gusts.

When the flames faded, Malakas withdrew his shield. The expenditure of divine energy had left him exhausted, gasping for breath. Behind him, Akil’zon and Nalorakk stared in terror, while the lesser trolls wore expressions of dazed relief at their narrow escape.

“Now!” Patrick’s magical signal rang out.

Sweat beaded on Malakas’s brow. Sensing the elf’s energy surging again, he abandoned any thought of rest and began mustering voodoo power to defend himself. Seizing the moment, Patrick’s mental threads yanked the voodoo daggers from the lynx, swept aside the witch doctor jars, and the lynx, obedient and clever, shrank its body to a more portable size.

Patrick snatched up the miniature lynx and hid it in his sleeve, then turned and flew toward Aurelia, regrouping with the main elven force to begin a full retreat.

By taking the lynx, Patrick had severed the very source of Malakas’s ritual, ensuring that the Amani trolls could no longer channel the animal god’s power.

In fact, as Patrick had flown toward Malakas, he had already sent a mental signal to the lynx: “If you wish to be saved, give me a sign.” Sure enough, the lynx, though weak, mustered the strength to glance at Patrick, then resumed feigning death upon the altar.

As a sentient and supernaturally gifted animal god, the lynx had no desire to be slaughtered by trolls. Yet, stripped of all strength, it could offer no resistance. When the bonds and voodoo curses were lifted, the lynx shrewdly shrank its form, allowing Patrick to carry it away from the altar.

The army was already on the move. The elves withdrew swiftly and gracefully, vanishing from the trolls’ sight in no time.

Faced with Patrick’s maneuver, Malakas was left seething. The wicked elven spellcaster’s true target had never been him, but the lynx all along. Every attack had merely been a distraction, meant to disrupt the ritual and thwart their plans.