The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 128 - 129: Malcolm

At dawn, the sun crested the horizon, casting golden light across the vast expanse of the Western Mountains.

Hutson emerged from his tent, inhaling the crisp morning air. A droplet of dew slid off the overhead branches, landing cool against his face.

The remnants of last night’s fire smoldered, faint embers still pulsing with warmth. Without hesitation, Hutson tossed a few dry twigs into the pit, channeling fire-elemental particles to reignite the flames. The embers flared to life, their glow reflecting off the iron pot suspended above. Inside, the remnants of last night’s meal simmered gently—his breakfast, reheating in the flickering firelight.

Behind him, Fried stirred, groggy from sleep.

Not every sorcerer replaced sleep with meditation—few possessed the relentless discipline of Hutson. For those like Fried, who struggled to advance to the rank of official sorcerer, sleep was a far more tempting indulgence.

Hutson calmly stirred the pot, but suddenly, his hand froze. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

"Absolute Defense!"

A prism of shimmering multicolored shields erupted around him, illuminating the clearing.

Fried sat up, bewildered. He hadn’t sensed anything—what was happening?

The answer came a second later.

An overwhelming force descended from the sky, crashing into the campsite with suffocating intensity.

The air itself turned to lead, and Fried found himself pinned to the ground, unable to move.

From above, a blood-red hand—vast and clawed—descended like the judgment of an ancient god, striking directly at Hutson.

His protective shields held... but only for a few seconds.

Cracks splintered across their surface like spiderwebs, growing wider and deeper until—shatter.

The impact hurled Hutson through the air. Blood sprayed from his lips as he slammed into the ground, pain lancing through his body.

He didn’t waste a second. With trembling fingers, he reached into his robes and activated his emergency water sphere, sending an urgent distress signal to Barty.

"An official sorcerer."

The realization struck like ice in his veins. Only a fully ascended sorcerer could wield such raw power—only they could break his Absolute Defense in a single blow.

He forced himself to his feet, his mind racing.

"AI chip, analyze the attack just now—what was its intensity?"

A calm, mechanical voice echoed in his thoughts.

"Analysis complete. Attack force: 21 degrees."

Hutson’s expression darkened. A direct spell attack of 21 degrees... That wasn’t a mere apprentice’s spell—this was a fully ranked Tier-1 Sorcery, leagues beyond the petty incantations of lesser mages.

He barely had time to breathe before reinforcing himself with every enhancement spell at his disposal.

But there was a problem.

Who was the enemy?

Where were they?

Just moments ago, as he had been preparing his meal, AI chip had detected a sudden surge of magic. That had been his only warning—his only chance to react. Had he hesitated even for a fraction of a second... he would be dead.

His current physical body, unenhanced by magic, would have been crushed to pulp.

Then—a voice.

A familiar voice, yet one that sent a deep unease crawling through his bones.

"You’re still alive? A shame. I had planned to kill you in one blow, then leisurely extract your soul for interrogation."

A figure emerged from the sky—a man clad in a flowing black robe, seated atop a nightmare steed with wings like shadows.

His brown hair was speckled with freckles, and his half-lidded eyes gleamed with a dangerous amusement. He smiled, an expression that might have seemed harmless—if not for the sheer malice radiating from him.

Hutson’s heart clenched. He knew this man.

A name escaped his lips, unbidden.

"...Malcolm."

Memories surged like a flood.

Years ago—before Hutson had even stepped onto the path of sorcery—he had seen Malcolm before. At Melissa’s wedding banquet, he had watched with his own eyes as this man had cast a death curse upon Baron Buck, striking him down effortlessly.

Back then, Hutson had been nothing.

A mere insect in Malcolm’s eyes, not even worth a second glance.

Now, years later, he faced him once more.

But nothing had changed.

The power gap remained a chasm—Hutson had grown stronger, yes, but in Malcolm’s presence, he was still nothing more than a slightly more formidable insect. Perhaps this time, he was strong enough to be noticed... but he was still far from being a threat.

Malcolm’s expression remained indifferent. It was clear—he had no recollection of ever meeting Hutson before.

Then, his voice took on a sharper edge.

"Luen’s death is connected to you."

Luen?

A memory surfaced—the third-tier apprentice who had been slain by Shivaro, the abyssal fiend.

Malcolm’s gaze turned to ice. "So it’s true. I suspected as much."

He exhaled, frustration creeping into his tone.

"I don’t know why, but Luen’s soul... it’s vanished from this world. It took me an extraordinary amount of time to retrieve what remained of it. And even then, the soul was fragmented—its memories in tatters."

Malcolm’s eyes darkened.

"But I saw enough."

"In those shattered fragments, only two figures stood out—Shivaro, the abyssal beast... and you."

He tilted his head slightly, his smile returning—this time, tinged with cruelty.

"At first, I had no idea who you were. You were just another faceless apprentice in a world of thousands. But I took the time to investigate."

"Hutson Merlin. A third-tier apprentice of the Moonlight Grove."

"And when I used divination to locate you... I found you here, in the Western Mountains."

Malcolm chuckled softly, the sound sending a chill through the air.

"A perfect opportunity."

"Had you stayed within the Moonlight Grove, I wouldn’t have been able to touch you."

His eyes gleamed with dark amusement.

"But you... you left your sanctuary."

He spread his hands, as though welcoming fate itself.

"And so, here I am."

"Your soul is mine."

Hutson clenched his fists, his mind calculating, strategizing, searching for a way out.

Malcolm was right about one thing.

This was no chance encounter. This was a death sentence.

Hutson took a deep breath, his voice steady despite the tension that coiled around him like a serpent.

"Luen’s death has nothing to do with me. It was Shivaro who killed him."

Malcolm chuckled, shaking his head with an air of amusement.

"I never trust the words of the living. I only believe in what I see buried within the depths of a soul."**

His tone was light, almost playful, but the malice beneath it was undeniable.

"Luen’s soul was too fractured, too distant—its memories nothing more than scattered remnants." Malcolm sighed, as if lamenting an incomplete puzzle. "But you... you are still alive. Your soul holds the full truth. All I need to do is take a look."

Hutson clenched his fists, his mind racing.

He could not—under any circumstances—be captured.

Too many secrets lay hidden within him. If Malcolm ever uncovered AI chip, the artificial intelligence embedded in Hutson’s soul, he would stop at nothing to tear it from him, using every twisted method imaginable.

And that was only part of it.

Hutson carried knowledge from another life. He possessed the meditation techniques of the Six-Ring Tower, a legacy that should not exist in this world.

Capture meant more than just death. Death would be a mercy.

With Malcolm’s notorious methods, Hutson would wish for death long before it ever came.

Malcolm tilted his head, studying him.

"That shield of yours..." His brows furrowed. "It’s not a Tier-1 spell, yet it withstood my strike. Strange."

Hutson remained silent, his muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, watching every flicker of movement from Malcolm.

His mind flicked to his reserves.

Another Absolute Defense shield deployed.

A quick glance—mana reserves at 24%.

With the stored power in his Runic Array, he still had 74% total.

Malcolm tapped a finger against his chin, as if piecing together a puzzle. Then, his gaze sharpened.

"No need to guess. I’ll simply take what I need."

His lips curled into a smile as he lifted his hand.

A second blood-red hand materialized from the air—clawing, grasping, reaching.

The moment before it closed around him—

Hutson vanished.

His form twisted, space itself folding around him as he Flashed several meters away, reappearing within the cover of the trees.

Malcolm’s eyes widened slightly.

"Teleportation? Interesting."

Excitement flickered across his face, his previous amusement shifting into something sharper—more predatory.

"You’ll make a fascinating test subject."

A slow, measured exhale left Malcolm’s lips. "There was another... another promising specimen. But I was careless, and he escaped." He exhaled, as if recalling some minor annoyance. Then, his gaze fell back on Hutson. "No matter. You’ll make a fine replacement."

Hutson’s stomach twisted.

He understood instantly—Malcolm was talking about Fegal.

Another blood-red hand began to form.

Hutson’s mind flicked to AI chip’s readout.

Mana remaining: 11%.

Each Flash cost 13%.

He could only teleport three more times.

And Malcolm’s attack was already coming.