Multiverse: Deathstroke

Chapter 222: Ch.221 Spell Battle

Chapter 222: Ch.221 Spell Battle

After the symbiote bonded with Su Ming, he gained a useful ability: the ability to liquefy his body.

However, due to some historical leftover issues, the X-metal in his skull couldn't transform.

The symbiote merged with his cells, allowing his body to stretch and morph significantly, but the X-metal exceeded its capabilities, so Su Ming had to consciously control the metal himself to cooperate with it.

Thankfully, his brain was powerful enough to multitask without issue.

After observing the battlefield, Su Ming transformed into a pool of black liquid, resembling a pile of soggy ash with a head perched on top.

Still, this was good enough. Who would pay attention to a puddle with a head on a chaotic battlefield?

"Hide well. After the battle starts, prioritize your own safety. I'll launch a surprise attack on a key position on the left flank. Afterward, there's a good chance you'll be connected by telepathic magic. Just follow my lead," Su Ming's head, rotating 180 degrees, said to the doctor.

Holloway licked his lips and tightened his grip on his dual pistols, nodding awkwardly. Talking to a head felt strange.

The Cloak of Levitation seemed downcast, even floating limply. It had lost, and as a supreme magical artifact, being outdone by an alien creature felt like a blow to its pride.

"Watch over my suit. I'm heading out."

He could only carry the Owl Dagger as a weapon; the Godslayer carried the power of Vulcan, constantly radiating energy, which would undoubtedly be sensed by the nearby mages.

The X-metal didn't leak energy unless activated by thought, but the Nightfall Sword was massive and sharp—impossible to hide.

The symbiote slithered along the ground with Su Ming, appearing from above as nothing more than crushed charred remains, but if viewed from below, one would see countless tiny tendrils growing beneath the ash, moving rapidly like a centipede.

The symbiote was now a part of his body, and Su Ming controlled every action. Whenever his enhanced brain sensed someone about to look his way, he stopped in place, completely motionless.

"I am but a small, insignificant stone."

Thus, the mages saw only a partially burned head amidst the ashes, and since focusing on a corpse in battle was pointless, they quickly dismissed it. There were many such bodies around, after all. Lightning and fire magic easily created similar results.

Su Ming advanced in stops and starts, sneaking unnoticed through the chaos to a position behind Gibbor.

"Druid, you're no match for me. Can you feel your heart throbbing in pain yet?" Gibbor licked his nose with a tongue that resembled a lizard's, a side effect of his dark magic.

As he spoke, he engaged in another clash with the Druid, who used red fan-shaped magic to block Gibbor's dark blade.

But, as Gibbor said, the cost of overcasting spells was already taking a toll on the Druid, though it wasn't his heart that hurt, but his mind.

It felt as if phase worms were gnawing at his will.

He had no choice; earlier, the Druid had been forced to cast several phase spells in quick succession to evade attacks, which was like throwing bait into a fish pond.

Phase worms were dangerous arcane viruses that existed in magical dimensions invisible to ordinary people.

They were attracted to certain magic, latching onto the caster in hopes of feeding on more phase energy, their favorite food.

The Druid could clearly feel his mental energy being drained, but there was no time to open his third eye or project his soul to eliminate the worms.

In a battle between mages, danger lurked everywhere—one wrong move, and it could all be over.

"Leave, Gibbor, while you still have a chance to avoid a grave mistake."

"Haha! My new teacher doesn't think so. The Ancient One is no match for her. You're all doomed."

Gibbor cackled and swung his blade toward the Druid. The Druid conjured a magical shield just in time to block it, but the force of the dark magic still sent him stumbling backward several steps.

"Die!" Seeing the Druid's defense falter, Gibbor quickly formed a series of arcane hand signs and muttered a spell, "In the name of Exxelon's freezing tendrils, slow!"

Exxelon was one of the dimensional demonic gods, representing delay and obstruction, often manifesting as a frost giant with tentacles. Any sorcerer wishing to hinder another's plans or actions could easily borrow its power.

Of course, it was dark magic, and borrowing even a little required repayment tenfold. The price of such spells often involved an involuntary trip to hell. The caster's soul would be drawn out of their body to spend an extended, nearly timeless period with Exxelon in its domain.

If one's soul somehow survived the endless ages and returned to its body, it often lost the ability to perceive reality, with the unfortunate mage doomed to mutter nonsense forever—a condition known among sorcerers as "madness."

It seemed Gibbor had long prepared enough sacrifices, as he unleashed such a high-cost spell without hesitation, while the Druid was in trouble. This level of magic required an equally powerful counter, but the Druid would have to bear the consequences himself.

It was like a game of cards: the Druid had only a few low cards left, while Gibbor had just thrown down a straight flush.

The two supreme sorcerers were fighting ferociously, space itself warping around them. No one else dared use spatial magic in the chaotic ripples, as it would almost certainly mean death.

Phase magic was also out of the question, or the Druid would be overwhelmed by phase worms and pass out.

If the slowing spell took effect, Gibbor would undoubtedly finish him off with Dormammu's dark blade, which would be certain death.

So, the Druid decided to call upon black magic as well. White magic, mostly defensive, was limited in a battle like this.

Kamar-Taj indeed had several black magic spells in its library, though few used them, as the Ancient One discouraged reliance on demonic powers, always stressing the risks involved.

But now, the Druid had no other choice. Repaying the debt could wait until later; for now, he needed to survive.

"In the name of Valtorr's misty breath, vaporize." He silently chanted, forming hand signs behind his back.

Valtorr, one of the eight great dimensional demon gods, appeared as an indescribable serpent-like creature, controlling all water-related magic.

Its mind wasn't particularly sharp, so occasionally borrowing a bit of its power to conjure water or take a bath often went unnoticed, allowing mages to escape payment.

However, turning oneself into vapor to avoid attacks while creating a mist to hide was a high-level spell that directly communicated with the god's essence. There was no way Valtorr wouldn't notice.

When it finally decided to collect the debt, the Druid's body would be filled with toxic liquids from another dimension, rotting his organs as a sacrifice to the demon.

The flesh of a sorcerer, rich with magic energy and soul, made a delicious snack for demon gods, much like popcorn during a movie.

But the Druid couldn't worry about that now. His eyes remained fixed on the incoming green energy.

As one of the eight demon gods, Valtorr was stronger than Exxelon, making his spell more effective.

The slowing magic passed through the Druid's vaporous body, merely dispersing some mist.

Gibbor sneered mockingly. To him, the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj were hypocrites, always denouncing dark magic while using plenty of it themselves.

"A clever counter, but how many more spells can you cast? Haha, speaking of which, I remember a few white magic spells myself." Gibbor's hand signs changed, his thumb pinching his ring finger while his other three fingers pointed up, a sign of Vishanti. He whispered, "In the name of Hoggoth the all-holy, transference."

The Vishanti, a trinity of god-like entities, typically manifested as three giant heads: one male, one female, and one tiger. Hoggoth was the tiger-headed entity.

Dark mages could also borrow from the Vishanti's power as long as the hand signs and spells were correct, and the mental focus precise. The gods didn't care much about who received the magic.

To these cosmic beings, humans were insignificant, and concepts like good or evil meant nothing.

Black mist formed into threads, shooting into the sky, and somewhere in an unknown dimension, a soul screamed in agony—a cry of connected spirits.

With this spell, Gibbor transferred all the costs of his previous spells onto his prepared sacrifices—perhaps hundreds of lives, or magical objects made from their hearts and brains.

No one knew exactly how he did it, but sacrifice rituals were never pleasant to witness.

Now, Gibbor was free to cast more dark magic, while the Druid found himself in an increasingly precarious position.