Black Hearted Mage

Chapter 330 Training Camp 2

Caesars's method of judging the good and evil of others was simple and direct—by sensing the fluctuations of their souls. In his eyes, anyone who harbored ill will toward him, or harbored murderous intent, was mercilessly categorized as a "bad person." This hidden gift, deep within his blood, eliminated much suspicion and temptation in his interpersonal relationships, like possessing a clear mirror that reflected true sincerity.

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, Caesars had already finished a hearty breakfast. Golden toast, slathered with honey, the aroma of fried eggs lingered in his nostrils. He wiped his mouth and prepared to head to the Bitterwater Farm of the Saint Laurent Church. Just then, the puppy, reeking of the rich aroma of cheese, ran over cheerfully, its short tail wagging like a metronome, following closely behind him.

Spring always arrives exceptionally early in the south. As far as the eye can see, the fields are blanketed in a lush green, bursting with life. The forest path outside the castle is narrowed by overgrown weeds. Wild rose vines creep up the trunks of the trees along the roadside, dotted with a few pink and white buds. The puppy suddenly darted into the oak forest beside the road, its sensitive nose constantly moving along the ground, searching for squirrels and gophers while also feasting on a variety of mushrooms sprouting from the woods.

Moistened by last night's drizzle, the forest soil is as soft as freshly baked yeasted bread, leaving clear footprints with every step. Layers of fallen oak leaves are slowly decaying, emitting a light, woody fragrance. These gifts from the earth will eventually become nutrients that nourish new life.

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound in the bushes, and the chubby body of the dark red, short-haired puppy emerged. It was holding a few strands of tender grass covered with morning dew in its mouth, chewing them leisurely, its round eyes filled with contentment.

Seeing this, Caesars couldn't help but smile. Who could have imagined that the lava dog, a natural predator known for its ferocity, would now be savoring grass like a docile herbivore? Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the puppy. The scene inexplicably reminded him of a round, buttery bun.

Less than two quarters of an hour later, Caesars stood by the roaring river. The swift waters swept down, carrying dead branches and fallen leaves from upstream, stirring up white foam among the jagged rocks. The opposite bank was shrouded in a gray mist, and faintly visible were several crooked black towers—the lair of the necromancer.

He took a deep breath, his slender fingers twirling across his chest. Magical light swirled around the puppy, first creating a light levitation spell, then a layer of silver light like a feather fall spell. This way, he could save a lot of precious magic power when flying with this fat guy later.

After completing his preparations, Caesars cast the same spell on himself. He lifted the chubby puppy with one hand, and with the other, he drew a graceful arc through the air. Instantly, dark elemental power erupted from his fingertips, coalescing into a pair of dark, metallic wings behind him. With these wings suddenly unfurling, he soared southeastward, the puppy wiggling its chubby body excitedly in his grasp.

A sharp morning breeze blew against him, Caesar's robes rustling in the wind. Rich dark elements continuously flowed from his body, trailing a winding gray ribbon in his flight path, like a ghostly python gliding in the morning light. The trees below rapidly retreated, their canopies swaying violently in the air currents, startling countless birds.

Less than two minutes later, the outline of the Paladin training camp came into view. Caesars folded his wings and landed gracefully on the training ground in the center of the camp. Surprisingly, this place, which should have been bustling with activity, was completely deserted; not even a trace of morning exercises could be seen. Sandbags hung quietly on wooden racks, wooden swords for training were neatly arranged beside the weapon racks, and even the straw men on the shooting range were intact.

"These paladins haven't even gotten up yet?" Caesars raised an eyebrow, his tone tinged with sarcasm. "They're still sleeping in at noon, living a more comfortable life than the nobles in the imperial capital. Is this really a training camp?"

He looked down at the puppy at his feet, its tongue lolling out, and suddenly an idea came to him. He squatted down and whispered something next to its furry ears. The puppy's black pearly eyes suddenly lit up, and its tail wagged like a little windmill.

"Go!"

Caesars patted its rump gently, and the pup immediately spread its short legs and sprinted like a ball of flesh to the other side of the camp. Smoke rose from there, and the aroma of roasting meat and bread wafted through the air—this was the training camp kitchen. The Paladins undergo rigorous daily physical training, so their diet naturally consists primarily of high-protein meat. To be responsible for feeding so many elite warriors, the chef's skills must be excellent. The puppy's cheerful barking faded into the distance, and Caesars stood there, his arms folded, a playful smile playing on his lips.

"Damn it! Where did that fat dog come from? It's eating the roast beef!"

A scream shattered the morning silence of the training camp, and the entire kitchen erupted in chaos. The crisp sound of metal spatulas hitting the ground, the dull thud of overturned wooden barrels, and the clanking of kitchen utensils colliding with each other echoed one after another.

"Fuck! This fat dog has a storage ring!" A flabby-faced cook pointed at the gleaming silver ring on the puppy's front paw, his eyes widening. "It stole all the bacon! Three whole barrels!"

"Bread! Freshly baked bread!" Another tall and thin cook opened the empty bamboo basket and said in a different voice, "Over 300 honey breads, and not a single one is gone!"

"Damn it! Stop it!" The chef waved his rolling pin, his face flushed. "It ran to the warehouse... That's the monster meat prepared for the instructor!"

The chaotic noises rose in waves. A plump puppy nimbly dove between the tables and chairs, its glossy dark red fur rippling as it ran. The sausage in its mouth swung through the air in a greasy arc. Chasing behind it were six or seven burly cooks, their aprons smeared with flour and sauce, their utensils gleaming coldly in the morning light.

The puppy suddenly made a sharp turn and knocked over the drying herb rack, and the flying rosemary and thyme immediately cast a spicy mist over the chase.

The chubby puppy happily scampered to Caesar's feet, its glossy black nose twitching. It devoured the sausage with a satisfied whimper, meat scraps mixed with saliva dripping from the corners of its mouth. Caesar raised an eyebrow at the glutton—he had just devoured a whole pot of stew half an hour ago, and now his bulging belly was expanding again.

Caesars gently flicked the puppy's tail with the tip of his boot, but the puppy was so busy stuffing the sausage into his throat that he didn't even have time to wag his tail.

A chaotic sound of footsteps could be heard not far away. Six or seven cooks, wearing greasy aprons, were carrying various kitchen utensils. The bearded chef in the front suddenly stopped, his face twitching violently. He saw clearly Caesar's dark grey embroidered magic robe, the silver thread wrapped around the cuffs glistening strangely in the sunlight.

“Stop… stop!”

The chef's roar cracked, and the seven of them retreated in unison, ten meters away. The potato basket toppled over, and the plump potatoes rolled down the slope to the puppy's feet. The puppy, who was busy eating, was startled and scurried behind the corner of Caesar's robe, holding the sausage in its mouth.

The horror stories of the West at Bitterwater Farm echoed wildly in their minds: skeletons wandering in the middle of the night, night watchmen whose souls were drained, cursed dolls that ate children's fingers... The bearded chef's Adam's apple rolled up and down, his back soaked. The youngest kitchen helper was shaking like a leaf in the wind, and the kitchen knife in his hand dropped to the ground with a clang.

"Why are you so nervous?"

Caesars gracefully performed a wizard's salute. The magical ripples created by the flutter of his sleeves made the cooks step back a few steps. "I'm not one of those necromancers who play with corpses." He deliberately made every syllable smothered in the sweetness of honey. "I'm a noble mage from the Roland Empire. I came to Bitterwater Farm today for no serious reason, just to cause some trouble...kill some people, set some fires..."

The puppy suddenly leaped from his feet, barking at the falling potatoes, which the cook across from him kept pelting him with. Caesars chuckled and, using his deerskin boots, shoved the puppy toward him. "Let me introduce this greedy, fat dog named Saint Paul. Please tell the paladins, priests, and those ascetics—tell them I'm here to dismantle the training camp!"

Kaisas said with a smile. The strength of the cooks in front of him was too low, and their souls were too weak to be ignored. The cooks from the training camp did not help and hid in the kitchen.

When Caesars raised his magically shimmering eyes, the cooks finally collapsed. The most timid assistant's crotch was soaked with dark water stains. The bearded chef dragged his companion and stumbled back, their tumbling and crawling figures startling the birds in the bushes.

Kaisas took out the Soul Gem and dozens of alchemical bombs from the Church of Saint Laurent. These alchemical bombs were covered with rust and looked a bit crude, but their power should not be underestimated.

Caesars's fair fingers traced the surface of the alchemical bomb, and gray magical lines slithered and illuminated the metal shell like venomous snakes. A cruel smile curved his lips, and his mage's hand, gleaming with a faint blue light, gently lifted the first oval bomb, engraved with magical patterns. The dense alchemical matrix on the bomb's surface was frantically absorbing the surrounding fire elements, and the unstable compounds within began to surge violently.

"Enjoy my gift!" he murmured softly.

The first bomb streaked past, trailing a crimson flame as it slammed into the largest barracks like a falling meteor. The moment it made contact with the roof, the magic patterns on the bomb's casing turned a piercing crimson—boom! The entire roof was ripped thirty meters into the air. The exploding fireball instantly carbonized the wooden structure, and the shockwave shredded the walls like paper.

A dozen paladins had just woken from their sleep, their naked upper bodies still covered with scars. The second bomb had already landed gracefully at their feet, spinning.

"Holy Light—" Just as a certain blond knight uttered his prayer, the light of the last magic pattern on the bomb casing was reflected in his pupils.

It was a white light more dazzling than the midday sun.

The three paladins at the center of the explosion were instantly vaporized, the intense heat melting their iron shoulder armor into a liquid state. Survivors a little further away were blown away by the shockwave, and one stout paladin had both legs severed in midair by scattered shrapnel. Burning pages of holy texts flew like golden butterflies, and a still-flaming helmet tumbled to Caesars' feet, the remaining mandible still twitching in reflex.

The commander, who had attempted to block the attack with his Divine Shield, suffered the most. The golden light barrier he held out lasted only half a second before shattering, shrapnel pinning him to the oak beam behind him. Flames raced up his beard and face, charred skin peeling off like bark. Even as his heart stopped beating, the metal fragments piercing his chest still glowed dark red from the heat.

The groans of the dying could be heard from the thick smoke. A young knight, severed in half, was crawling on the ground with his intestines. Molten silver formed teardrops around the edges of the fragments, reflecting his scarlet eyes.

"One hundred and seventy-seven!"

Kaesus quietly counted the charred corpses scattered across the ground, his mage's hands picking up metal badges amidst the flames. A spring breeze, carrying the sweet, fishy smell of scorched flesh, swept through the camp. The tattered cloaks hanging from the treetops still rustled, like the final sighs of the dead.

"Who are you? Why did you kill so many innocent people?"

With a hoarse roar, the shabby door of the wooden house was flung open. A paladin clad in worn plate armor trudged out, his rusted joints making a harsh grinding sound. He wore a helmet speckled with brown rust. Gray hair and a scraggly beard peeked out from the cracks in his helmet, trembling slightly in the cold wind. Through the slits in his visor, his bloodshot eyes stared intently at Caesars, standing amidst the pile of corpses.

"Innocent? I'm a noble mage from the Roland Empire!"

Caesars casually kicked a charred corpse at his feet, the leather soles of his boots scraping against the carbonized bones with a teeth-grinding sound. "I used the alchemical bomb of the Church of Saint Laurent." He held up the alchemical bomb in his hand, which glowed with an eerie red light and clearly bore the church's holy emblem. "I came here to kill... Do I need to explain to you, an exile, why I came here to kill people?"

Dust rustled from the old paladin's trembling pauldrons. Caesars narrowed his eyes. This must be the "instructor" Wrathion that Depero had mentioned—the old stubborn man banished from the Knights' Hall for upholding the so-called "chivalric creed." His armor, which hadn't been maintained in at least twenty years, and the cracked scabbard of the sword at his waist, made him look like a down-and-out wandering knight.

"you…!"

The old paladin's roar was accompanied by the sound of metal clashing, and he suddenly drew out his longsword. But Caesars noticed that the edge of the sword was already covered with tiny cracks.

"Lacio," Caesars suddenly lowered his voice, magical fluorescence flowing through his fingertips. He snapped his fingers, and three magical ropes suddenly shot out from the ground.

"If you dare move your sword even one inch further... I will not only knock you out, but also strip you naked and record it with my photo crystal!"

The old knight's breathing suddenly became heavy, and his Adam's apple under the visor rolled violently.

Caesars admired the other's stiff posture with pleasure. "Just imagine, hundreds of copies of the photo were sent to your hometown—what's it called? Oh, yes, the Surao Valley. I heard that there's still a monument there commemorating your achievements!"

The old knight's sword fell to the ground with a clang, and he looked at the strange magician in disbelief that the other party actually knew his birthplace.