Internet Mage Professor

Chapter 115: Destruction

Chapter 115: DestructionBack in the villa nestled far from the heart of Silver Blade City, the tall, black-wood gates of Nolan’s mansion creaked as a cool wind passed through the garden hedges.

Crickets chirped under the moonlight, and the smell of wet earth lingered in the air after the earlier drizzle.

Yet, Nolan could not feel at ease. He stood at the threshold of his estate’s main doors, arms crossed and shoulders stiff beneath his dark cloak, eyes scanning the cobblestone path that ran down from the hills.

His mana flared every few seconds, instinctively brushing against the boundaries of the detection formations he had embedded into the mansion’s grounds.

He had fortified everything.

Runes inlaid across the fence, traps carved into the floor tiles, illusion seals wrapped over the walls—he even had a memory distortion enchantment loop spiraling around the outer gardens, one strong enough to confuse most Tier 4 intruders. But none of that settled the knot curling in his chest.

Because if they found it... if anyone found that dungeon—

He sighed, voice nearly inaudible. "Damn it."

His fingers twitched.

His mind’s warning had come hours ago—an unusual instability forming at the coordinates of the Naga Siren’s den.

The egg had hatched. The Siren was born. But it wasn’t just a birth.

It had triggered the full formation of a secret, deeply-buried dungeon world.

A Dragon’s Den.

And Nolan—formerly an instructor, an anomaly of unknown origin—was now its final boss.

That alone wasn’t the problem. No, the problem was the rule embedded into the dungeon system itself: if the Naga Siren dies, and then Lirazel dies, I will be forcibly pulled in, and then executed as the final boss if the invaders clear the floors.

Lirazel would not die under normal conditions. She was far too strong—a succubus from a higher realm built for survival and war. But... if someone found the dungeon.

If they triggered the teleportation gate. If they passed through the Siren’s chamber and killed her...

He would be next.

Nolan pinched the bridge of his nose. "So now I’m a dungeon asset. Great."

What made it worse was the revelation that the Naga Siren, though still in a fragile state, would eventually grow. And when she did—if not interrupted—she’d reach his current level of strength.

Identical level. Identical stats. She’d be like a mirrored version of himself. Though lacking his "Internet Cheat Data" ability and combat experience, the raw strength she would possess would be enough to create ripples amongst the enemies of Lirazel and her sisters.

Still, until then, the Naga Siren was vulnerable.

And so was he.

"Where are the enemies?" he muttered under his breath. "Where are the octuposes?"

He stared down the winding stone road again, watching for the first flicker of an aura, the shimmer of cloaked feet, the rustle of a hidden spell. But nothing came. The silence was deceptive.

It always is.

—

Meanwhile, several thousand miles across the arid northern cliffs, a different silence was breaking—shattered by the thundering commands of Chief Varros.

"Forward formation! Archers, ready your shots! Mana knights, burn their roots!"

The voice of the Knight Chief roared across a battlefield that once used to be a sleepy town carved from granite and thatch.

Dust was kicked high into the air as hundreds of soldiers—clad in lacquered armor, carrying blades both enchanted and mundane—charged down the cracked roads toward the wooden gates of the town known as Brell’s Hollow.

This place had been marked by a single scout. One who had survived the unspeakable, dragged his bleeding frame out of the shadows, and pointed—trembling—back here.

Brell’s Hollow. Where his companions were slaughtered. Where the fog grew legs and chased them. Where the sky had turned red and the land had trembled as if rejecting them.

Varros didn’t care.

He stood atop a slight hill, dark green cape snapping behind him, face grim as steel. Around him, the elite core of the Black Vale knights gathered, forming ranks.

The scout at his side, a thin, wiry man with a bandaged arm, lifted his finger toward the dilapidated town entrance.

"There. Right there. That’s where they... where they died. We ran from that house. There were sounds... wet and sharp. Then nothing. I looked back, and they were—"

"I didn’t ask for their dying screams," Varros interrupted coldly. "Just the location."

The scout shut up immediately.

Varros turned toward the town. "Burn it."

The command was immediate.

Half of the soldiers dropped their heavy packs and moved into conjuring formation. Gloved hands traced the air. Runes sparked alive. Mana flickered like starlight—red, blue, gold. And then—

Fwooooooosh.

A wall of fire arced into the nearest house. It caught dry thatch like tinder. Then came wind spells—small, precise, aimed to fan the flames without pushing the smoke back toward their own ranks.

Arrow volleys followed, each tipped with elemental cores. They ripped through walls, impaled the old wooden signs, and left trails of fire and crackling frost behind.

"Secure all exits!" Varros barked. "And scour every inch!"

His voice could cut through a siege horn.

"Be thorough! I want no survivors unless they can talk. No hostages. Just information!"

His men responded like a well-oiled war engine. They spread like wildfire, crashing into buildings, tossing aside crates, opening cellars,

The soldiers began marching. The fire behind them continued to crackle.

—

But after they left...

Long after the boots had vanished into the northern trees...

After the last ember had flickered into darkness and the town was nothing but a grave of ash and smoldering mana...

The ground twitched.

Then bulged.

Then, without warning, erupted.

A charred hand shot out of the black soil—long fingers, bent like claws, flesh burned and oozing steam.

Moments later, a man pulled himself up from the earth, face hidden beneath a cracked hood. His robes were tattered. His skin pale and dry like old parchment. He looked like a beggar dragged from a ditch.

But his eyes glowed.

He stood in the smoking ruin, stretching his arms, flexing long, abnormal joints.

He smiled.

"Rest well," he whispered, voice like silk and gravel.

And the fires behind him blazed again, though no spark had touched them.