Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 118: Heyyah!

"Loose the arrows!"

Varros’s shout rang across the open plains like a crack of thunder. The silence shattered.

Dozens of longbows sang in unison, their strings thrumming with deadly precision as a storm of barbed arrows soared through the air.

Behind them, formation mages in silver robes thrust their hands forward, inscribing tiered runes into the space before them with glowing fingers.

The symbols flared to life—flame, frost, and lightning surged, painting the battlefield in a mad kaleidoscope of light and power.

Arrows rained like death. Magic spells burst into explosions.

Balls of fire incinerated shrubs, frost lances shattered trees into frozen splinters, and streaks of lightning forked across the field, crawling and crackling with impossible heat.

The impact was cataclysmic. Dust exploded into the sky.

Bodies—those strange, humanoid shadows—were torn apart, flung like ragdolls across the torn earth. Bones shattered. Heads rolled. Limbs were blown off.

Cheers rang out.

But they were short-lived.

One by one, those very bodies—shattered, crushed, burned—twitched. Then moved. Then stood.

Varros narrowed his eyes. "...What?"

One of the knights pointed. "S-Sir... they’re getting up again."

All at once, the things began to rise. Mangled jaws unhinged, revealing crooked teeth and unnatural tongues.

Disjointed limbs reset with sickening cracks.

Heads lolled upright. Arrows were still embedded in them—through their chests, through their necks—and they didn’t seem to care. They didn’t even flinch.

"Again!" Varros barked. "Don’t stop! Again! Full barrage!"

The next volley came faster. Arrows were released in rapid succession.

The mages launched second and third-tier spells—flames swirled like infernos, stone spikes jutted out from the earth like iron trees, wind blades sliced the air, cutting the grass flat in wide arcs.

War chants echoed as combat units followed with lances and spears, charging between the gaps of their ranged barrage.

The impact was even more furious this time. Magic detonations painted the sky in bursts of bloodred and violet. Trees were reduced to ash. The very ground trembled from the concentrated mana density.

And yet...

Nothing.

The creatures were still standing.

Still standing.

They were hit—devastated—and still, they rose. One limped forward even as fire consumed half its face.

Another clawed at the ground with only one arm, dragging what was left of its torso like a puppet on broken strings. One was crawling despite being cleaved in half at the waist.

Their eyes—empty, hollow, glowing like dim lanterns—were locked on the convoy.

Varros stared in horror.

"What the hell are they...?"

His knights didn’t wait for answers.

They kept attacking.

The sound of arrows never stopped—like the beating of war drums—while the magicians screamed out spell after spell until their voices were hoarse. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

Flames bathed the plains, and the smell of scorched flesh mixed with burning iron.

But the enemy didn’t fall.

It should have fallen.

"Why...?" Varros whispered. "Why aren’t they going down? The calming Lilliflare petals... that should’ve weakened them... dulled their nerves... that powder was potent even against chaos beasts."

No answer.

Only screams.

Knights began to falter. Some backed away, shielding themselves behind the wagons. Even seasoned veterans were hesitating. Magic circles began to misform. The formations broke, slowly but surely.

"Prepare for direct combat!" Varros shouted, his voice cracking this time. "Close shields! Blades forward! Protect the students!"

The order was met with chaotic responses. Knights scrambled. Shields locked into place. Protective enchantments surged into shimmering barriers.

The carriages behind were quickly pushed toward the center of the formation, guarded like sacred relics.

And then, amidst the crumbling battlefield, one figure walked forward.

Not limped.

Not staggered.

Walked.

The air bent slightly around it—not from heat, but pressure. Magic hung heavy on the thing.

It moved with a slow, confident swagger, completely unbothered by the destruction surrounding it. Arrows flew past it, flames licked near its feet, but it kept walking as if strolling through a garden path.

When it stopped, it was in front of Chief Varros himself.

And it wasn’t human.

Not even close.

It towered above him, well over two meters. Its skin gleamed with a deep navy sheen, like something that had just crawled from the ocean floor. Sea-slick scales coated its body, each glinting like sapphire armor.

Along its back and elbows, fins rose like razors—frilled, sharp, and bone-white. Its fingers were long, almost too long, ending in claws that clicked faintly as it flexed.

It inhaled, and gills along its ribs fluttered open, closing with a wet sound that made the nearest soldiers flinch.

Its face was angular, alien. No nose. Only a snout-like ridge. Its mouth curled unnaturally wide, and its eyes—glassy, glowing like pearls dredged from the deep—settled lazily on Varros and his army.

Then it spoke.

"Hey... yah."

Its voice was casual. Relaxed. Like a drunk greeting someone at a tavern. It sounded ridiculous.

"Kill it!!" Varros roared. "All forces, annihilate it! EVERYTHING YOU HAVE!!"

The command came like a lightning strike.

Immediately, the entire force targeted the creature.

Arrows fell on it like a black hailstorm. Mages formed multi-cast formations—three, four spells at once—pouring every last drop of mana they had into destruction.

Fireballs large enough to destroy stone walls erupted. Holy spears of light fell like divine punishment.

Wind howled, slicing with invisible blades.

Lightning snapped and clawed the earth with furious shrieks. Even the mounted lancers charged forward, their weapons glowing with rune-inscribed might.

The ground where the creature stood turned into a crater. Earth and flame collided in a vortex of annihilation.

The pressure alone was enough to knock back the frontline troops. Visibility vanished in the chaos—smoke, dust, magic residue, and ash blanketed the field.

Silence.

And then—

A voice.

"...That’s so rude."

The smoke cleared.

It was still there.

Unharmed.

The smoke curled and cleared, but the laughter that echoed through it was the final insult.

The creature stood still, not even dust on his shoulders, his scaly arms folded casually across his chest.

His webbed claw gestured like an aristocrat to the devastation around him—scorched earth, shattered rocks, and the fatigue on every face—and he chuckled with a thick, wet tone.

"Low-tier magic," he said, with a teasing drawl, "is like tossing pebbles into the sea and expecting to drown the tide. Entertaining, yes. Effective? Hardly."

The ranks of knights stiffened. Some began to whisper among themselves, others simply stared. Varros clenched his teeth. He raised one armored hand but didn’t give the command. Not yet. There was calculation behind his stern expression now—no longer brash or overconfident. Just wary.

He stepped forward, slowly, his horse breathing hard behind him.

"You mock us," Varros said, voice cold. "But you’re no god. No demon we’ve named. You’re new. Unrecorded. So tell me—who are you? Where did you crawl from? What’s your purpose in this realm?"

The creature blinked once, lazily, as if caught off guard by how calm the voice was. Then he smiled. "Ah. The mortal shows manners. Refreshing." He gave a small, almost courtly bow. "I am called Yxthul. Though... I doubt names matter much to your kind."

"Where are you from?" Varros pressed, unmoved.

"The deeps. Far beneath your mortal soil and forgotten oceans. Between the folds of dreams and the tide of war. I was never meant to be here. But then—" he stretched out his arms theatrically "—a door was opened."

"By whom?"

"Not by you." He gave a small grin. "Not knowingly, at least."

"And what is it that you want?"

"Oh, nothing unreasonable," Yxthul said in a near-gentle voice, glancing around the armored troops. "I came in peace. Truly. And I answered your questions as politely as your etiquette demanded. You’ve been courteous, inquisitive... I appreciate that."

He paused. His eyes, reflective like a deep lagoon at midnight, swept over them once again—one by one, stopping briefly on every knight, every mage, every trembling attendant near the carriages behind them. The silence grew sharp, like a held breath.

Then, Yxthul smiled wider.

"So I want to say... thank you."

Varros furrowed his brows. "Thank you?"

"Yes." Yxthul’s smile never wavered, but his voice carried a deeper undertone now—resonant, too smooth. "For the welcome. For the energy. For the sacrifice that allowed me to manifest in this lowly realm of your kind."

And then, without flourish, he reached behind him and lifted something.

A head.

Armored.

Cracked.

Blood still dripped slowly from the torn helm, and the steel bore the unmistakable insignia of the Black Vale Vanguard—Varros’s elite unit. The expression on the face, frozen in horror, was just barely visible through the mangled visor.

Gasps burst from the ranks behind him.

"Th-that’s... that’s Frellik!" one knight choked out, stumbling back. "He was on the scout team!"

"Dead," another whispered. "But that was—three days ago—he said he saw something, then he vanished..."

The knights reeled. Several instinctively gripped their weapons tighter. Others simply froze in place, unable to look away from the severed head.

Yxthul twirled it once by the strap like a toy. "He was brave, to his credit. Didn’t scream until the end. Stubborn, too. Refused to tell me about the rest of you. That you were coming. He held that secret to his final breath, and you know what?" The creature’s voice deepened, laced with cruel humor. "It didn’t matter. Not one bit."

Varros didn’t speak. His fists were clenched white. His entire body trembled, not from fear—but from the boiling restraint of fury.

Yxthul continued, his tone airy now. "He died thinking he protected you. Thinking that by not telling me your location, he was doing his duty. But you were already on your way, weren’t you? Marching in, loud and bright, banners high, magic flaring like fireworks in the dead of night."

He chuckled, rolling the head once more before gently dropping it to the earth like refuse.

"Isn’t that funny?" he whispered. "How useless his sacrifice was? But we can imagine how noble he is... what a loyal soul... what a loyal soldier... what a brave mortal."

A sound cracked through the silence like a bolt of divine judgment.

Varros drew his sword.

"Formations! Turn this motherfucker down to dust! Make sure he was bathed in magic spells until his corpse turned into powder!" he roared, and the entire battlefield ignited with motion.

Knights snapped to attention. Horses stampeded back into formation. Shields locked together.

Runes etched in haste lit up across the defensive lines. Mages formed triple-circles of protection, enchanted barriers snapping into place with audible hums.

Attendants rushed the students back into the protected carriages. The air itself seemed to shudder from the heat of rage and power surging at once.

"You insulted my men," Varros growled, pointing his sword directly at Yxthul. "You mock our sacrifice. You desecrated the corpse of our brother."

Yxthul tilted his head. "Did I?"

"Kill him," Varros said, barely above a whisper. Then louder: "EVERYONE!! KILL HIM!!"

What followed was chaos made divine.

A thousand arrows screamed.

Flames erupted like sunfire from tier-five magic circles.

Ice storm spells howled across the battlefield, freezing the very air into razor-sharp flakes.

Wind scythes twisted the sky into blades.

Stone fists punched up from the earth, hammering anything in their path. Lightning arced between mages, forming a network of death that crackled with searing blue force.

The knights joined the carnage, a full charge, swords glowing with reinforced enchantments, powered by rage and grief and duty.

Spears were thrown with enough force to crack dragons. Siege magic reserved for fortress walls was unleashed with no restraint.

The entire world exploded where Yxthul stood.

The ground itself split.

Smoke clouded the air.

The rumbling went on for what felt like hours.

And then, silence again.

A breathless moment passed.

Then—

A single figure walked from the smoke.

Unscathed.

Not even a scratch.

Yxthul’s skin still gleamed. His gills fluttered gently. His fins flexed, unbroken. Not even his black sclera eyes blinked. He just stood there. Calm. Unbothered. Looking at them like a parent disappointed by a tantrum.

"Didn’t I tell you," he said, his voice even and clear, "all your low-level spells won’t work on me?"