Reincarnated in a novel: I am the villain!-Chapter 330: Arch-Mage Arrives!
The dust in the ruined inner sanctum settled like snow over a graveyard.
The heavy Adamantite doors were shredded, the ancient stone floor was cratered, and the pedestal that had housed the Sword of Heroes for a millennium was nothing but a jagged stump.
From the far wall of the Deep Vault, buried under tons of collapsed rubble, a figure stirred.
"Your Holiness!"
Bishop Malachi, the Pope’s most trusted confidant and the head of the Cathedral’s internal shadows, sprinted into the ruined antechamber.
He was flanked by a dozen high-ranking Inquisitors, their holy weapons drawn, panic clear in their eyes.
They expected to find a massacre.
They expected to find the leader of the Kingdom of Light broken by the terrorist lapdogs who had infiltrated their most sacred vault.
Instead, the rubble simply... evaporated.
The heavy stone blocks pressing down on the Pope didn’t fall away; they turned into harmless white light and drifted into the ceiling.
The Pope stepped out of the crater. His white and gold papal vestments, which should have been soaked in blood and torn to shreds by Alaric’s kinetic strike, were completely immaculate.
The thin cut on his cheek, inflicted earlier by Elena’s photon laser, healed instantly, leaving flawless skin behind.
"Stand down, Bishop," the Pope said softly.
"Your Holiness! The Sword! The Heretics took the relic!" Bishop Malachi gasped, staring at the empty pedestal.
"We must mobilize the Paladins! We must shut down the borders! How could three mere teenagers bypass your Sanctuary of the Absolute Sun?!"
The Pope didn’t answer immediately. He raised a hand, dismissing the Inquisitors.
"Leave us. Secure the upper levels. Do not pursue."
The Inquisitors hesitated, but the absolute command in his voice left no room for defiance. They bowed and scrambled away, leaving only Bishop Malachi.
Once the heavy doors of the upper levels sealed shut, the atmosphere in the vault changed.
It was the dropping of a veil.
The Pope’s aura, which had hovered at the peak of the 7th Order a formidable, world-class pressure suddenly expanded.
The air in the room crystallized. The ambient holy mana didn’t just bow; it prostrated itself. The gravity multiplied by a thousand, forcing Bishop Malachi to his knees instantly, his breath stolen from his lungs.
This wasn’t the 7th Order.
This was the absolute, reality-warping weight of the 9th Order. The realm of Demi-Gods. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚
"Y-Your Holiness..." Malachi choked out, his eyes wide with profound, terrified realization.
"Did you truly believe, Malachi, that a simple thermodynamic vacuum could refract my Domain if I did not allow it?" the Pope asked, his voice echoing with ancient, unyielding divinity. "Did you think a crude, human-made artifact like the Titan’s Capacitor could shatter a Demi-God’s ribs?"
The Pope looked at the empty pedestal, a small, genuine smile touching his lips.
"I held back because they needed to take it."
"But... why?" Malachi gasped, struggling to speak under the crushing divine weight. "They are wanted by the Empire! They are the students of the terrorist Zero! If we had just given them the blade, they—"
"If we had handed them the blade," the Pope interrupted, his voice turning cold, "the Dragon Empire and the Central Empire would know that the Church of Light has chosen a side. Emperor Aurelius is already looking for an excuse to march his legions into our lands under the guise of ’purging sympathizers.’ And the Void Cults... they are watching every shadow in this Cathedral."
The Pope walked slowly toward the ruined dais.
"By fighting them, by ’losing’ to a brilliant, desperate ambush, the Church remains a victim. The spies in our ranks will report to the Empire that Alaric Ironheart went rogue, assaulted the Pope, and stole the artifact. The Empire’s gaze will follow them, not us. We buy ourselves time to prepare for the true holy war."
Malachi swallowed hard. "You... you believe in them? You believe in the Heretic Zero?"
"The man in the white porcelain mask," the Pope murmured, recalling the terrifying broadcast that had shaken the world weeks ago. "The Empire calls him a demon. The Cults call him a terrorist. He shattered our sense of peace and humiliated the nobility."
The Pope reached out, touching the lingering, residual kinetic energy Alaric had left behind on the stone.
"But I do not see a demon, Malachi. I see a variable. In a world bound by rigid prophecies and stagnant Gods, Zero is the only entity greedy enough to shatter the board. He broke the world to save it. And his students... they bear that same terrifying spark."
The Pope remembered the look in Alaric’s eyes when the giant refused to let go of the burning, purifying hilt of the Sword. He remembered the raw, unadulterated willpower that had defied an Ancestor’s judgment.
"Alaric Ironheart," the Pope whispered, his eyes filled with profound respect. "May you awaken that blade in ways your ancestors never could."
The Demi-God allowed his overwhelming aura to retract, returning the vault to normal. He slowly lowered himself to his knees before the ruined altar. He closed his eyes, clasping his hands together, and began to pray—not for the Church, but for the three teenagers running into the dark.
[Location: The Southern Outskirts – The Neutral Zone]
Miles away from the Holy City, the dense, golden-leafed forests of the Kingdom of Light gave way to the rocky, muddy terrain of the Neutral Zone.
"Keep moving!" Alaric grunted, leading the charge through the thick brush.
He moved with terrifying speed for a man his size. Strapped to his back wasn’t the blunt grey slab of The Anvil, but the newly transformed Sword of Heroes. It had mutated into a massive, dark gunmetal buster sword laced with glowing golden veins, humming in sync with the mechanical thumping of the Titan’s Capacitor in his chest.
Behind him, Lukas scrambled over a fallen log. His heavy, matte-black Magitech Gauntlets were hissing, venting clouds of white steam. The dwarven needles embedded in his forearms ached from channeling so much raw plasma.
"My cooling cycles are shot," Lukas wheezed, shaking his hands. "If I have to fire another needle beam today, Hephaestus’s circuits are going to permanently fuse to my bones."
Elena brought up the rear, effortlessly gliding over the mud using a low-level wind cushion. She tapped the cracked rim of her Photon Lens, her elven ears twitching.
"Did that feel... strange to either of you?" Elena asked, her brow furrowed. "The Pope. He is the absolute ruler of the Kingdom of Light. But his Domain... it lacked the density I expected. It felt less like an execution and more like a test."
"He went down in one hit," Lukas agreed, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. "I mean, Alaric hits like a runaway train, but still. A Pope? That easy?"
"Nothing about blowing up an Adamantite vault and fighting the Vanguard of the Crusade is ’easy,’ Lukas," Alaric rumbled, adjusting the heavy strap on his chest.
"Maybe he underestimated us. Maybe he thought we were just dumb kids. It doesn’t matter," Alaric said, his grey eyes fixed on the northern horizon. "We got what we came for. Now we need to head back to the Dwarven Empire. King Durin and Leona are waiting. If we’re going to figure out a way to pierce the Abyss to find the Professor, we need dwarven tech to complement this sword."
"Right. Ironforge," Lukas nodded, pushing off the tree. "Let’s—"
"Wait."
Elena froze. The wind swirling gently around her boots suddenly died.
As a High Elf with a dual affinity for Light and Wind, her connection to the atmosphere was absolute. And right now, the atmosphere was screaming.
"Elena? What is it?" Alaric asked, his hand instantly reaching for the hilt of his massive sword.
"The temperature," Elena whispered, her emerald eyes going wide. "It’s rising. Fast."
The damp, chilly mud beneath their boots began to dry. Within seconds, the moisture in the air evaporated, making it hard to breathe. The ambient mana in the forest didn’t just shift; it ignited.
"Get down!" Alaric roared.
FWOOSH!
A wave of superheated, dark red fire swept through the tree line, incinerating a hundred yards of ancient forest in a microsecond. The trees didn’t burn; they turned to white ash instantly.
Alaric stood in front of Elena and Lukas, his golden-veined buster sword drawn. He didn’t swing; he slammed the flat of the blade into the dirt, using the holy aura of the weapon to part the flames around them like a breakwater.
When the fire cleared, the horizon was no longer a treeline.
It was an army.
Standing on the scorched ridge ahead of them were thousands of soldiers in the pristine, gleaming plate armor of the Central Empire. Above them fluttered the banners of the Imperial Golden Sun.
They hadn’t stumbled upon a patrol. They had walked into a meticulously prepared ambush. The Empire knew they had come South.
The ranks of armored knights parted perfectly down the middle.
A single figure walked forward.
He didn’t wear armor. He wore flowing, crimson robes embroidered with living, shifting runes of molten lava. He held a staff made of petrified dragon bone, and the air around him warped and distorted with terrifying, suffocating heat.
"Well, well," the figure sneered, his voice carrying clearly over the dying crackle of the ash. "The little rats finally crawl out of the Holy City."
Lukas’s eyes widened in sheer horror. The Magitech gauntlets on his arms buzzed in warning as the ambient temperature threatened to overheat their systems passively.
"The Master of the Flame Tower," Lukas whispered, his voice cracking. "Lord Pythios. He’s the head of the Empire’s Magical Artillery... a Peak 6th-Order Arch-Mage."
Pythios looked down at them from the ridge, his eyes locking onto Lukas’s mechanical arms with absolute disgust.
"I heard the rumors that the fire-rat of Class F had burned out his own nerves," Pythios mocked, aiming his staff at them. "Resorting to dwarven toys because your own biology failed you? Pathetic. Let me show you what true, unadulterated Imperial Fire looks like."
Alaric stepped forward, his massive frame shielding his friends. The Titan’s Capacitor revved, the mechanical thump echoing loudly in the silent, burning clearing.
"Lukas. Elena," Alaric growled, gripping his buster sword with both hands, the holy veins flaring to life. "Get ready to break the line."
