The massive, building-sized spear of demonic ice roared downward from the darkening sky.
The Sky seemed to scream as the construct tore through the air. It wasn't just cold; it was an unnatural, life-draining chill born from the forbidden depths of the Spade Kingdom. The temperature plummeted so violently and so quickly that thick, jagged frost immediately began forming along the Gilded Eel's wooden rigging. The heavy canvas sails instantly froze solid, cracking loudly in the wind like shattering glass.
Standing on the deck, staring up at the impending apocalypse, Garrick's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
"Damn it all…" he hissed through clenched teeth, his breath pluming in thick white clouds.
He didn't run. There was nowhere to run. He planted his heavy boots firmly onto the groaning wooden planks of his beloved ship and raised both of his scarred hands toward the falling monolith.
At his hip, his grimoire—the one that still carried an invisible, parasitic tether to a masked phantom miles away—flew open. The pages flipped violently, glowing with a sickly, dark purple aura in the freezing wind.
Thick, highly pressurized streams of pitch-black water erupted directly from the empty air around him. They didn't flow like normal water; they burst forth like ruptured veins bleeding out corruption.
The foul, heavy liquid churned violently, releasing a deeply toxic, suffocating stench of sulfur and rotting sea-life that was so potent even the harsh, biting sea breeze could not disperse it.
"Take this, you Spade bastard!" Garrick roared, pouring every ounce of his Stage 4 mana into the spell. "Cursed Water Magic: Rotting Maelstrom!"
The black water surged upward in a massive, defying geyser.
But instead of merely forming a static, flat shield to absorb the blow, the heavy liquid twisted and folded in on itself. It formed a rapidly spiraling, highly concentrated vortex of absolute decay directly above Garrick's head, acting like a gaping, toxic maw.
The spinning current of black water expanded rapidly, stretching wide just in time to swallow the falling, needle-sharp tip of the demonic ice spear.
For a fraction of a microsecond—time seemed to stand completely still.
The two violently opposing, high-tier spells collided in mid-air. The absolute zero of the Spade Kingdom's ice clashed aggressively against the hyper-corrosive, decaying properties of the smuggler's cursed water.
Then, the world exploded.
BOOOOOOM!
The sheer kinetic and magical backlash was catastrophic. The sea immediately beneath the Gilded Eel erupted, sending towering geysers of saltwater high into the air.
A massive, blinding column of superheated steam burst outward from the point of impact as the cursed water and demonic ice violently devoured each other. The concussive shockwave hit the deck like a physical, invisible hammer forged of pure pressure.
The force slammed into Garrick's chest, knocking the air from his lungs in a sharp gasp. His heavy body was hurled backward through the air like a discarded ragdoll.
"GAAH!"
He crashed brutally onto the deck of his ship, rolling wildly across the wet, splintering planks before slamming back-first into the thick oak railing of the stern.
Thick, jagged wooden splinters dug deeply through his heavy coat and into his back. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply lay there, his vision swimming with dark spots, gasping desperately for air that felt like razor blades in his throat.
High above him, the remnants of the clash rained down. Shards of shattered, dissolving black ice and drops of sizzling, boiling toxic water rained down heavily into the churning ocean around the ship.
The swirling black funnel of the Rotting Maelstrom slowly, sluggishly dissipated into the mist, having successfully eaten the majority of the ice spear's kinetic mass.
Garrick groaned, grabbing the railing with a shaking hand, and forced himself to sit up. His entire body felt like it had been trampled by a stampede of wild boars. His chest heaved, every breath a struggle against bruised ribs.
"...Still alive," he rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones.
He coughed, tasting the unmistakable, heavy metallic tang of copper in his mouth, and spat a thick glob of dark blood onto the freezing wooden deck.
Behind him, huddled near the mainmast, his crew of hardened smugglers stared at him in absolute, stunned silence. They were trembling, their own pathetic defensive spells having fizzled out in the face of the Spade mage's overwhelming power.
"Boss…" his first mate whispered, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. "You… you actually stopped it…"
Garrick wiped his bloody mouth with the back of his bruised, trembling hand.
"Barely," he grunted, the reality of the situation settling heavily onto his shoulders.
His tired, bloodshot eyes slowly lifted, looking past the shattered rigging and toward the darkening horizon once again.
The Abyss Serpent was closer now. Much, much closer. The massive, iron-plated warship loomed out of the mist like a sea monster, casting a long, terrifying shadow over the Gilded Eel.
Standing casually on the very edge of the black metal bow was the mage who had launched the apocalyptic attack.
He was tall. Incredibly pale, with skin that looked like it hadn't seen the sun in years. Long, pristine silver hair drifted lazily, almost elegantly, in the harsh sea wind. His heavy, high-collared black cloak bore the unmistakable, jagged crest of the Spade Kingdom military.
But what truly, fundamentally froze the blood in Garrick's veins—far more than the demonic ice magic ever could—was the man's facial expression.
He was smiling.
It wasn't a smile of a warrior in the heat of a death match. It was a relaxed, highly entertained, almost polite smile. He looked exactly like a wealthy, bored noble watching a particularly amusing troupe of street performers dancing for coppers in the mud.
The Spade mage slowly raised his gloved hands and began to clap.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound was slow, mocking, and deeply insulting.
"Not bad," the mage called out.
His voice wasn't a shout, but it carried effortlessly across the roaring ocean, amplified by a casual, terrifying application of raw mana. It was smooth, cultured, and dripping with an arrogant sense of absolute superiority.
"You actually stopped that. Color me mildly surprised."
Garrick's jaw tightened, his grip on the railing threatening to splinter the wood further. He forced himself to stand, his knees wobbling slightly before locking into place.
" It was nothing much to boast about," Garrick yelled back, refusing to show the bastard how close to empty his mana core actually was.
The Spade mage chuckled, a light, airy sound that sent shivers down the spines of the smuggler crew.
"Humility. I like that in my prey," the mage said. He leaned slightly, casually against the thick metal railing of the Abyss Serpent, crossing his arms. "My name is Kael Vortigen."
His pale, crystalline eyes gleamed faintly with a cruel, detached amusement in the fading light.
"A Second Stage mage of the Spade Kingdom."
The declaration hung in the air. Second Stage. Garrick felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. He was at most eqivalent to a 4-5 star Intermediate magic knight on a good day. And although he didn't know what the how power a Second Stage mage, he can say with certainty that this man was at a Senior Magic Knight level figure.
Kael's arrogant gaze swept dismissively across the battered, freezing crew of the Gilded Eel.
"Now then…" Kael murmured, his smile widening slightly. "Which one of you pathetic, scrambling insects is Garrick?"
Absolute, terrifying silence fell across the deck of the Gilded Eel.
For a moment, no one moved. And then, slowly, entirely driven by the primal, overriding instinct to survive, several of the crew members involuntarily shifted their gazes, looking directly toward their battered, bleeding captain standing by the stern.
Garrick groaned, closing his eyes for a brief second.
"Traitors… I should dock your pay for this," Garrick muttered under his breath, though he couldn't really blame them.
He pushed himself fully upright, stepping away from the support of the railing. He stepped forward, putting himself between his cowardly crew and the Spade monster.
"Yeah, yeah. That's me," Garrick called out, puffing out his chest. "What's it to you, ice pop?"
Kael studied him carefully from across the water, his head tilting slightly to the side like a bird inspecting a peculiar worm.
Kael studied him carefully from across the water, his head tilting slightly to the side like a bird inspecting a peculiar worm.
"Hmm."
His pale eyes narrowed slightly, analyzing the lingering traces of mana around the smuggler.
"Cursed water magic," Kael noted, his tone carrying a hint of genuine, academic intrigue. "An incredibly highly corrosive, decaying attribute. That is a rather interesting, and highly lethal, attribute for a simple black-market smuggler to possess."
Garrick shrugged, trying to project a confidence he absolutely didn't feel. "Occupational hazard. The sea is a dirty place. You pick things up."
Kael smiled wider, showing a flash of perfectly white teeth.
"Well then, Garrick the Smuggler…"
The ambient temperature of the air over the ocean suddenly, drastically grew colder. The remaining moisture in the mist began to freeze, falling to the deck like tiny, sharp diamonds.
"…let's see exactly how long you can entertain me before you break."