The Legendary Mage (Alavin)

Chapter 17

After downing six cups of fiery spirits, Alavin could no longer bear the brunt of the alcohol. His head throbbed and ached, and in a blurry haze, he slumped onto a pile of hay and soon fell asleep.

In his slumber, he seemed to travel back to his childhood, to the distant lands of Stormcast. He saw his mother, his father, his sister, and many familiar kinfolk. The lord's keep was filled with laughter and joy, a picture of bliss and happiness.

Alavin ran excitedly towards the familiar figures, but although they were right before him, they seemed not to see him. He shouted and waved frantically in front of each person, but his relatives were indifferent. Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

As if in a daze, everyone grew silent, looking up at the sky expressionlessly, their eyes hollow. Then rain began to fall, a cold drizzle that soaked everyone, chilling to the bone.

Suddenly...

The scene shattered like a broken mirror, scattering with a crash, and all the people dissolved in the cold rain.

The rain grew heavier, and darkness enveloped the land.

Gone was the ancient city, gone were his loved ones, and Alavin found himself standing alone on a vast, blood-soaked battlefield. Endless beings clashed in frenzied combat, their battle cries thunderous. Mysterious beasts roared amidst blood and fire.

A cataclysm of heaven-sent flames and gales engulfed the world.

The earth crumbled, and the sky collapsed as if the apocalypse had come. Amidst this chaos, a bright crimson streak slashed through the darkness, cleaving the inferno, shining like the sun. The

crimson light pierced the battlefield, spreading a fearsome aura of death, causing all creatures to wail in fear.

Alavin staggered across the battlefield as if chasing that peerless, tyrannical streak of light. Suddenly, the light halted and locked onto Alavin from afar. An endless aura of slaughter boiled up and enveloped him.

Alavin jolted awake with a start.

It was a dream! A nightmare!

Sweat-soaked and sobered, he gasped for air, struggling to swallow. Why did he have such a dream?

It had been years since he'd last dreamt.

Wiping away the sweat and feeling parched, Alavin rose with a pounding head and went to the courtyard to fetch some water.

In the chilly courtyard, the old man sat under an ancient tree, flipping a dark, sinister-looking dagger in his hand. It was forged from an unknown material; it looked like black iron or dark stone and emanated a chilling aura.

"What?" Alavin, intrigued by the black dagger, shook his head vigorously, half-believing he was still dreaming.

"Hello?" he called out twice.

The old man paid him no heed, slowly lifting the black dagger.

As Alavin watched, an inexplicable chill gripped his heart. He felt as though he had slipped back into his nightmare, overwhelmed by endless slaughter, and sensed that the dark dagger was staring at him.

Carefully, Alavin shifted his position but still felt the gaze of the dagger upon him. The black dagger seemed to possess a strange sentience that was terrifying, yet in the hands of the old man, it was as obedient as a pet, nimbly flipping with his fingertips.

Alavin was now fully alert, observing the old man and the black dagger warily. He remembered seeing the old man throwing knives before, casually using metal scraps as weapons in the courtyard. After practicing for two days, Alavin felt quite adept and had crafted nine throwing knives himself, refining them over three years for defense.

When he faced Nysah, it was the surprise attack with the throwing knife that had given him the upper hand, catching Nysah off guard.

"The name of the knife, Shadowbringer," the old man said, opening his withered right hand. The black dagger hovered over his palm. Its tip pointed down, its body emanated a sinister chill, and the space around it seemed to warp.

"This knife..." Alavin felt his hair stand on end as he stepped back, astonished by the sight of the black dagger.

With a sudden flick of the old man's hand, the dagger sang out, vibrating with a fearsome killing intent that filled the courtyard and permeated the heavens and earth.

At that moment, the elders of the Cobalt Strike's thirty mountains awoke, sensing a murderous aura that made their hearts tremble.

Alavin stumbled backward, but the black dagger instantly pressed against his forehead, swift as a beam of light, its trajectory impossible to track. It neither retreated nor advanced, merely touching the skin of Alavin's brow. The sharp tip was exceedingly cold as if it sought to encase Alavin's very soul in ice.

"You..." Alavin dared not move. His forehead was slick with sweat, and he felt the palpable threat of death as if embraced by the Reaper himself. His body chilled to the core, and his breath constricted.

"Do not use it recklessly until you're an Advanced Mage," the old man warned, pushing through the air with his right hand, and the black dagger plunged into Alavin's forehead with a soft sound. In an instant, Alavin felt as though he had fallen into an icy cavern, as a bone-chilling cold had spread throughout his body, his breath nearly freezing.

His consciousness spun, and he couldn’t tell if it was pain or numbness overwhelming him. Alavin struggled to sit up, about to speak, but his body began to emit black vapors, swirling around him until he was submerged.

In his daze, the old master walked towards him. His hands were behind his back, and Alavin saw only the old man's eyes, like endless abysses ready to devour him.

"Am I dreaming again?" Alavin murmured softly, lying down on the ground.

Everything felt surreal, both illusory and terrifying. Was it a dream? It must have been a dream.

When Alavin opened his eyes again, it was the next morning. To his surprise, he was actually lying in the courtyard, basking in the warm, pleasant sunlight.