Chapter 44: Respecting the Elderly and Loving the Young-Eu sou mesmo um mago sério(Só quero escrever sobre fungos.)

One Snake has fallen, but thousands more stand in his wake.

Ron Griffith, a Second-Tier Official Mage and a Third-Tier Investigator of the Stardust Society, will now inherit the dying wish of Mr. Snake!

Even if the path ahead is fraught with thorns, he will never halt his steps.

So what if his opponent is a Fourth-Tier Cultist of Agony?

Brilliant golden sunlight spills over the youth, echoing the sacred light pulsing around him. At this moment, his deep blue eyes are as calm as a placid lake, without the slightest ripple, as though the formidable enemy right before him is completely beneath his notice.

A standard longsword traces a chilling arc through the air, its tip pointing directly at Aleca, as if silently declaring...

"Come and get me!"

Arrogant!

Sensing the provocation, Aleca breaks into a ferocious grin, the jagged scar running from his temple to his lip twisting like a crawling centipede.

"Kid, I'm going to capture you alive and make you truly experience the meaning of agony!"

Aleca steps forward with his right foot, moving at a leisurely pace, seemingly savoring the final, futile struggle of the prey before him.

What a tragically beautiful picture, and Ron's striking appearance and refined temperament only add brilliance to the moment.

The last desperate struggle of someone cornered—just thinking about it is immensely entertaining.

To corner Ron, Aleca had brought along ten Second-Tier Cultists of Agony to seal off every possible escape route. Under such circumstances, he simply cannot fathom how he could possibly lose!

Just as the "Throat of Agony" paces forward with absolute confidence, aiming to psychologically crush Ron, the blonde youth's wrist—holding the longsword—suddenly twitches.

wisps of holy light intertwine around the blade, and a metallic gun barrel abruptly emerges from within the golden radiance, aiming squarely at Aleca's forehead.

Without a shred of hesitation, Ron pulls the trigger.

"Holy Swordsmanship!"

Bang!

Three large-caliber bullets forged from holy light instantly materialize inches from Aleca's forehead.

Clang!

Yet, in the next instant, a swirling vortex of air manifests around the "Throat of Agony." A foul-smelling, crimson airflow rapidly coalesces into a circular barrier composed of grimacing, agonizing human faces, intercepting all three holy-light bullets right before they reach his brow.

The golden radiance is utterly devoured by the crimson magic, leaving not a single speck of light behind, much like the final twilight of a setting sun.

"If this is the extent of your tricks, you'd better surrender obediently. Suffering less pain now will at least let me play with you a bit longer during the interrogation."

Aleca does not deign to take Ron's sneak attack seriously; an attack of this caliber is no different from a child swinging puny fists at an adult.

Indeed... firearms may be fast, but against a Fourth-Tier powerhouse, they are far too feeble. Such mighty beings command a myriad of arcane secrets, and their bodies have been repeatedly tempered through multiple advancements, rendering them completely immune to mere bullets.

Moreover, "Mastery"-level Holy Swordsmanship seems to have a negligible effect...

Ron's heart sinks slightly. This is precisely what worries him the most.

"Holy Swordsmanship" is his sole offensive resort, yet it failed to pierce the enemy's armor.

It appears he must adjust his battle plan.

As a proper, orthodox mage, Ron naturally possesses his own unique school of spellcasting.

Considering the practical circumstances, the youth has dubbed this particular school the "Respecting the Elderly and Loving the Young" style.

Watching Aleca draw closer by the second, Ron suddenly flashes a row of white teeth.

Within ten meters!

"Morphing!"

A bizarre pale-blue radiance violently erupts from the blonde youth's right palm, surging straight toward the "Throat of Agony."

Transform, you old fool!

Though Aleca has never witnessed this specific magic, a sudden tremor of unease grips his heart.

His expression falters in sheer astonishment for a fraction of a second, and instinctively, he raises his crimson barrier.

However, this bizarre pale-blue light is neither an offensive spell nor a curse; rather, it resembles a "blessing"—a type of magic meant to temporarily apply a specific status.

In the next moment, the robust and towering physique of Aleca instantaneously distorts and morphs into that of a withered, frail old man, complete with six fingers on his left hand, seven on his right, and a perpetually soaked crotch leaking urine.

Upon witnessing this, Ron turns tail and sprints.

Aleca instinctively moves to chase, but immediately...

He wrenches his lower back and hits the ground with a resounding thud.

Seeing this unfold, the blonde youth cannot help but sigh: even villains grow old, and in another world, nobody dares to help an old man who has fallen.

What kind of magic is this?!

Is it related to the domain of Time?

The cultist leader is struck dumb with shock. He stares at his uncontrollably and frantically twitching hands while feeling the steady trickle of fluid from his lower body, utterly unable to comprehend how his wise, magnificent self could degenerate into such a pathetic state in his twilight years.

No, this isn't me!

He realizes the truth instantly, carefully probing his internal condition, only to discover that this is merely an outer shell grafted onto his physical form.

However, the temporary status borne by this shell has been flawlessly embedded into his body.

Behold, the true and correct application of the "Fake it Till You Make It" Morphing spell!

There are no useless spells, only useless mages—a sentiment Ron wholeheartedly agrees with.

Ever since he turned the knight into a petite loli a few days ago, the blonde youth has harbored a faint ambition to establish the "Respecting the Elderly and Loving the Young" school of combat.

Yet, as this style has not undergone real-world trials, it inevitably harbors numerous flaws.

For instance, while the magical effects of the "Morphing" spell could successfully restrict a Third-Tier knight, it might not entirely incapacitate a Fourth-Tier powerhouse like Aleca.

"Stop him!"

Just as the thought flashes through Ron's mind, he hears an elderly, wrathful roar erupt from Aleca behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the cultist leader dragging himself back to his feet—completely unaided.

Truly worthy of a Fourth-Tier powerhouse!

"Holy Swordsmanship!"

While running, Ron raises his gun barrel once more. Taking advantage of the brief window before the other cultists close in, he pulls the trigger again.

Bang!

The three bullets condensed from holy light instantly materialize before Aleca's forehead, yet they fail to produce the satisfying spectacle of a shattered skull and flying brain matter.

For the crimson barrier woven from agonizing faces once again blocks the onslaught of the holy bullets.

This time, however, the lingering afterglow of the holy light is not entirely swallowed; it pierces partially through the barrier, flashing blindingly in Aleca's eyes.

Just as expected, it merely weakens the defense, leaving it roughly at the Third-Tier standard.

Ron understands the situation instantly, only to find Aleca glaring at him with murderous intent.

Dragging a heavy meteor hammer tethered to his wrist, with six fingers on one hand, seven on the other, and urine leaking from his trousers, the cultist leader advances rapidly toward him with the unmistakable gait of a Parkinson's patient.

Even afflicted with a full suite of geriatric ailments, Mr. Aleca refuses to bow to old age!

An old man must maintain his pride!

This deeply moves Ron, faintly reminding him of Mr. Mark, and he resolves to assist the pitiful Mr. Aleca by curing his geriatric conditions...

Starting, perhaps, with urinary incontinence.

"Holy Healing!"

No sooner said than done, a flicker of eternal, undying golden light blooms in the blonde youth's hand.

The moment this light appears, Aleca watches in horror as the blob of holy light charges directly at him.

His expression twists wildly as he tries to raise his barrier for defense, but this wisp of holy light harbors no malice whatsoever; indeed, it strictly classifies as a blessing-type spell.

It effortlessly pierces the barrier and lands squarely on his crotch.

Another blessing-type magic?!

Splash...

The moment the thought crosses Aleca's mind, he feels his urinary tract unblock with miraculous fluidity.

Yet immediately afterward...

"Hmph—ahh—aargh!"

[The Merciful Matron casts her gaze upon you.]