Chapter 0073: Langdon’s Fury

The darkness within the shadowy caverns had never known peace.

Most of these subterranean regions had only been crudely surveyed, so even the native races who prowled the depths year after year lacked a fully reliable map. The underground tunnels often stretched for miles, sometimes swelling into caverns a thousand feet wide, sometimes narrowing so much that even cave-dwellers could barely squeeze through. The grandest cavern halls mirrored the surface world, with hills, valleys, rivers, and lakes. In this three-dimensional landscape, most races could exploit the ceilings and walls, traversing freely by means of natural or magical flight, levitation, or mounts capable of walking on surfaces, such as giant spiders or certain types of lizards.

As the only city founded by exile sorcerers from the surface in the underworld, the location of Citadel of Extremes was a fiercely guarded secret. Veins of rock rich in rare metals shielded it from hostile detection, and the labyrinthine caves and tunnels teemed with dark creatures, constructs, and native denizens. Without a guide from the Citadel, outsiders faced an impossible task trying to find the single path amid countless twisting passageways that led to the city.

Some claimed that the powerful second-tier Fallen Sorcerer ruling the Citadel had woven a massive illusionary sorcerous array outside its gates, erasing all trace of the city from the deepest reaches of the tunnels. Even if enemies did penetrate this far, no matter how many passages they wandered, they would never find the Citadel’s location.

Citadel of Extremes, Cat-Ear Tavern.

As the enormous flame stones hanging from the cavern ceiling began to dim, night descended upon the underworld. For the Fallen Sorcerers who dwelled below, there was no clear distinction between day and night, no markers for the passage of time. Their lives would dissolve into chaos without order or routine. Thus, retaining certain habits from the surface, the powerful sorcerers had gathered flame stones from the depths and arranged them in magical arrays to illuminate and extinguish according to surface time.

Through this method, the Citadel managed to attract a host of desperate sorcerer apprentices, binding them as its first residents.

When night fell, torches and campfires flickered throughout the city’s streets and alleys, and a dim tallow lamp was lit at the Cat-Ear Tavern’s entrance.

Pushing open the grimy, battered half-door, Landon entered the tavern with a sullen face. The raucous din inside instantly made him frown.

It was about seven in the evening in the Citadel, and the tavern was already crammed with all sorts of drinkers. Nearly every notable underground race had a representative here, though only from the lower tiers.

Citadel residents were never lowly beasts like Claw Fiends or Stone Lizards, but mostly humanoid subraces or intelligent species: Lizardfolk, Gnollkin, Deep Gnomes, Mindcatchers, Ratfolk…

Watching a group of upright, oversized rats scurrying in front of him, their furry, ugly faces contorted in excitement, Landon felt nothing but disgust. He was, after all, a pure human.

Ordinary humans could never survive in the Citadel’s den of monsters, but Landon felt no fear. He even kicked aside a Ratfolk blocking his way. He could do this because he was a sorcerer apprentice, at the quasi-sorcerer level.

In the Citadel, aside from the rarely seen master sorcerers, quasi-sorcerer apprentices like him were the city’s elite. Wherever they went, countless underworld natives would fawn and clear a path.

His pale blue apprentice robe was adorned with arcane golden runes, glowing and fading as he walked, adding a mystical flair to his presence. Handsome and poised, Landon’s bearing radiated a unique nobility. Unfortunately, his once-elegant face was now so dark it seemed to drip ink.

Kicking aside the Ratfolk without acknowledging their squealing protests, Landon strode to the counter and slammed his hand on the thick surface, shouting loudly.

“Give me a bottle of Firebrew!”

Instantly, the bustling tavern fell silent.

Old John, languidly polishing glasses behind the counter, lifted his eyelids and muttered, then reached beneath the bar with a hand as thick as a carrot and produced a bottle, sliding it across the polished surface.

Removing the stopper, the potent, fiery aroma spread tangibly through the packed tavern. Countless furry faces sniffed greedily, and shiny drool began to drip.

Rarely indulging in drink, Landon gulped down several mouthfuls, his bloodshot eyes glaring, neck tilted back. The spicy, fiery liquor burned through his insides, making him double over in a fit of loud coughing.

Drops of alcohol sprayed through the air.

Most of the fiery brew he’d swallowed was coughed right back out.

The Ratfolk, clad in filthy rags and tiptoeing to mimic human gait, rushed forward and sprawled on the ground, lapping up the spilled liquor with their wet, broad tongues. Normally, they maintained a semblance of humanity, but when faced with such a free boon, they instantly dropped the pretense, exposing their base, low-intelligence nature.

The Citadel’s regulations were strict—only intelligent beings with humanoid appearance could be residents. To secure a place here, many Ratfolk, Gnollkin, and Lizardfolk scavenged ragged cloth from trash heaps, stood upright, and adopted awkward, lurching steps to pass for subraces.

In this city ruled by Fallen Sorcerers, they had no way to earn a living, surviving only by scavenging sorcerer refuse. Naturally, petty theft and darker trades made their lives more comfortable.

Watching the ugly Ratfolk fighting and biting over his spilled liquor, Landon gritted his teeth, wishing he could wipe them all out with Acid Mire.

He was a distinguished apprentice, a quasi-sorcerer, yet had sunk to consorting daily with these fiends! Unspoken sorrow and rage swelled in his chest. He drained the rest of the Firebrew, tossed a magic crystal onto the counter, and staggered out of the tavern.

“What’s wrong with Lord Landon? I’ve never seen him so out of sorts,” whispered two shadows in a dark corner.

“You haven’t heard?” one shadow murmured. “His other half met with trouble.”

“The Vine Witch?” the other shadow gasped. “You mean the Vine Witch’s in trouble?”

“Quiet, hush…” The first shadow anxiously glanced around. Seeing no one was watching, it warned in a low voice, “You just got back from the west, so you don’t know. The east has been wild these days; several quasi-sorcerers fought, collapsing layers of tunnels.”

“You said the Vine Witch died? Who killed her?”

“Who else? It was those bastards from the surface. Rumor has it, surface sorcerers sent a team of apprentices to steal our resources. The Vine Witch was slain by these newcomers. Supposedly…” The shadow glanced about, lowering its voice, “Supposedly she was killed by an apprentice named Grimm! She—”

Before the shadow could finish, a deafening crash drowned its words. A terrifying fist punched through the stone wall, blasting a hole.

A giant figure over three meters tall stormed in, grabbing the two whispering shadows—revealed in the firelight to be Gnollkin—each in one massive hand.

“Damned lowborn creatures! Do you think you have the right to gossip about Landon behind my back? I hate hearing the name Grimm. Anyone who dares speak it again will meet this fate!”

As the towering figure roared in fury, azure ice and snow magic gathered in his palms, freezing the two Gnollkin into humanoid statues in an instant. With a powerful throw, the ice statues shattered on the tavern floor, mingling blood and flesh with the icy shards.

“You worthless scum, listen well! I don’t want to hear that damned name again. If anyone forgets, I, Landon, will remind them with death!” Transformed into a monstrous giant, the quasi-sorcerer Landon bellowed in rage.

“Grimm! You damned bastard, I’ll be waiting for you in the darkness of the underworld…”

……

Unaware of the turmoil unfolding far below, Grimm had been busy these past days.

He had finished reading all the books brought from the Swamp Tower, leaving only the protracted accumulation of sorcerous knowledge and model analysis.

For his first defensive sorcery, Grimm devoted himself with unmatched fervor.

Flame Shield—it was the spell he’d chosen. To master it, Grimm first had to thoroughly understand four or five foundational disciplines and a wealth of sorcery knowledge. From “Properties of Fire Element Particles” to “Regulated Arrangement of Elemental Energies,” from “Role of Mental Elements in Sorcery” to “A Hundred Questions on Flame Shield Shaping”…

All told, Grimm needed to grasp dozens of sorcery techniques and concepts. Although aided by a chip, mastering them one by one remained a formidable challenge.

Yet, according to the chip’s calculations and predictions, Grimm was delighted to learn he could acquire Flame Shield before his next journey underground.

A thrilling prospect indeed!