Chapter 151 (Part 1): The Dance of Shattered Loyalties
A Master's Shadow
Leonard's throat tightened. The name Gandalf hung between them like a blade, yet the man before him—cloaked in emerald robes, eyes sharp as winter frost—bore the face of a ghost. The Life Stone in the Magic Guild's vault had shattered. Death was absolute. Unless…
"Master," Leonard stammered, bowing low, "I… I cannot raise a hand against you. Forgive me." His voice trembled with the weight of betrayal—to his Guild, to his conscience.
Gandalf's lips curled, a flicker of amusement in his glacial gaze. "You doubt, yet hold your blade. That alone spares you." His attention shifted to Raphael, who stood rigid beside Prince Chen, white-knuckled grip on his staff.
"And you, Raphael? Will you defy me?"
The Mage Guild envoy swallowed hard. "Even if you are Gandalf reborn… the Guild's orders stand." His staff flared to life, runes glowing crimson.
Across the plaza, Glenvar—the Crimson Archmage—stepped forward, rings glittering like venomous eyes. "Enough theatrics. Let your magic speak."
Bennett watched his father, Count Raymond, from the corner of his eye. The Count's whisper was a blade pressed to his son's throat: "Say something. Validate him."
"What would you have me say?" Bennett's voice was ice. "That he's real? Or that he's a lie we must embrace?"
The unspoken truth hung between them: This gambit could damn our house. But retreat is death.
Storm of Elements
The air crackled.
Glenvar struck first. Fingers dancing, he unleashed a helix of amber light—a slowing hex meant to cripple. Gandalf didn't flinch. With a flick of his staff, golden phoenixes materialized, their song shredding the spell to sparks.
"Elementals? Child's play." Gandalf's chuckle echoed as the ground erupted.
Three colossi rose—earth, fire, water—their roars shaking the plaza. The earth elemental lunged, fists like crumbling mountains. Gandalf's phoenixes coalesced into a gilded vortex, ensnaring the beast in chains of light.
"Clever," Glenvar hissed, sweat beading his brow. The fire elemental exhaled an inferno, while the water titan surged forward, waves crystallizing into icy spears.
Gandalf's response was a symphony of chaos. A whistle summoned a flaming phoenix to duel the fire colossus. A snap froze the water titan mid-stride, its form fracturing under a blizzard summoned by a spectral ice wolf.
Raphael joined the fray, levitating atop a glowing hexagram. "By the Seven Circles—" His staff unleashed a maelstrom: lightning intertwined with venomous mist, molten rock spiraling alongside arctic winds.
Gandalf didn't retreat. He advanced, robes billowing with prismatic shields—layers of magic blooming and dying like ephemeral flowers. Each step forward shattered Raphael's onslaught.
"Is this all?" Gandalf's voice cut through the cacophony. "Where is the Guild's famed ingenuity?"
The Unraveling
Bennett's nails dug into his palms. This isn't Gandalf. The thought slithered through his mind. His mentor had favored subtlety—elegant spells woven like tapestries. This was… performance. A display meant to awe, to terrify.
Yet the crowd didn't see it. They gasped as Gandalf tore through Raphael's defenses, shields regenerating faster than they fell. Even Glenvar's elementals now faltered, their forms flickering under relentless assault.
Prince Chen watched, serene as a pond. His fingers tapped a rhythm only he knew—a silent countdown.
Leonard sank to his knees, torn between reverence and dread. If this is an imposter… how? And if it's truly him…
The answer didn't matter. What mattered was the truth etching itself into every onlooker's soul: Gandalf had returned. And he stood with the Crown Prince.
Bennett's chest ached. His father's plan—the coup, the glory—was crumbling like sand. We've wagered everything on a lie.
But as Gandalf's laughter echoed, sharp and hollow, Bennett glimpsed it—a flicker of green in the archmage's eyes. Not the warm hazel of memory, but something colder. Hungrier.
What have we unleashed?
Chapter 151 (Part 2): The Puppeteer's Gambit
Strings of Dominion
Raphael's breath hitched as Gandalf closed the distance, emerald robes fluttering like a predator's wings. The mage's smile—playful, almost whimsical—vanished. Five fingers splayed. Five threads of viridian light lanced through the air.
No incantation. No warning.
Raphael blinked, teleporting ten meters backward in a burst of spatial distortion. But the green tendrils curved, relentless. They pierced his hastily conjured shield like paper, burrowing into his chest. He froze, patting his robes frantically. No pain. No wounds.
"What trickery is this?" Raphael hissed.
Gandalf's lips twisted. A flick of his wrist.
Raphael's world turned green. His vision swam. His limbs jerked, puppet-like, as an alien will coiled around his mind. No—
"Attack."
The command echoed in his skull. His own staff rose, unbidden, unleashing a storm of lightning and flame toward Glenvar.
"Move!" Raphael screamed, tears streaking his face. "He's controlling me!"
Glenvar's earth elemental shattered under the assault, its rocky form collapsing into dust. The fire colossus roared, incinerating two charging wyverns before a tidal wave of summoned beasts—frost wolves, magma rhinos,Decaying corpse—overwhelmed it.
Gandalf yawned.
The Puppet and the Puppeteer
Glenvar's rings blazed as he danced between Raphael's forced onslaught. A gray sigil bloomed above Raphael—a seal of stasis.
"Do it!" Raphael pleaded, voice cracking. "Lock me down!"
The spell descended. Relief flooded Glenvar… until emerald corruption slithered up the magical tether binding them.
Green.
It crawled into his fingertips, his veins, his mind. His body stiffened. His own sealing magic rebounded, freezing him mid-gesture.
Two statues now stood on the battlefield—Raphael and Glenvar, eyes vacant, breath stilled.
Gandalf strolled between them, boots crunching charred debris. "Anyone else?"
The silence was deafening.
The Weight of a Name
The nobles trembled. This was Gandalf the Undying. Not the frail sage of legends, but a force of nature. Spells conjured without chants. Elemental titans crushed beneath summoned hordes. Even the skeptical—those who'd whispered "imposter"—now clutched their jewels in awe.
Count Raymond's throat tightened. Beside him, Bennett stood motionless, shadows cloaking his face.
"Father." Bennett's voice cut through the hush. "It's time."
The Count flinched. "Time for what?"
"To choose." Bennett turned. Sunlight carved his profile into light and shadow. "Between your ambition… and your son."
Raymond's heart plummeted. The gamble had failed. Gandalf's resurrection—real or not—had cemented Prince Chen's dominance. And Bennett…
Bennett, whose lies about Gandalf's death would now draw the Guild's wrath.
Echoes of a Crown
Gandalf's laughter rippled across the plaza. "Pathetic." He gestured at the frozen mages. "Is this the best the Guild offers?"
Prince Chen leaned forward, a spider admiring its web. "Yield," he murmured, though none heard. "All of you."
But Bennett stepped forward. Not toward Gandalf. Not toward his father.
Toward the throne.
His cloak billowed, revealing the faintest glint of silver—a dagger forged from a Life Stone shard. A relic of the Guild's "proof" of Gandalf's demise.
"Master," Bennett called, loud enough to fracture the silence. "Shall we discuss… your borrowed eyes?"
Gandalf's grin faltered.
Chapter 152: The Fractured Blade
A Father's Farewell
Count Raymond's breath caught as Bennett's gaze locked onto him—a blade of ice piercing decades of unspoken regrets. The boy's smile was summer warmth, but the dagger in his hand gleamed winter's edge.
"Since you cannot decide, Father," Bennett murmured, "let me help."
The blade flicked forward, feather-light. Raymond closed his eyes.
Clang.
When he opened them, Captain Alpha stood between them, sword bloodied. Bennett staggered back, crimson blooming at his shoulder. Yet his laughter rang clear, bright with irony. "Simple, wasn't it?"
As the boy leaped from the dais, Raymond's heart fractured. This was the price of ambition.
The Heretic's Cry
Blood dripped onto ancient cobblestones as Bennett faced the emerald-clad impostor. The crowd recoiled, but his voice split the silence like thunder:
"You're a fraud!"
Green-robed Gandalf tilted his head, amusement curling his lips. "My final disciple dares this farce?"
Bennett ignored the taunt, turning instead to Prince Chen. "Need a stray dog on your side, Your Highness?"
The prince's reply was velvet over steel: "Aid my ascension, and I'll crown you Grand Duke of the Golden Tulip—a bloom eternal beneath the Thorned Rose."
Laughter rippled through Bennett—bitter, bright. A duke without a family. A flower rooted in ash.
Severance
Raymond's declaration carved deeper than Alpha's blade:
"Bennett de Rollins is no son of mine."
Each word hammered the boy's resolve. Good. This was necessary. The Count's voice never wavered as he bartered his heir's life for the clan's survival:
First sin: Thwarting Prince Chen's assassination plot.
Second betrayal: Bridging magic's schism as both Guild member and royal pawn.
Final sacrifice: Absorbing the Guild's wrath over Gandalf's "death."
Bennett smiled into the sun. A single drop of paternal love, Father? Or just clean calculus?
Masks and Mirrors
The impostor's gaze lingered on Bennett's brow—where Chris's mark lay hidden. "That trinket won't save you, boy."
"Save me?" Bennett's laugh was wildfire. "If you're Gandalf, I'm Aragorn the God-King!"
Gasps swept the plaza. The green-cloaked mage stilled, recognition flashing—too late. Bennett's staff flared, not with spells, but defiance:
"Fight me, pretender. Let the world see your lies."
Chapter 153: The Jester's Gambit（part 1）
A Throne of Blades
Prince Chen's laughter rang across the bloodstained plaza, bright as shattered glass. "Grand Duke of the Golden Tulip!" He spread his arms, ignoring the encircling royal guards. "Shall we engrave the crest with lilies or thorns, Bennett?"
The Crown Prince's jaw tightened. Madness. His brother's nonchalance reeked of theater—but what script lay hidden beneath? The capital's defenses were secured. The Guild cowered before Emerald Gandalf. Even Raymond's traitorous son now stood disowned, clutching a laughable stick of unvarnished walnut.
Unless…
The Crown Prince's gaze darted to the distant spires of the Temple. No. The priests wouldn't dare. Yet sweat pooled beneath his collar.
The Walnut Wand
Emerald Gandalf studied Bennett's weapon—a branch stripped raw, bark still clinging like scabs. "Did your master teach you to beg for scraps?" His sneer deepened. "Even apprentices carry better kindling."
Bennett twirled the stick. "A blade's worth lies in its wielder, not its polish."
"Spoken like a pauper." The impostor flicked a finger. Viridian threads lashed out—
—And met empty air.
Bennett cartwheeled backward, robes flapping. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Since when do mages tumble like acrobats?
"Running won't save you, boy." Emerald Gandalf's voice dripped venom.
"Who's running?" Bennett straightened, grinning. "Just testing if green really suits you." He jabbed the wand toward the emerald hood. "Tell me, Master Gandalf—how does your wife fare these days?"
The insult hung, crystalline.
Green-robed shoulders stiffened. "You dare—"
"Dare?" Bennett's smile turned feral. "I'll dare this: you're no more Gandalf than I'm the God-King!"
Fireflies and Hurricanes
The chant began—slow, deliberate, each syllable stretched like taffy.
"Ignis… vortica… flammas…"
Emerald Gandalf blinked. A child's spell. The boy dragged the incantation, voice lilting as a bard's ballad. Minutes crawled. Nobles fidgeted. Even Prince Chen's smirk faltered.
When the flame finally coalesced, it barely warmed the air—a flicker fit for candles.
"Pathetic." The impostor waved it aside. Water shimmered, dousing the spark. "Is this your best?"
Bennett wiped imaginary sweat. "Warm-up."
Another chant. Slower still.
"Aeris… lamina…"
Wind blades materialized—pale, wavering. They drifted toward Emerald Gandalf like autumn leaves.
"Enough!" The sorcerer's patience snapped. "You waste my—"
Crack.
The walnut wand split. Not from magic, but force—Bennett had driven it into the ground like a stake.
"Look down."
Emerald Gandalf frowned. The "spells" weren't attacks.
They were markers.
A hexagram glowed beneath his boots, its points marked by:
The doused flame's ash.
Wind-blades etching runes in stone.
Bennett's earlier acrobatics—boot-scuffs completing the circle.
"Revelation." Bennett whispered.
The plaza screamed.
Eyes of the Fallen
Light erupted—not green, but gold. The hexagram blazed, its geometry mirroring the scar on Bennett's brow (Chapter 137's pact with Chris).
Emerald Gandalf staggered. His hood fell back, revealing eyes that shifted—one emerald, one milky white.
"The Left Eye of Argath!" A Guild elder recoiled. "Stolen from High Priest Loras's corpse!"
Prince Chen's breath hitched. Loras. The priest who'd vanished weeks prior (Chapter 146's temple riots).
Bennett advanced, the shattered wand now a dagger of splinters. "You didn't just steal Gandalf's name." He pointed at the mismatched eyes. "You stole his death.**"
Silence. Then—
"Enough theatrics!" The Crown Prince roared. "Seize them!"
Too late.
Emerald Gandalf's form rippled, green robes dissolving into smoke. Beneath lay not flesh, but writhing shadows—and a pendant bearing the Temple's inverted sun.
The plot thickened.
Chapter 153 (Part II): The Jester's Gambit
Shattered Illusions
The crowd stifled laughter as Bennett's wobbly wind blades limped toward Emerald Gandalf. The sorcerer blew them away like dandelion fluff. "Enough theatrics!" he snapped. "Must I endure this farce?"
But Bennett, ever the fool, began a water incantation—halting, fumbling. Even the nobles winced. A child's parlor trick.
Then—
Fire.
Hundreds of fireballs erupted from Bennett's sleeves, collar, even his boots—a meteor storm of instantaneous flames. No chants. No wand flourishes. Just raw, chaotic fury.
Emerald Gandalf's composure cracked. "You—!"
The explosions drowned his voice.
Smoke and Mirrors
Through the smoke, Bennett spun like a dervish, fire cascading from his fingertips. Pathetic spells, lethal in bulk. The heat seared cobblestones black.
A sapphire glow pierced the inferno. Emerald Gandalf roared, summoning a tsunami from thin air. Steam engulfed the plaza, his silhouette warping in the mist. "No true mage debases himself like this!"
"Debase?" Bennett's voice cut through the fog. "You're the fraud hiding behind theatrics."
The sorcerer's wand materialized, defenses flaring. Too late.
A bowstring twanged.
Eclipse's Whisper
The Eclipse Bow hummed in Bennett's grip, its arrowhead shimmering with void-black energy. Stolen relic. Forbidden power.
Emerald Gandalf froze. "…Jidu Luohou—Instant Prison Arrow?"
The shot pierced his shields like glass.
Time fractured.
In that suspended heartbeat, Bennett saw it—the sorcerer's wand rising in agonized slow motion, black energy clashing with the arrow's hungry glow.
Crack.
The wand disintegrated. So did the arrow.
Silence.
Mask of the Damned
Emerald Gandalf stared at his empty hand. When he looked up, his eyes had changed—one pupil dilated into a starless void, the other bleeding crimson.
"Who gave you that bow?" His voice trembled. "The Eclipse hasn't been seen since the God-King's Fall!"
Bennett grinned, blood dripping from his nose. Overuse of the relic's magic was frying his veins. "Scared of a bedtime story, old man?"
The sorcerer lunged, defenses abandoned. Raw shadow tendrils lashed out—
—And froze mid-air.
A silver thread glinted around Bennett's neck: Chris's Pendant, pulsing with glacial light (Chapter 137's pact).
"You're not Gandalf." Bennett spat blood. "You're a grave robber. A thief."
Emerald Gandalf's face twisted. Not anger. Terror.