In the desolate fields on the outskirts, the old butler Finkel was fleeing swiftly.
He had lost his hat, his meticulously combed graying hair hung in disarray, and his clothes were covered in mud.
Haah, haah... He paused slightly to catch his breath, looking behind him, and felt a bit relieved to find no one there.
But when he turned his head to change direction, he realized that a figure had somehow appeared before him.
The figure wore a classical hooded robe, their black eyes hidden in the shadows, their face dull and expressionless.
Finkel's pupils constricted. He immediately opened his mouth, trying to utter a word of Ancient Hermes, but was horrified to find his nose vanishing and his voice gone.
A hint of despair crept into his expression, and then his entire being, like a stain in the void, was wiped clean by a rag, leaving no trace behind.
....
Ahchoo! Ahchoo! Cough! Cough!
Facing Mr. A's impending fatal attack, Klein, afflicted with illness, headaches, and fever, could hardly control the flames or perform his jumps.
At this moment, he couldn't even conjure an air bullet.
Fear of the unknown outcome seized his heart. The dangerous foreboding from his "Clown" powers allowed him to "see" himself split apart instantly, disintegrating into the tiniest specks of light, perhaps losing even the chance for resurrection.
In a flash, Klein reached into his pocket and grasped an item.
This was his pre-planned contingency for the most dangerous situation!
No matter how rushed, a "Magician" always had some preparations and wouldn't be left flustered in battle.
Klein took out Azik's copper whistle, brought it to his lips, and with difficulty, amidst sneezes and coughs, blew it!
Without any preceding movement, he saw through Spirit Vision a geyser of bones erupt, quickly forming into a massive messenger with black flames burning in its eye sockets.
And at that moment, the tome in front of Mr. A stopped flipping, and the distant, echoing voice abruptly ceased.
A surge of greenish light burst forth, and the nearly four-meter-tall skeletal messenger instantly split apart, shattering into countless pure motes of light.
Behind it, the force that had kept Klein spinning in place collapsed first. Then the figure in the black double-breasted long coat was enveloped, turning into a statue seemingly cast from yellow sand, blown away by the wind.
But what scattered were white spots, like confetti torn to the extreme.
Klein's figure materialized on the other side. He knelt on one knee, unable to control his loud coughing.
If not for the skeletal messenger taking the blow first, he wouldn't have had time to briefly suppress his illness and use the Paper Figurine Substitute!
After all this trouble, his illness had worsened, and he was almost completely incapacitated.
Just then, Mr. A, whose fatal strike had failed, suddenly began to cough as well, coughing even more violently than Klein.
He prostrated himself in pain, frothy blood spilling from the corners of his mouth.
Cough, cough, cough!
He coughed up a mess of shattered internal organs and writhing flesh. Then, with difficulty, he opened his mouth, trying to lick them up and force them back in.
What's happening? Klein was momentarily stunned.
But this didn't stop him from suppressing his cough, raising his right hand, and aiming his revolver at Mr. A's head.
At this instant, he vaguely understood that Mr. A's physical injuries could be treated and sustained by blood magic, but the shock and backlash to his spirit and spirituality could not be compensated for in this way.
Mr. A should have switched to another extraordinary ability to slowly heal his spiritual wounds, but driven by hatred, he forcefully suppressed it and gave chase. Consequently, after continuously consuming and overexerting his abilities beyond their limits, his condition deteriorated and suddenly erupted.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Klein fired all the bullets from his revolver. Copper, pale gold, silvery white, and other streaking lights quickly crossed the short distance between them.
To his regret, he couldn't stop sneezing and coughing during the process, so not all the bullets hit their mark. Only two struck Mr. A—one burying itself in his forehead, the other piercing his torso.
Sizzle!
A burning sound emanated, but Mr. A's head seemed boneless, just a conglomeration of rotting flesh. The pale gold bullet sank deep into it, quickly coming to a halt without inflicting fatal damage, merely blooming with a radiant golden light like sunlight.
Mr. A lifted his neck. The flesh within his punctured head writhed wildly.
He wasn't dead. He wasn't even severely injured.
He was once the tenacious "Rose Bishop"!
Seeing this, Klein acted decisively. He turned and ran, no longer attempting to attack. Mr. A, panting heavily, lowered his head again to lick up the flesh and organs he had coughed out.
Alternating between sneezes and coughs, Klein ran stumbling, tumbling from side to side.
Finally, he reached the very edge—a cliff face over fifty meters high.
Below the cliff, the slightly murky Tussock River surged endlessly, wide yet calm.
Klein didn't hesitate. He pushed off the ground and leaped.
He fell rapidly, feeling the intense weightlessness of free fall.
His body tore through the air as he tried to adjust his posture mid-flight, aiming for a standard diving position.
Cough! Ahchoo!
His illness interrupted his tuck and triple-and-a-half somersault midway, and his body opening and hand adjustments were also incomplete.