Chapter : 819
Lloyd bolted the door. He drew the curtains. He walked to the center of the room and closed his eyes. The physical world of the clinic dissolved, and he was once again in the familiar, infinite, star-filled void of his private sanctuary. The Soul Farm.
He did not appear in the stone house, his usual starting point. He manifested directly on the vast, open plains of the Savage Brushland, the spectral grasses swaying around him in a wind that did not exist. The air here was clean, sharp, and hummed with a latent, wild power. This was his true laboratory, his perfect war room.
He did not need to grind for coins. He did not need to practice his moves. The rehearsals were over. The time for physical preparation was past. Now, it was time for the final, critical phase: the strategic briefing.
‘Administrator,’ his mental voice was a crisp, clear command. ‘Initiate tactical simulation. Enemy profile: Ifrit, the bound Demon of Jahl. Use all available data from User Sumaiya’s research and cross-reference with the System’s own archives on Transcendent-level fire elementals. Project a full, three-dimensional, real-time holographic model. I want to see my enemy.’
The world in front of him shimmered. The spectral grasses of the Brushland dissolved, replaced by the hard-packed, blood-soaked sand of the Zakarian Royal Arena. The air grew hot, filled with the scent of sulfur and ancient rage. And in the center of the simulated arena, a creature of pure, magnificent, and terrible fire began to take shape.
He summoned his own two spirits. Fang Fairy, the goddess of the storm, appeared at his right, her silver form crackling with a cool, azure light. Iffrit, his own demon of fire, materialized at his left, a nine-foot-tall titan of magma and shadow. They were not here as weapons. They were his lieutenants, his senior staff, and they were here for the final mission briefing.
Lloyd looked at the holographic, roaring demon before him, a perfect, data-driven ghost of his impending foe. His mind was a cold, clear engine of tactical calculation. The city outside could have its festivals, its heroes, its prayers. Here, in the quiet, timeless void of his own private world, the true work was being done. The hunt was about to begin. And the hunter was making his final, perfect plan.
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The holographic representation of Ifrit, the Demon of Jahl, was a terrifying masterpiece of data-driven artifice. It was a twenty-foot-tall bipedal creature, its form a chaotic, ever-shifting vortex of molten rock and roaring, incandescent flame. It had no discernible face, only a great, gaping maw of pure, white-hot fire that seemed to inhale the very light around it. Chains of a dark, obsidian-like material were wrapped around its massive limbs, glowing with the faint, purple light of a powerful, ancient binding spell. The chains did not seem to weaken it; they seemed to anger it, to focus its rage into a constant, simmering aura of pure, unadulterated hatred.
The simulation was so perfect, so detailed, that Lloyd could feel the waves of phantom heat washing over him. He could hear the low, rumbling growl that was the sound of a living volcano preparing to erupt.
“A magnificent specimen,” he murmured, his voice a low, appreciative hum. He was a general admiring the elegant, brutal design of an enemy’s war machine.
He turned to his own two spirits, who were observing the hologram with a silent, professional intensity. “Analysis,” he commanded.
Fang Fairy, his goddess of the storm, was the first to respond, her voice a calm, melodic chime in his mind. <The entity’s power output is immense, but unstable, Master. The bindings act as a governor, but also as a source of constant agitation. Its rage is its primary fuel source. Its attacks will be overwhelmingly powerful, but likely lacking in precision. It is a cannon, not a rapier.>
Iffrit, his own demon of fire, then spoke, his voice a low, rumbling earthquake in Lloyd’s soul. <It is an abomination. A true fire elemental, a child of the primordial flame, enslaved and twisted into a circus animal. Its fire is pure, yes. But it is a fire of mindless rage. It has no art, no control, no soul. It is an insult to our kind.>
Lloyd listened, absorbing their unique, elemental perspectives. Fang Fairy saw a tactical problem to be solved. Iffrit saw a personal, almost religious, affront. Both analyses were correct.
Chapter : 820
“The theatrical script remains the same,” Lloyd stated, beginning the briefing. “Act One: The Stand. Iffrit, you will engage. Power suppressed to seventy percent of Ascended-level output. You will meet its initial fire-wave with a controlled, defensive wall of your own flame. The objective is to establish a perceived parity of power. You are to appear as its equal, a surprising but ultimately comprehensible challenger.”
Iffrit gave a low, rumbling growl of assent. The idea of holding back against such a foe was an insult to his very nature, but the master’s command was absolute.
“Act Two: The Reversal,” Lloyd continued, his mental voice cold and precise. “The Demon, enraged by your defiance, will escalate. It will use its speed, its molten claws. It will force you onto the defensive. You will allow this. You will take damage. Your armor will crack. You will be thrown back. The narrative must be that you are being overwhelmed. At this point, I will engage, using only my physical skills and minor Void-power enhancements. I will play the part of the desperate master, trying to support his failing spirit. The objective is to build maximum dramatic tension. The audience must believe we are on the verge of a heroic, tragic defeat.”
He then turned his mental gaze to his other spirit. “Fang Fairy. Your role is critical, and it is entirely covert. You will remain merged with my core. You will provide no visible manifestations of your power. Your task is to act as a combat co-processor. I need your senses, your reflexes. You will be my early-warning system, my predictive targeting algorithm. When the Demon attacks, I need you to show me the trajectory, the timing, the precise point of impact, a split-second before it happens. You will be the ghost in my machine.”
<I will be your whisper in the storm, Master,> she replied, her mental voice a cool, reassuring promise.
“And finally, Act Three: The Miracle,” Lloyd concluded. “At the moment of our apparent defeat, as the Demon moves in for the final kill, we will execute the ‘Chimera’s Fang’ maneuver. Iffrit, you will unleash a single, focused, and seemingly desperate blast of fire, aimed not at the Demon’s core, but at the ground before it. The objective is not to harm, but to create a visual and sensory obstruction—a wall of smoke, and ash, and blinding light. This will be our window.”
He paused, letting the final, critical order sink in.
“In that window of chaos, I will channel the true, Transcendent power of Iffrit, and the conceptual speed of Fang Fairy, into a single, decisive strike. I will forge one Spear of Justice. Not the grand, apocalyptic lance, but a small, silent, and impossibly fast needle of pure, solidified lightning and fire. The target will be the central binding rune, located on the obsidian chain directly over the Demon’s primary heart. Sumaiya’s research indicates that this is the master-key to the entire binding matrix. A successful strike should cause a cascading, explosive failure of the entire spell.”
The plan was beautiful in its brutal, theatrical elegance. He would not kill the Demon. He would free it. The resulting explosion of the failing binding spell would be a cataclysmic, non-attributable event that would give him the perfect cover. In the chaos of a freed, rampaging Fire God, no one would notice the small, seemingly lucky blow that had started it all. He would be seen not as a slayer, but as a David who had, through a one-in-a-billion fluke, shattered the chains of Goliath.
“The liberated Demon will be a magnificent, if temporary, distraction,” Lloyd finished, a cold, wolfish smile in his mind. “In the ensuing panic, as the Royal Mages scramble to contain a loose Transcendent entity, our own victory will be absolute, and our true power will remain a perfect, beautiful secret. Are there any questions?”
His two spirits, two gods of elemental destruction, simply resonated their perfect, unwavering assent. The plan was understood. The roles were assigned. The eve of the hunt was over.
Lloyd dismissed the simulation. The fiery, roaring demon and the blood-soaked arena dissolved, replaced once again by the calm, spectral grasses of the Brushland. He stood in the quiet of his own private world, the commander who had just planned the perfect, bloodless coup. He felt a profound, almost serene sense of calm. The chaos of the festival, the desperation of Sumaiya, the arrogance of the Sultan—it was all just noise. The true reality was here, in the cold, clear, and absolute logic of his own perfect plan.
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