Wizard: Starting from the Skill Tree

As soon as Duke uttered these words, the air in the conference hall seemed to freeze instantly.

Several high-level officials widened their eyes, with disbelief written all over their faces.

One of the guards present even instinctively released his grip on the sword hilt, wondering if he’d misheard.

Such words had never been dared spoken in any situation throughout the history of the Oracle Plane, let alone directly in front of a Great Mage of one of the Four Gods Sect.

And Alberto’s reaction was the most direct.

He was first stunned for a moment, then laughed angrily.

The laughter squeezed out from his throat, dry and hoarse, like sandpaper grinding on glass.

Alberto laughed and shook his head, the old scar on his left cheek twisting into a hideous shape in the firelight of the fireplace.

"Submit?" Alberto stopped laughing and stepped forward, his tone full of unabashed sarcasm, "Duke, I think you’ve gone mad. The Light Sect is nothing more than a bunch of lingering wrecks. If it weren’t for our Four Gods Sect being busy with internal affairs, do you think Stone Hammer City could’ve lasted until now?

Now you come alone into Furnace Castle, stand in front of me, a Great Mage of the Fire Sect, and in front of all these people, ask us to submit?"

He paused, his voice suddenly turning cold, and the hint of sarcastic smile disappeared without a trace: "And what if we don’t?"

Duke’s gaze still fell on Augustus, without even turning his head to glance at Alberto. That feeling of being completely ignored burned Alberto’s anger more than any verbal insult.

Duke just looked at the elderly man with white hair and spoke calmly.

"If you refuse, that’s a pity," he said, "then I can only destroy the Fire Sect first and then speak with the other three sects."

Augustus’s fingers resting on the table slightly tightened, the knuckles protruding under the loose skin like roots of an old tree silently clenching in the rock’s crevices.

The calm on his face finally shattered, bursting a deeper, instinctual alertness within.

In the young man’s eyes, Augustus saw no bluff, only determination.

A determination that had already been confirmed before uttering, needing no volume to prove anything.

Someone who could silently pass through all Furnace Castle’s defenses, sitting alone in the heart of the enemy, but appearing at ease — his statement to destroy the Fire Sect implied he had the confidence to do so.

And this confidence must be thoroughly severed today, at this moment, in this conference hall.

"He must be killed."

Augustus’s pupils contracted sharply beneath his relaxed eyelids.

He didn’t hesitate; having lived for so many years, he long passed the age of saying a few harsh words before taking action.

When truly killing, it’s often most silent.

The temperature in the conference hall soared in fractions of a second.

The flames burning quietly in the fireplace seemed suddenly gripped by an invisible hand, then torn apart in all directions. Tongues of fire gushed wildly from the fireplace, spreading along the volcanic glaze walls into a surging fire wall.

The obsidian table no longer reflected the dim red light of the chandelier but became a reflection of the blazing firelight coming from all directions, almost igniting the air itself.

The guards standing behind Augustus retreated repeatedly, forced by this sudden rule outburst, their backs hitting the scorching glass walls. They stared wide-eyed with horror, never having seen a Great Mage release such unabated killing intent in action.

Augustus’s right hand form a virtual grip, the air between his fingers emitted sharp cracking sounds.

This was the energy scream produced when the flame rules were compressed to the extreme. Each crack represented a wisp of fire elemental particles being annihilated under the forceful compression of the rules, then reignited by more violent power.

A spear formed in his palm, not a physical weapon, but a pure manifestation of flame rules.

The spear’s shaft was entirely crimson, with rings upon rings of intricate flame patterns swirling on its surface, each pattern a complete mapping of a branch vein of the flame rules.

The spearhead wasn’t metal but a solidified dark red light, with a core of a continuously collapsing and erupting miniature flame vortex. Each eruption blasted out a circle of visible scorching airwaves around the spearhead.

This spear wasn’t forged from any material; every component—its spearhead, shaft, and tail—was directly condensed by flame rules. In the Oracle Plane’s magic system, this was a rule manifestation attack that only Level 3 Great Mages could wield, targeting the essence of rules.

Augustus thrust the spear forward.

The space between the spearhead and Duke’s brow was instantly cleared by the flame rules as the spear thrust out, with all moisture in the air being instantly evaporated as the spear passed by, forming a straight, nearly meter-wide vacuum corridor.

The spear followed this vacuum corridor at a speed far exceeding sound, aimed straight at Duke’s brow, trailing a glaring dark red afterimage in its flight path. The afterimage’s edges distorted intensely due to the high temperature, refracting the conference hall’s scenery into a blur of illusion.

This strike had no fancy technique, no feints or probes, but was merely the most pure killing instinct honed through countless battles by a man who had lived over four hundred years—fast, precise, ruthless, leaving no room.

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