Witch Training Manual: My Water Magic Is Wrong

Wayne looked up from the panel. He lifted the curtain and called out to Thomason, who was driving the carriage:

"parking."

The carriage slowly came to a stop.

Thomason looked back.

"What's wrong, Your Excellency?"

Wayne stood up from the carriage, securely fastening his magical storage bag to his waist, and then disembarked.

"I need to take care of something. You guys keep going, I'll catch up when I'm done."

Emma paused for a moment, then immediately propped herself up and climbed halfway out of the car window: "Master, I want to go too!"

"no."

"But……"

"Your going will only cause me trouble," Wayne said bluntly. "I'm just going to pick someone up and I'll be right back. If you come with me, I'll have to take care of you too."

Emma opened her mouth, but ultimately swallowed the rest of her words and retreated back into the carriage. Although she was somewhat unwilling, she knew that since Wayne had said that, it must be because there was no point in her going.

Ella leaned out of the car window and looked at Wayne:

"Master, please be careful."

Wayne nodded without saying anything more. He turned and waved to Thomason: "Keep going with the team. Don't wait for me. I'll arrive in Bellino later."

Thomason immediately assured him.

"Yes, sir! I will make sure everyone is delivered safely."

Wayne didn't say much. He turned around and quickly disappeared into the woods by the roadside.

Wayne moved quickly through the trees.

The trees in the forest kept rushing past.

The physical prowess of a fourth-tier body cultivator was fully displayed at this moment; even in the dense forest, his speed was not greatly affected. He sped along while rapidly calculating in his mind.

Fifth-tier Grand Mage.

He had read many records about this rank in the Holy See's books. Once a Grand Mage reaches the fifth rank, their magical reserves and casting speed undergo a qualitative change, and their every move can alter the terrain and environment in a small area. In several large-scale conflicts recorded in the Holy See's history, fifth-rank Grand Mages were often the key force influencing the course of the battlefield.

Physical warriors do indeed have an advantage over mages in close combat. As long as they can close the distance and prevent mages from casting spells at their leisure, the balance of power will tip in the warrior's favor.

But that's under the condition that the ranks are equal.

Fourth-tier versus fifth-tier, there's a significant tier difference between them. Moreover, the opponent is a grand mage, not just an academic who only knows how to chant spells. A fifth-tier grand mage's abilities go far beyond simply "incanting spells."

They can maintain an automatically triggered elemental shield around their bodies, and can teleport short distances the moment someone gets close. Some mages who specialize in combat also practice physical skills and hide a short sword under their robes.

Taking on challenges beyond one's level is never a joke.

Wayne mentally set a course for himself:

Do your best.

If we can save them, we will.

He wouldn't risk his life if things were hopeless.

The distance is gradually decreasing.

Thirty li.

Twenty li.

Ten miles.

Suddenly, a dense surge of magical energy emanated from ahead, accompanied by a faint, acrid smell, as if someone had set fire to a large patch of dry wood in the forest. Wayne's nose twitched slightly; he smelled blood.

He quickened his pace.

Meanwhile, not far away...

In front of an open space, the traces of magical bombing were obvious. A large area of ​​the grass on the ground had been overturned, and several trees as thick as a bowl had been snapped in half, with the broken ends charred black.

In the center of the open space, Marco knelt on the ground, supporting himself with his only remaining right arm, his body covered with wounds of varying depths.

About twenty paces in front of him, a middle-aged man floated in the air. He wore a dark blue mage's robe, the hem of which swayed gently in the wind.

The middle-aged man had a mocking expression on his face.

"Run! Why did you stop running?"

He drifted forward for a distance and finally stopped about ten steps in front of Marco.

"Didn't I tell you? If you had come out on your own, I could have given you a quick death. But... you just wouldn't listen."

He raised his right hand, and a slender wind blade condensed in his palm, spinning rapidly in his hand.

"How does it feel to have eighty-eight wind blade strikes?"

Marco spat a mouthful of bloody saliva at the middle-aged man's feet and said defiantly.

"Bah, lackeys of the nobility."

Upon hearing the word "lackey," the man's gaze instantly turned cold, and two more sharp wind blades struck Marco.

"Damn lowly commoners. Your daughter is dead, so what? With that kind of background and that kind of fate, what difference does her death make? How can her life compare to that of the Earl's son?"

The wind blade in his hand became even more solid.

"Since you're so ungrateful, don't blame me for being ruthless."

The wind blade flew out of his hand, its azure light heading straight for Marco's neck.

Marco didn't dodge; he had no strength left. The invisibility potion's effects had long since worn off, and the aftereffects of the Blood Explosion Potion left him completely immobile.

He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

At the critical moment.

A dark shadow flew past Marco's head at high speed.

Om-!

The wind blade was completely shattered.

Marco opened his eyes unexpectedly.

He's not dead?

Then, to his surprise, he realized that the cross flying in front of him was very familiar to him; it was Wayne's personal cross!

Lord Wayne came to his rescue!

The heavy cross shattered the sharp wind blade, but its power remained undiminished, still flying straight towards the middle-aged man.

The middle-aged man reacted extremely quickly.

With a wave of his right hand, a transparent barrier instantly unfolded in front of him, blocking the path of the cross.

boom!

The cross struck the barrier.

A crack appeared in the barrier.

The middle-aged man slid back seven or eight steps, leaving two shallow furrows in the soil beneath his feet. He steadied himself, his gaze falling on the cross, his brow furrowing slightly.

Holy Light?

People from the Vatican?

Then he heard footsteps coming from the woods. They were unhurried, as if they were just passing by.

A young priest emerged from the shadows of the trees.

He was dressed in a neat black priestly robe, and beneath the robe, the young priest's fighting spirit swirled constantly. It seemed that an inexplicable great power was hidden within him.

The middle-aged man became cautious.

He watched the young priest emerge from the shadows of the trees, his gaze lingering for a moment on the cross stuck in the ground before settling on the priest's black priestly robes.

The black robe was not the standard attire of the Wiggins Church. He recognized its origin—the battle robe of the St. Hilde Church.

"Who are you?"

The middle-aged man's tone became more serious, and his gaze swept over Wayne twice.

"I advise you not to meddle in other people's business."