Chapter 51: The Great Sun Fireball

Over an hour ago.

Tulip Duke's father, the high-level mage Morton Tulip, was trudging with his grandchildren across the slow ice plains.

In the continent of Noa, nobles often chose beautiful and noble, or powerfully meaningful items as surnames. The southern duchies favored plants, and names like Tulip, Thorn, and Purple Bell were common.

During the months-long war with the Mosha Duchy, the Walker Duchy was utterly defeated.

Apart from the enemy's stronger military and especially formidable cavalry, the defeat was compounded when Walker's high-level mages were completely annihilated by Mosha's high-level mages during a key battle, due to the intervention of a red dragon.

Morton had not participated in that battle.

A mage of exceptional talent, Morton cast his first third-circle spell, Fireball, at the age of fourteen. By twenty, he had advanced to mid-level, gaining fame with his proficient Explosive Fireball.

His fondness for fireball spells, adhering to the principle of solving problems with fireballs whenever in doubt, had made both enemies and allies dread him, earning him several nicknames.

Fireball Barbarian, Explosion Maniac, and Fierce Red Flame—these monikers for a scholarly caster illustrated how much Morton liked to resolve issues with fireballs.

He entered the high-level domain at the age of fifty.

However, an early injury halted his progress at the seventh circle, leading him to cease his travels and explorations across the continent, returning home to become a respected mage.

Morton had little interest in power; he was devoted to developing stronger, faster, and more fierce variants of the fireball spell, which he considered an art form.

Although his body prevented him from casting spells beyond the seventh circle, he remained engrossed in theoretical research, tirelessly pursuing his passion.

As no one wanted to provoke a well-known high-level mage who specialized in fireball spells, his son, Rio Tulip, succeeded in the power struggles to become the king of Walker Duchy.

People respectfully called Rio Tulip the Tulip Duke or the King of Walker.

The Tulip Duke died in a battle that changed the course of the stalemate.

As Morton aged, his temper mellowed; he was no longer the hot-headed mage who would launch a fireball at the slightest provocation. Instead, his body weakened, and he delved deeper into his studies, gradually fading from public view.

When Mosha's forces approached, Morton had just reopened his long-sealed mage tower and emerged, only to learn of his son's death and the changing political landscape.

The furious Morton wanted to turn all of Mosha's soldiers to ashes, but the Duke of Thorn, having heard of Morton's reputation, sent two high-level mages with him, determined to breach the city and eradicate the Tulip family completely.

In the past, Morton would have unleashed his fury without regard, even at the cost of his own life, to make his enemies pay.

But now he couldn't, as his son had left behind two young children.

Their lives stretched out long before them, unlike Morton, who was in his twilight years.

Seeing the fearful and panicked faces of the two children, Morton calmed himself, planning to flee the southern kingdom with them deep into the northern ice fields, pursued by the two high-level mages.

A high-level mage specializing in fireball spells from the shaping school was like a walking nuclear bomb; no one was comfortable with such an enemy lurking in the shadows, hence their relentless pursuit.

In the depths of the northern ice fields, Morton had a good friend from his youth—a kind-hearted, pure soul who loved to help weaker creatures and fight against injustice.

He crossed plains, forests, and mountains, finally reaching the ice fields.

But pursued relentlessly by two mages whose magical power matched his own at his peak, Morton's old wounds flared.

His speed slowed, and with two children to care for, he knew they would eventually be caught, and by then, drained of magical energy, he would be powerless to resist.

Instead, Morton chose to stop and recuperate, waiting for his enemies to approach.

The two children, six-year-old Lilith Tulip and Amos Tulip, looked at Morton worriedly.

"Grandfather, how are you feeling?" asked the frail, blonde, pale-skinned little girl with eyes as clear as the blue sky.

So like her. Morton watched Lilith, a warm current flowing through his heart as memories flickered in his eyes.

"We can carry you; don't give up," said the young boy Amos, his voice tender yet bearing a composure beyond his years. Like Lilith, he had blond hair, but his eyes were brown, and his skin was the color of wheat, not the milky complexion of his sister.

Hearing his grandson's words, Morton chuckled and patted their heads, saying,

 "Silly children, your grandfather is quite formidable."

"The ones running next will be them."

But I probably can't accompany you any further. The old mage sighed inwardly.

His only consolation was that the children had inherited his talent; at just six years old, they could already cast some simple first-circle spells, particularly from the shaping school, with considerable power.

Equipped with excellent magical artifacts, as long as they didn't encounter top ice field predators like white dragons or winter wolves, they were likely to find his friend on their own.

Lilith clenched her little fist, cheerfully saying, "Grandpa is the best. Drive away those bad people, and then we can go home."

Amos wasn't as naïve as his sister; from Morton's slightly somber and forced expression, he knew that things weren't as easy as his grandfather had said.

Otherwise, why had he decided to confront them head-on only now?

The young boy clenched his teeth, silent, a tumultuous flame named vengeance burning within him.

Time silently passed, and soon, two figures appeared on the horizon, both middle-aged men in their forties, their eyes gleaming with wisdom, surrounded by dazzling elemental luminescence.

"Morton, hand over the Magma Key, and we'll spare your life. Just promise never to set foot in the southern lands again and sign a contract under the light of the God of Light, swearing never to seek revenge against Mosha."

The high-level mage from the manipulation school, his eyes flickering eerily, directed an intangible psychic force towards the old mage.

Morton stood still, his magical aura rising around him, blocking the opponent's cheap manipulation spells.

Time is truly merciless. Morton thought wryly.

Those two unfamiliar high-level mages before him, confident of victory, showed no hint of fear.

Back in his day, which peer didn't show deep apprehension in his presence?

Without a word, he pulled the children close and slipped a ring from his finger, handing it to Amos, whispering a few words with a spell.

The next second, the old mage's expression changed, becoming solemn, heavy, and grave, with a hint of frenzy, as he uttered a complex incantation. If any old friends or foes saw this expression, they would turn and run immediately—not stay in place.

But the two high-level mages merely cautiously layered many countering spells and shields of varying effects.

A pea-sized bright fireball emerged at the tip of Morton's staff, aimed at the two men in the sky.

A third-circle Fireball?

The high-level mages exchanged glances, puzzled by Morton's casting gestures, which were similar to those of a fireball spell.

But they knew that what Morton was casting could not be a mere third-circle spell, so they wrapped themselves in many defensive spells.

Then, with an excited and frenetic look in his eyes, Morton's face suddenly became haggard and pale as paper.

He burned his life and spirit, and his magical power poured out like floodgates opening, continuously feeding the tiny fireball with an overload of energy.

Ninth-circle spell—Great Sun Fireball.

More precisely, Morton's Great Sun Fireball.

Although he had only reached the seventh circle, his mind had constructed more than one eighth or ninth-circle spell model, all high-level variants of the fireball spell.

The cost was his life.

"Please give my good-for-nothing son my regards."

The old mage managed a strained smile, his already aged face seeming to age a decade in an instant, a demeanor of a lamp running out of oil.

At the same time, under the horrified gaze of the two unknown high-level mages, the small fireball at the tip of his staff suddenly took flight, appearing instantly beside them and abruptly expanding into a dazzling small sun that completely engulfed the two men.

Layer upon layer of shields shattered, one spell after another failed as the massive fireball rolled endlessly, lighting up the sky like its namesake, as brilliant as the midday sun.

Below, Morton looked up, his gaze becoming calm, quietly admiring the artistic brilliance of the spell while he drained the last bit of his magical power to form a shield around the children, protecting them from the residual heat waves of the Great Sun Fireball.

Both children were absorbed in the dazzling brilliance of the spell, their faces excited, not noticing Morton's abnormality.

He leaned on his staff, barely standing, his eyes gradually becoming lifeless, his vision reflecting the fiery sky as his pupils slowly dilated.