Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 96: Clearing operation

Far away from Silver Blade City.

"Down!"

The command tore through the air like a blade, sharp and heavy, as boots thundered and steel clanked in unison.

Dozens of horses stampeded across the cracked dirt path, hooves smashing the ground with force that echoed like rolling drums of war.

Their riders—knights in gleaming black armor trimmed in silver—pulled taut on reins, halting with violent grace.

The carriages behind them rocked, the ornate wheels skidding into formation, their crests marked by the sigil of Black Vale Territory.

Then silence.

For a moment, only the breathing of horses and the creak of leather straps could be heard. Around them, in a wide arc of looming shadows, they came. Spawns. Demon-spawns.

Their heads resembled sickly, pulsing octopuses—slick with a sheen of mucous, veins pulsing beneath translucent skin. Eyes blinked erratically across their surfaces.

Their bodies, however, were grotesquely humanoid, but no two the same.

Some stood elongated like reed stalks with arms dragging along the dirt. Some were squat and barrel-thick, shuffling with wheezing gurgles. Others appeared wiry and hunched, spindly limbs twitching with sick anticipation.

More appeared.

And more still.

From the blackened woods and dead hills, they slithered and emerged, wriggling through fog and brush like a tide of malformed hunger. Dozens turned to hundreds. Hundreds to more.

"Patience, men!" shouted Chief Varros, his voice commanding and thunder-laced. His silver-plated armor reflected the dull light of the overcast sky, his helm cast aside to show his square jaw and scarred cheek. "Hold your lines!"

The knights didn’t flinch. Shields locked. Spears pointed forward. Archers nocked arrows.

The groaning of the spawns filled the air like the slow hiss of a boiling swamp. Guttural croaks. Wet screeches.

Some of them began to gurgle, a sound like sucking wounds and drowning lungs. The vibration of their collective moan shook the spines of even the sturdiest squire.

"Patience, men!" Varros yelled again, louder, moving between the lines like a father over his sons.

The spawns spilled forward.

Still, Varros barked, "Patience! Patience, I said!"

Now they were crawling over each other.

A few rushed forward. The knights didn’t budge.

"Patience!" Varros shouted again, louder, his gauntlet raised.

A towering demon-spawn with a neck like a swan’s but jaws like a bear’s threw itself ahead—and stopped short, sniffing, tasting the air.

The spawn paused. Then wailed.

And in that scream, like the sound of a baby crying underwater, dozens of others joined.

"Patience!" Varros barked, voice cracking into something manic, yet anchored. "Let them come! Let them all come!"

The horizon shifted. More spawns crawled from holes, tumbled down from rocky ledges, peeled themselves off tree trunks like cursed bark. Now they numbered in the thousands. Twitching. Wailing. Slurping. Gnashing.

Surrounding them.

And then—

"Fire!" Varros roared.

A storm of arrows erupted from the archer lines. The sound was like a thousand strings snapping at once.

The air blackened with fletching.

The first volley hit true. Dozens of spawns collapsed as arrows embedded deep into their twitching bodies. Some wailed and flailed. Others died mid-scream.

Another volley.

Then a third.

A sea of twitching, spasming creatures carpeted the field.

But not all had fallen.

Some surged ahead—wounded, enraged.

And the moment they crossed the threshold—

"Advance! Knights! Break them!" Varros commanded.

The ground thundered.

Heavy cavalry swept out like a great scythe. The mounted knights, protected by enchanted blacksteel, didn’t hesitate. Their spears struck like divine bolts, aimed with inhuman precision—only the heads, only the pulsing, octopus-shaped heads.

Each strike exploded slime and gore.

Heads ruptured. Tentacles flew. Some of the creatures spasmed with arms outstretched, trying to claw their way onto the riders, but none succeeded.

The knights moved like clockwork—synchronized and merciless.

No hesitation. No fear. No casualties.

They pivoted, stabbed, and trampled. Shields crushed ribcages. Hooves pulped twitching limbs.

One knight fell from his horse—instantly, two others closed in around him, guarding as he mounted again.

They moved like a single organism, a tide of death in formation.

Not a single scratch.

Not a single mistake.

Inside the carriages that remained parked behind the battle line, Selin, Ruvin, Erik, Calien, and their nine classmates watched from slitted windows.

Selin blinked. "...Are those Black Vale knights?"

"They’re not normal," Erik whispered, forehead pressed to the window. "The way they move... they don’t even call out to each other. They just know."

Ruvin nodded. "I counted. Four volleys. Then charge. Not a wasted movement. They knew exactly when to act."

One of the family attendants beside them, an older man with a proud green sash, chuckled grimly. "Of course. These are knights from a Baron-ranked territory. True nobles. You children are used to seeing fourth-grade or third-grade militia from your border towns."

Another attendant, this one seated beside Calien, added, "Second or even first grade still pales in comparison. Their training begins from the cradle. Their weapons are artifacts. Their armor’s been enchanted by Magi paid with kingdoms’ worth of gold."

"Look at them," Selin whispered. "They’re cutting down the spawns like they already fought this exact battle before."

"That’s because they probably have," the older attendant said. "And even if they haven’t... they were trained as if they did."

Calien leaned closer to the window, eyes narrowed in awe. "They move... like Teacher Nolan."

The carriage went quiet.

Then the slap.

Smack!

Calien winced as his attendant hit the back of his head with a fan.

"You dare compare this random Nolan to Black Vale Knights?! That man’s just lucky to teach you all and have fun! But the truth is, e came begging for residence in Silver Blade City! You think someone like him is worthy to be mentioned in the same breath?!"

Calien flinched. "But he—"

"Silence! I heard he couldn’t even afford his own daily needs without asking for bribes. Always short on crystals. That’s no instructor—that’s a parasite! A wandering hustler who thinks himself clever!"

"He lives off tricks, rumors, and luck!" another attendant chimed in. "Teaching style? Bah! It’s all bluffs and dirty jokes!"

"He even charges for basic training! He may have taught you all some tricks and have indeed been a little better than the rest but that doesn’t mean he can be compared to anyone in a fifth stage territory like the Black Vale Territory poeple..."

"You think a man like that could stand in a noble court? Hah! He’s a leech clinging to the legs of—"

"Heh."

The voice came from outside.

One of the soldiers standing just beside their carriage, blood splattered across his armor, resting on his spear. His lips curled slightly into a knowing smile.

"You mean that teacher... the one who discovered how to kill the demon-spawns?"

The entire carriage hushed.

The attendants turned to glare at the soldier.

But the man continued, adjusting his grip. "Don’t underestimate him. Our Captain Varros personally went to speak with him. Privately."

The attendants blinked.

"You think that would happen if he was just some city drifter?" the soldier added. "Nah. Not in Black Vale. Captain wouldn’t waste breath on a conman. That means... either he has power, or he has backing. And trust me... our captain doesn’t kneel to street performers."

There was silence.

Tense, thick silence.

Even the young nobles looked at each other, uncertain now.

The battle outside had quieted.

The last of the demon-spawns had fallen, either pierced through their grotesque heads or crushed under the methodical advance of iron discipline.

The ground was painted in black slime and shuddering corpses.

Not a single knight had died.

The soldiers began regrouping. Some wiped their weapons clean. Others patrolled the outer perimeter. No cheers. No celebration. Only the quiet satisfaction of another mission completed.

And in that stillness—

"March on!"

Chief Varros’ voice rang again across the field.

And just like that, the column moved forward.