Philippine President And Her Country Got Isekai'd!?

12 - Al Mycóta The Devil [FINAL]

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Please be advised that this chapter includes a depiction of cannibalism and violence which may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

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In a world where the practice of Macrētaiã, or Sorcery in English, is derived from divination through casting, some scholars argue that sorcery is a learned art while magic is intrinsic. Others suggest that sorcery, as practiced by modern sorcerers, is always intended to do harm, while magic can be used for both good and evil.

During the early New Warring Era, anyone was able to practice sorcery, but by the Grim Ages, only those who were believed to use spells to harm others were labeled as sorcerers. In popular culture, particularly in children's literature, sorcery is often depicted in a more positive light.

As the saying goes, 'power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.' And in a world where sorcery is a practiced art, those with immense talent for it are often tempted by the allure of evil.

Take, for instance, a young man in the Heather Kingdom, who walks through the town he heartlessly destroyed.

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The Heather Royal Kingdom.

The town of Epiriatusé in the northwest of the kingdom lies in ruins, engulfed in flames and choked by black smoke. It had been a regional center of culture, renowned for its talent in literature, music, and artistry. But now, it has been reduced to rubble.

A young man, dressed in seemingly feminine clothing, strides through the destruction with an oversized scepter in hand. He advances through the rubble, effortlessly mowing down anyone or anything that stands in his way. His powerful cane levels everything in his path as he makes his way towards the town hall.

Sorcerers and warriors, still alive, try to stop him with enchanted bolts and melee attacks. But he evades their charges with superhuman movements, as if he can see the trajectory of each one. His combat preparation measures have greatly enhanced his strength and reflexes, making it seem as if the bolts and spells are barely moving. He dodges them with ease, sending back a token of appreciation in return.

"Cocos, Frali, Arusha," the man called out to his dark flaming humanoid imps. "Are there any survivors nearby?"

The imps, burning with dark-purplish flames and with heads comprising about a third of their height, shared their vision with the man through a form of long-range telepathy. 

"The sorcerer combatants are constructing ultra-scion barrier spells in front of the town hall, Rassieur," one reported. "No sign of enemies to the rear," said another. "Surroundings clear!" reported the third.

Only those with a certain aptitude could perceive the ominous imps, making them perfect for use as reconnaissance drones. Though they weren't particularly happy about it, they soon got over their grievances after the man gave them his blood.

Rassieur, the effeminate young man with a mature sharp countenance, advanced through the remains of the soldiers who had lost all ability to resist him. He moved ever closer to the town hall, feeling a hum of excitement as he watched his scepter blast apart broken wagons and makeshift sorcery-infused barricades without chanting.

The sorcerer count was waiting before the town hall. These soldiers had been dispatched into the ferocious of battles during those overseas invasions. Their military uniforms of indigo blue and white were somewhat irritated him.

"Hah... It can't be."

Rassieur chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. 

"You speak as if you are afraid of me, Madamé. But fear is a wasted emotion. It will not help you defeat me. It will only hold you back. If you truly want to stop me, you must let go of your fear and embrace your power. Only then will you stand a chance."