Jose Porla spread both hands, gathering a dense, death-tainted purple magic that then fired wildly like a machine gun.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Makarov raised one hand, and a golden magic circle appeared once more, blocking the spell with ease. This barrage couldn't break through his defense at all.
Perhaps it was true that people grew shrewd with age—Makarov really was unbelievably versatile. He had mastered countless types of magic: close-range, long-range, offense, defense, one-on-one, group fights—he was an expert in every field.
As for his defensive magic—according to Makarov himself—even if he stood still and let Jose Porla bombard him until he ran dry of magic, Jose still wouldn't be able to break through.
"Boom!"
While defending, Makarov's other hand wasn't idle either. His arm stretched out and enlarged again, swatting around like he was smashing flies. Jose Porla had no choice but to keep teleporting to dodge—getting slapped once was absolutely not something he could endure.
"Phantom Arrow!"
Jose Porla continuously unleashed spell after spell. The entire venue was filled with the oppressive and sinister aura of his Shade Magic.
Just the leftover shockwaves alone made the juniors feel unbearably suffocated, fear rising uncontrollably in their hearts.
Bacchus and Karen had already hidden behind Goldmine and Bob. The guild masters all released their magic to help protect their juniors from Jose Porla's evil aura.
Jose Porla's Shade Magic was indeed strong. Ordinary mages weren't even qualified to stand in front of him. Some guild masters present wouldn't last more than a few moves against him. But just like Karen, Jose's mistake was challenging the wrong opponent.
Standing before him was this short old man—short, with a temper that flared unpredictably and when his temper did flare, the way he beat people was absolutely merciless.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Makarov's giant hand kept slapping around, smashing the banquet hall into complete ruin. Huge palm prints were everywhere. Standing behind the old man, Moen's eyelids twitched nonstop. Every one of those slaps was money being destroyed!
With Grandpa Makarov tanking everything, Moen naturally felt no pressure at all—he was completely relaxed. But what he was thinking about was not relaxed—actually, it was absurdly stressful.
He was thinking about how to "steal the kill."
The system only told him to "defeat Jose Porla."
It never said he had to do it alone.
If he and Grandpa Makarov defeated him together… wouldn't that still count as "defeating" him?
But there was a problem—"defeat," "defeat"… there had to at least be some actual "fighting," right?
Could he really get credit with only the "defeat" and no actual "fight"?
Like saying he and Kobe combined for 81 points—at the very least he'd have to step onto the court and touch the ball, right? If he scored from the cheerleader stands, would that still count?
Moen didn't dare gamble. If he lost that gamble, he would miss the chance to instantly obtain a Gold Saint skill!
So now Moen was racking his brain—how could he get even a little bit of participation? Anything to count as a "fight"!
His gaze fell on the rose stored in his system space.
That dazzling, dangerously radiant "Royal Demon Rose."
I'll give this damned thing a real strike!
Moen made up his mind instantly.
It's you—Royal Demon Rose!
He immediately took out the "Royal Demon Rose." His magic wrapped around it, tightly sealing its poisonous fumes.
More than enough to make you suffer!
Moen channeled his magic. Three star-charts faintly appeared behind him, stars shimmering, astral light flowing. His magic surged and gathered toward the "Royal Demon Rose."
In his hand, the Royal Demon Rose became a glowing sphere of magic, its aura overwhelmingly intense.
"What are you doing, kid?"
The commotion startled even Makarov. The old man glanced over curiously.
"Grandpa, I'm helping!"
Moen said righteously, continuing to charge magic. With Grandpa tanking in front, of course he would charge as long as possible—Jose Porla couldn't touch him anyway.
"Good! Then I'll be counting on you!"
Makarov replied happily.
"Don't worry about him—I'll handle your defense!"
The old man wasn't angry at all about Moen inserting himself into the fight. Instead, he kept encouraging him enthusiastically.
Honestly, if Moen could drop Jose Porla with a single blow, Makarov felt like he might even laugh his face crooked.
Jose Porla, a human-shaped artillery cannon, kept firing nonstop while simultaneously dodging the giant palm. He also noticed Moen gathering magic, but he didn't care. That level of attack wasn't something he took seriously.
"I told you—take the fight outside! Outside!"
Makarov and Jose Porla fighting inside the venue was driving Goldmine and Bob insane.
Looking at the banquet hall that now looked like a disaster zone, both men could only sigh.
They trusted Makarov's strength completely. Neither believed he could lose to Jose Porla—unless he randomly had explosive diarrhea today.
If the two fought outside, everyone could at least watch the show.
But fighting inside the venue was going too far—their luggage and everyone's belongings were still here!
If it were only the banquet hall being destroyed, that was fine. But if the whole building collapsed later, everyone would be screwed.
"Jose, that bastard—he just had to provoke old man Makarov. And now look! He won't be satisfied until this entire place is smashed to pieces!"
A silver-haired elderly woman with her hair in a bun grumbled nonstop. She was Ooba Babasaama, Master of Lamia Scale.
"Stop them! We must stop them!"
The more Obba Babasama thought about it, the more upset she became. She stomped her feet and shouted repeatedly. Though she looked extremely old—already over seventy years old—her strength was absolutely not something to underestimate.
Within Lamia Scale, there were quite a few powerful mages, especially Jura Neekis. This young man, not even thirty yet, was known as someone who would definitely ascend to the Ten Wizard Saints one day. His strength had indeed been widely acknowledged.
At the moment, Jura Neekis—nicknamed Iron Rock Jura—stood beside Obba Babasama. He was bald, with a bit of stubble on his chin, holding a monk's staff in hand. He looked almost like a monk, giving off a calm and benevolent impression.
Jura Neekis, whose appearance always seemed a bit stern and serious, was staring fixedly at the battle between Makarov and José Porla. His eyes were filled with curiosity and longing. A battle between members of the Ten Wizard Saints wasn't something one could witness easily!
Anyone with sharp eyes could see that although José Porla's attacks looked flashy—endless spells, nonstop barrages—he was actually already running out of options.
Makarov hadn't even exerted himself yet, but José Porla was already drenched in sweat. The foundation of a veteran legendary mage was truly extraordinary.
"What is that kid doing?"
Jura Neekis shifted his gaze to Moen, who stood behind Makarov. In the boy's hands, a cluster of magic energy had begun to destabilize.
Not only Jura Neekis noticed it—everyone else noticed it too. All of them stared at Moen in astonishment.
"Grandpa! Release!"
Moen gritted his teeth and shouted loudly. He could barely control it anymore—the magic sphere in his hand was pulsing uncontrollably!
"Release!"
Makarov also shouted. He thrust his palms forward sharply, and several golden circular magic arrays expanded outward with force.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The erupting magic power blasted away José Porla's dark magic. The series of explosive roars was chilling. José Porla froze for a moment, then burst into ecstatic laughter. He thought Makarov's defensive magic had finally reached its limit!
"Go! Royal Demon Rose!"
With a fierce shout, Moen made his move without hesitation, hurling the magic-wrapped Royal Demon Rose out from his hand.
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