MagiCraft Master 3: A Mass Isekai LitRPG by Wilbur Woods

Author:Wilbur Woods [Woods, Wilbur]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Podium Publishing
Published: 2025-09-16T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

Father and Son

Logan’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. The world around him seemed oddly muted—the raging battle, the cries of the wounded. All of it faded behind the singular vicious presence before him: the Herald, still half-human in shape, yet more monster than man, and undeniably in control of this battle.

“Let’s see what you can do, boy,” the Herald taunted, voice a hollow echo layered with malice.

Logan gripped his staff in a white-knuckle hold. The darkmetal module around his wrist pulsed, as if sensing the hostility. Behind the Herald, black-blue mottled flesh rippled. Something moved beneath it, just beneath the surface. Logan tensed. He felt a malevolent energy gathering. It was an odd sensation he had not experienced before, but the message was clear—a sign of Levemoth’s twisted powers manifesting.

A flicker. The Herald lunged. Logan raised his staff and angled it to block. The blow connected with bone-rattling force, smashing him back a few steps. Sparks skittered off the exosuit’s plating. Another swing came, and Logan barely parried, arms shaking from the impact. His mind scrambled for a plan.

He is stronger than before. Well, that, plus I don’t have my Armor.

The Herald smirked. “Still standing? I expected you to fold quicker.”

Logan didn’t reply—his jaw was locked. Instead, he pivoted on one foot and slammed the butt of his staff against the Herald’s side. It connected, jarring them both. But the Herald barely budged, letting out a bored snort. Then, black veins along his arm bulged, throbbing in a sickly glow.

Ethereal tentacles burst from that pulsing, pustulant mass, dripping with the oily muck of Levemoth’s influence. They snaked toward Logan in a blink, fluid as whips. He swore and backpedaled. The first tentacle lashed, slicing a shallow gash in the exosuit’s shoulder plate. Another coiled around the staff’s upper half.

A wild sense of panic flared in Logan’s mind. He wrenched the staff free, metal shrieking. The tentacle parted from it with a wet snap. But there were more. They slithered around, flickering in and out of existence like nightmares. The Herald laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying Logan’s struggles.

We need distance.

[Agreed.]

Logan pivoted, letting the exosuit’s servos power a short leap backward. The tentacles whipped the air where he’d stood a split second ago. Before he landed, the Herald was on him again—chitinous pincer lunging for his midsection.

Logan swung the staff laterally. The blow cracked into the pincer with a metallic note, jarring his arms. It deflected but not by much. The Herald pressed forward, batting aside Logan’s next thrust with contemptuous ease. Then, a swirling tentacle lashed inward, smacking Logan across the ribs. Pain flared. He stumbled, exosuit whining.

The Herald’s mutant grace was terrifying. No wasted movements, each blow well-aimed. Another tentacle hissed across the ground, trying to ensnare Logan’s ankle.

“Too slow,” the Herald mocked, eyes glinting.

A swirl of fear and anger rose inside Logan. He remembered his father’s face, how Malcolm had once looked, a visage of hard grace. This abomination wore the faint features of that face like a cruel mask.

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