Chapter 17

The exiled Dumaine was discarded in a lonely, desolate place. The wind howled bitterly, rain poured down, soaking the earth until it was heavy and dark.

“Ghhhhh…”

A faint groan slipped out. His insides were in ruins, and his mind was no longer whole.

Yet within him, unseen, something strange and wondrous stirred. Though faint, he had absorbed a fragment of the Dragon Heart. Its dragon mana began to heal him, striving to protect its host. But it wasn’t easy. His life force flickered, threatening to extinguish.

To awaken life again, a powerful will was needed. The dragon mana scoured Dumaine’s spirit, searching. It found one thing—an ironclad desire—and fanned it into flame.

The desire for strength.

Fueled by dragon mana, that desire burned bright, pulling Dumaine’s consciousness back toward the surface.

“Uuugh…”

His groans softened. Rain thinned, and sunlight pierced the clouds. Dumaine’s fingers twitched faintly.

He dreamed. A dream of growing stronger, again and again, until he became the mightiest of all.

His fingers jerked harder.

There was a river. The first river I had seen in the Demon Realm, and it had startled me. I remember wrinkling my nose at its ashen color.

It was wide, and with water that gray, I couldn’t guess its depth. I must have slept ninety times since I crossed it. And in that time, I learned much.

The monsters here each have their own territory. It’s not marked, but as you move, the air changes. That means you’ve stepped into someone’s domain.

There are also lands without owners. The air in those places feels just like under the river—dull, heavy, saturated with demonic energy.

I had wandered into such a domain.

I kept walking. If I did, the land’s master would come to me. Always with a furious expression.

This monster was easily over two meters tall, lean and wiry, which made it look even bigger.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“Au stabe kuntac o eeeiy!”

I asked, and it answered in some garbled language impossible to imitate. We couldn’t understand each other, but I talked anyway—out of boredom, perhaps.

Monsters upstream of the river were stronger. And this new one looked stronger still.

“You’ll be strong too, won’t you?”

I wasn’t afraid. On the contrary, the anticipation spurred me on. The nonsense chatter only urged me to spill blood.

Its savagery swelled, feeding my own. Yielding to the wildness, mana roared through every inch of my body. The fullness of that strength was intoxicating.

I moved first.

Its mouth kept yammering nonsense, oblivious that I had already closed the gap. Fool.

I loaded mana into my fist and slammed it toward its mouth.

Thud!

A heavy, dull sound rang out. The monster only turned its head slightly. My fist didn’t hurt—coated in mana as it was—but that sound told me its endurance was far from ordinary.

“Kuntac! Ell li!”

Its face twisted with fury.

It attacked. Its two long arms lashed out, moving fast—nearly as fast as me. Boneless, they writhed and then snapped taut, whiplike, weapons in their own right.

I drew my sword, flooding it with mana, releasing sword aura.

Crack!

Its arms turned like hardened rubber, wrapping around the blade. Not even the razor’s edge of aura could scratch them.

I tried magic next. Cold didn’t work. Fire didn’t work. Close combat didn’t land a decisive blow either.

It either dodged or took the hit head-on, countering immediately. Its arms whipped down from above in blinding speed. I twisted aside, but felt a sharp warning from my flank. Without looking, I dashed forward.

“Haaah!”

Instinctively, I set my step and let the earth’s force surge through me. My body spun, and I unleashed a fist with all that gathered power.

“Kili!”

The monster screamed for the first time.

I didn’t let the flow slip. I stayed on it, pressing the attack relentlessly. Stabbing, slashing, striking, stomping, thrusting—again and again, until it finally began to falter.

Its body was hard on the outside, but once I pushed inward with the Heavy Strike Method, it proved vulnerable. That technique demanded fine mana control, so I alternated: fierce strikes in a burst, then a pause to catch my breath before hitting it with the Heavy Strike.

Under that pressure, its body eventually went slack. Then even magic began to work.

“E ilky bea domo.”

Muttering in its incomprehensible tongue, the monster closed its eyes.

For now, this territory was safe. But once it became a void, another monster would soon move in.

I made sure to finish it off and sat down beside the corpse. Breathing deep and slow, I steadied my boiling insides, then set off again.

Since crossing the river, I had slain about forty monsters. They grew stronger each time, but so did I. Repetition through real battle was the best training.

After a long trek, cutting down two more, I noticed my rest breaks were growing shorter and shorter. Seven more sleeps, four more kills—and then I met something altogether new.

Monster? No… its form was too humanlike.

It wore a knight’s armor, but blue flames leaked from the gaps of its helm.

“A Death Knight?”

The answer slipped out before I realized. I didn’t know how or why it was here.

“Ed ollue.”

Strange words echoed from the Death Knight. I ignored them. Wrapping myself in mana, exhilaration surged beyond vitality, lifting me higher.

I drew my sword, slammed a step into the earth, and lunged.

Thoom!

The Death Knight raised a massive greatsword, blocking me. I could barely follow its motion. I locked onto it and swung again.

Waves of sword aura rippled, hemming the Death Knight in from every side. It blocked, deflected, sometimes took the hit directly before countering.

Fast.

Simple strikes—but stronger, faster than mine.

I pulled back, caught my breath, studied it again.

Blue eyes glowing. Heavy, deliberate steps. Azure energy seeping from the seams of its armor.

The joints—yes, that was it.

I lunged again, blade darting for the elbow seam. With surgical precision, I jammed my sword in and pumped mana.

Boom!

A small detonation, and the Death Knight’s elbow flew free.

It worked!

Suppressing the thrill, I repeated the method.

Bang! Boom! Clang!

Explosions burst from the armor’s joints. Piece by piece, the body collapsed to the ground.

“Haaa… what now?”

The burst of strength left me dizzy. But I strode in slowly, savoring the winner’s ease. The glow in its eyes hadn’t faded.

Persistent bastard.

I channeled mana into my foot and stomped on its helm. The metal dented slightly. Irritated, I stomped harder, again and again. It bent further each time until the helm was split in half.

But looking at the ruined helmet, a twinge of regret crossed my mind. I could have used it myself. Then it struck me—the rest of the armor was still intact.

Maybe I could wear it for protection.

I bent to examine the scattered pieces.

“Hm?”

A groan escaped me as I stumbled back a step.

Each armor piece still pulsed with blue light. The unpleasant energy in each fragment connected, pulling one another closer.

I sliced at the currents with sword aura.

It worked—briefly. But the streams reconnected before long.

Magic didn’t work either.

Left alone, of course the fragments would draw together, reforming.

My gaze settled on the battered helm. When I disrupted the flow around it, the glow flared stronger, tethering the currents again.

Once more—the same result.

The head was the problem…

I drove my blade into the helm and detonated mana. For a moment, all currents vanished. Then they reappeared—though their color had dimmed.

Annoying.

I detonated mana again. And again. And again. Repeated bursts, hammering at it until the glow waned.

Hazabut was lost in thought.

A few days ago, an envoy from the Empire had come. They met in secret, and the man made a single proposal—defection.

He was a 7th-class mage, and his mind worked differently than ordinary men. He knew the truth: this was all an Imperial fabrication. But even so, the wall of reality called the Empire was something even a 7th-class archmage couldn’t overcome.

The Empire knew everything. Their spies were everywhere. They even had information about those who had gone to the Demon Temple, pressing hard on that point. The memory-removal spell had left a stink, and the Empire had followed the trail. With the pieces they had, they drew a conclusion chillingly close to the truth.

The envoy’s proposal had come with a threat.

“What do you think will happen if we declare that the culprit who tried to steal the Empire’s treasure wasn’t one, but two?”

Dumaine, who had reached for the Dragon Heart, had already been exiled. That was Widav’s way of appeasing the Empire’s wrath. But if Hazabut were also named as an accomplice?

The Widav Kingdom would naturally try to protect its Tower Master. But what if the Empire dug deeper, demanded answers, and Colin himself stepped forward to testify?

“Position, trust, honor—will you lose everything and rot in prison? Or will you come to us, forsake only your honor, and live out your days with comfort and a fine post?”

Widav would never risk open war with the Empire for his sake. Between losing a 7th-class mage and losing their nation, the choice was obvious.

So why offer him exile instead of chains? There was only one reason: war. The Empire was finally stretching its limbs, preparing to unleash another storm of blood across the continent. In such a time, the safest place would be at their side.

‘Greed…’

It was greed that had brought all of this down on him.

The envoy had given him five days. Hazabut resolved himself and sent a man to the Selion Inn. That would be his answer.

Now, only the secrets remained. The ones the Empire knew would have to stay buried in his chest for life. Better to empty his heart and accept it. Some things were beyond control.

The last loose thread was Dumaine. He had gone mad. And if a lunatic wandered about spouting nonsense, it could be disastrous. The fewer who knew the truth, the better.

Hazabut turned to the shadows—hiring an information guild with a fortune to locate Dumaine. Within days, a trace was found. Though deranged, he was still a Sword Master. Hazabut paid dearly and placed the order: Dumaine’s head.

“There he is.”

The assassins fixed their eyes on the ragged figure babbling to himself. Dumaine.

Finding him was easy; it took only four days after the contract was accepted. He muttered endlessly at the ground, occasionally stabbing a finger at the sky and shouting. His gait was clumsy, unworthy of a Sword Master. Still, they couldn’t afford to underestimate him.

They slipped into their prepared positions. One by one, they readied poison darts, six in total. Three aimed for where Dumaine might dodge, ensuring he would be hit even if he moved.

One assassin raised his hand. The signal.

Shwik! Shwik! Shwik!

Six darts shot out in staggered timing, streaks of death.

Dumaine made no move. He was struck full-on.

The poison spread instantly. He collapsed, writhing.

The assassins exchanged glances and shrugged, surprised at how easy it was. The client wanted his head, so they approached slowly.

“Zeno, take it.”

“Yes.”

The assassin on the far right stepped forward. Zeno had taken part in many missions, but he had never performed the final act himself. Training and experience were one thing, but actually taking the head was another. A different kind of tension filled him.

He drew a long, curved dagger from his cloak. The cold gleam of its edge made even him uneasy.

Dumaine groaned, twisting weakly on the ground.

How should he take the head? Six different methods came to mind, but there was no need to choose. Time shouldn’t be wasted. He needed to be efficient, as if butchering a pig. That was how one earned a clean evaluation.

He chose the method he was most confident in, reversing the grip on his dagger. As he bent down—

Dumaine suddenly stilled. His eyes snapped open, blazing.

“You’ve saved me.”