Duke Komalon—■■■—found himself reminiscing about distant mories.
mories so old their colors had faded, becoming relics of the past.
These fragnts surfaced only when the Duke occasionally dread while sleeping.
They were glimpses of a ti when he was still an apprentice under his master, a True Mage.
“Don’t leave any vegetables behind; eat them all.”
“Never neglect your practice of manifestation.”
“Let’s go for an outing.”
“■■ was far better than you! Why on earth did you bring this worthless husk here?”
The mories that trickled through his mind were unremarkable.
They included monts of sharing als with his master, being scolded about magic, going on outings, and his master defending him, despite being deed inferior to other apprentices.
These were mories anyone might have, unassuming, mundane.
Yet, to Duke Komalon, these fragnts were more precious than anything.
However, the Duke, ■■■, did not particularly cherish these mories.
Because at their end, these fragnts always converged on a single mont.
The scenes of mory would flip, and—
“It can’t be helped. The mont the soul of this world overflowed, there was no turning back.”
His master’s voice would echo, as it did now.
“!”
Startled by the familiar voice, the Duke snapped out of his reverie.
Realizing he had montarily lost consciousness, he quickly assessed his physical state.
His condition was dire. His right arm was gone, and his abdon had a gaping hole.
Yet, the Duke’s focus was elsewhere.
He lifted his head to look forward.
Standing there was a man clad in a dust-covered, dark coat, gazing down at him with an expression devoid of emotion. It was Marquis Palatio.
Like the Duke, this half-finished Mage stood blocking his path amidst the ashen world.
“How in the world did you use a Sentence?”
Marquis Palatio’s tone betrayed no hint of emotion.
The Duke could not comprehend.
There was no doubt the Marquis had used a Sentence.
“Even if it wasn’t through Formula or Manifestation, that was undoubtedly a Sentence. How could soone like you—another half-finished Mage—possibly achieve this?”
It was a mystery beyond understanding.
The Marquis had wielded a Sentence.
Even if he hadn’t mastered Formula or reached the level of Manifestation, he had nonetheless invoked its effects.
But this didn’t an Palatio was a complete Mage.
No matter how much he grasped the fundantals of Sentences or achieved Manifestation, without mastery over Formula, he could never beco a True Mage.
He was, indisputably, a half-finished Mage.
A half-finished Mage, like the Duke himself, who had inherited Sentences from a Mage.
“…Ha.”
And yet, the Duke couldn’t understand it.
■■■ ■ let out a hollow laugh.
“You, who’ve inherited even a Sentence—why are you stopping ? , who carries the hopes of every Mage?”
Surely, the Marquis had seen it too.
The end of this world.
The inescapable apocalypse.
And surely, he must have known.
That the True Mages had sacrificed everything to protect this world from its demise.
This thought elicited bitter laughter from the Duke.
At the half-finished Mage who sought to undo the world that all the True Mages had given their lives to preserve, he felt an unbearable sense of futility.
So when he began weaving the seal—
“…”
A sudden and unconscious sense of danger forced him to defend himself with a shield.
And then—
Boom!
As he was slamd into the ground, what he saw was—
“Master~! You’re a little late!”
—a blood-soaked figure who had shattered the very ideals the Duke had crafted.
However, the Duke’s task did not change just because she joined the battle.
“Convergence.”
The Duke, ■■■, ford a seal to kill him.
***
The battle continued.
“Point, dispersion, scattering, firmant.”
From Duke Komalon’s lips flowed an unending stream of incantations.
These were fragnts of magic he had accumulated over centuries of living in silence, honing his craft.
A magic unique to him, born from lack of innate talent.
In the dark, ashen world, a river of stars unfolded.
Though he had not inherited a Sentence, it was precisely for this reason that he could achieve such skill.
Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of orbs rose into the air, forming a teor shower that descended toward the earth.
With them ca a faded mory, one that could surface only in dreams.
A voice erged within his mind.
“■■■, it’s fortunate you never beca a True Mage.”
Even as the mory and its voice surfaced, the magic rained down upon the beast-kin who had shattered his ideals.
It descended upon the half-finished Mage who sought to undo the will of True Mages.
“If you aren’t a Mage, it’s just a futile death. That’s why I’m entrusting this to you instead.”
The voice from the faint mory rang in his ears.
And then—
Crackle!
Amidst golden flashes of lightning—
“Clear sky.”
The Marquis evaded the magic with ease, his expression as detached as if the situation posed no threat.
“Stay alive. Protect this world. The world we Mages gave our lives to shield.”
The Duke recalled his master’s final words.
A mory long buried.
“Haah—”
Exhaling a shallow sigh, Duke Komalon gazed ahead.
He knew.
His speed in reciting incantations was far greater. The pace at which he manifested magic was equally unmatched.
By all asures, he was stronger than the half-finished Mage before him.
And yet, his magic could not reach his opponent.
The fragnts of magic he had refined over centuries were ineffective against the half-finished Mage who was just like him.
This ti was no different.
“…”
Duke Komalon stared at him.
The Marquis bore noticeably more minor wounds than before. The ground was littered with countless shattered glass vials.
But the Marquis’s expression remained stoic, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his dust-covered dark coat, standing resolute.
By contrast, the Duke’s condition was dire.
The injury to his right hand from a mont of carelessness was steadily draining his strength. The hole in his abdon was clearly robbing him of life.
Yet even with death looming, no pain showed on his face.
Instead, he chuckled faintly and spoke.
“You know this, don’t you?”
Calmly.
“How foolish your actions are.”
He opened his mouth to speak.
“Even if you’ve inherited a Sentence… if you survived without receiving its essence, you must know. Soon, those things will rise, and the world will et its end.”
There was no emotion in his voice.
“When the souls are full, there’s less than half a year left. If we don’t bring order to this world and humanity within that ti, they’ll erge.”
No trace of anger could be detected.
“You know this. And yet, are you really going to render the sacrifices of the True Mages, who gave everything to protect this world, aningless?”
His words were steady.
Unwavering.
He simply asked.
But even in the face of the Duke’s question, the Marquis’s face remained serene.
As if his words carried no weight, no resonance.
The Marquis, devoid of any trace of emotion, finally opened his mouth.
“Am I the one making the sacrifices of the True Mages aningless?”
His voice was plain, questioning.
The Duke let out another bitter laugh.
“You must know. This world survives only because of the sacrifices of the True Mages.”
***
The Marquis, silent, continued to gaze at Duke Komalon.
His gaze was calm.
Yet, paradoxically, it seed to carry an undertone of anger.
Alon forced his sluggish mind to work in that fleeting mont.
Was what the Duke had just said true?
He couldn’t know.
Then, was it a lie?
He couldn’t know that either.
Unfortunately, Alon was not the half-finished Mage that the Duke mistakenly believed him to be.
He was simply an outsider—a foreign entity.
Soone who encountered this world as a ga called Psychedelia.
Soone who knew none of this world’s hidden past.
In the strictest sense, he was rely an outsider.
For this reason, he couldn’t make a judgnt.
The words of the man before him—
The words spoken by a half-finished Mage—
He couldn’t discern whether they were truth or lies.
“Answer . Do you have a way to avoid rendering the True Mages’s sacrifices aningless?”
Alon remained silent in response to Duke Komalon’s question.
Even if everything the Duke said was true, Alon didn’t have the capacity to render judgnt.
He wasn’t extraordinary enough to swiftly grasp the truth—or falsehood—of a world he had only just begun to understand.
He was, after all, rely an outsider.
But there was one thing Alon was certain of.
One judgnt he could make.
The man before him must be stopped here and now.
Because Duke Komalon’s purpose lay in the annihilation of humanity—or so similar grand design.
“I see.”
The Duke murmured quietly at Alon’s silence.
Alon, once again, didn’t reply.
The two locked eyes and simultaneously began weaving their seals.
Both had co to the sa realization.
There was no point in continuing this conversation.
Alon checked his mana reserves.
Thanks to the vials of potion he had downed earlier, his mana pool had already recovered significantly during their brief exchange.
At that mont, both of them began reciting their incantations simultaneously.
“Diffraction.”
“Blossom.”
This battle was no longer about right or wrong.
“Point.”
“Flourish.”
It was not a confrontation to discern who was virtuous.
“Condense.”
“Cultivate.”
Nor to determine who was wicked.
“Annihilation.”
“Disperse.”
This was simply a clash of two opposing beliefs.
At the culmination of their respective magics—
“I will kill you and achieve my purpose. The True Mages’ aspirations, my—”
Duke Komalon opened his mouth.
“Conviction.”
And manifested his magic.
The petals scattered around him suddenly spread outward, corroding the surrounding atmosphere and erasing everything as if wiped clean with an eraser.
In the bloom of that overwhelming magical flower, Alon stood.
For a brief mont, he thought.
And then—
“I,”
He spoke softly.
“Refuse.”
With a snap of his fingers.
Then, with a searing white tinnitus that seed to devour the ears of all who heard it—
The two beliefs collided.
The convictions of two half-finished Mages ca crashing together.
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