Ch.120The Black Mage and the Black Knight (8)

Llewellyn thought he had seen enough carnage.

He believed he had grown accustomed to such things, that he could maintain a mind as sharp as a blade even when faced with them.

And it didn’t take long for that belief to be shattered.

Llewellyn groaned at the sight of death and suffering spread abundantly before him.

He was surprised by his own involuntary moan, and as he gathered his thoughts:

This was the first time he had seen so many people die so miserably.

‘No, perhaps not the first.’

It wasn’t the first, but it was the first time he had witnessed it so intimately.

Llewellyn’s gaze slowly swept his surroundings.

In the corridor of the columbarium extending from the entrance, soldiers lay dead.

Many had died leaning against walls or barricades, as if the dying soldier at the entrance wasn’t the last.

Some of them appeared to be soldiers, while others looked like ordinary civilians holding spears.

Whether they were truly civilians or soldiers who hadn’t armed themselves in time was unclear.

But it was evident they had resisted continuously and tried somehow to overcome difficult times.

Llewellyn looked at their faces.

Those who died miserably had contorted faces, and even those who died more peacefully lay with expressions suggesting terrible loss.

Those who died leaning against something had their heads bowed deeply with slightly parted lips, as if gasping until their final moment.

Weapons lay broken on the floor, and splattered blood had dried and hardened.

Llewellyn stopped while walking through the corridor and silently observed their faces.

Somehow, it felt like he shouldn’t forget them, as if he mustn’t forget.

He felt something ticklish spreading in his chest.

A sensation he often felt when writing elegies.

A sensation that allowed one to grasp power beyond lifespan and limitations, simply by mourning the death of another human and engraving it in one’s heart.

That sensation filled Llewellyn. He rarely felt such discomfort in his chest.

He had always tried to live simply. Thinking too much didn’t change anything, and complexity only hindered decision-making when it mattered.

So he deliberately emptied himself. He emptied himself, emptied his thoughts, and repeatedly made judgments with just his emotions and a bit of reason.

But not now. This wasn’t a situation where he could empty himself even if he tried.

Even if he tried to empty himself, his surroundings were filled with it. Llewellyn stared blankly at a man who had died with his head turned toward him.

Faintly dilated pupils, half-closed eyes, a futile expression after failing to cover the hole in his stomach with his hands.

Llewellyn imagined the man’s final moments.

He put himself in the man’s place.

He had fought desperately. If he had fought for his own survival, he could have fled long ago, but he didn’t.

Ironically, though life is most precious to people, sometimes people abandon their lives and resolve to act.

That is human irrationality and humanity. Humanity exists outside reason.

Llewellyn was wearing an uncomfortable expression when—

“People are waiting.”

He came to his senses as Valterok, who had approached silently beside him, grabbed his shoulder.

“…I understand.”

“If you wish to keep looking, you may.”

“No, it’s fine.”

What was worth protecting that these people burned their lives, regretted, and suffered for?

Llewellyn, still wearing an uncomfortable expression, moved toward the dozens of gazes fixed on him.

It felt as if every corpse he had seen was watching his back, causing Llewellyn to unconsciously quicken his pace.

As if those gazes were asking:

Why aren’t you dead when they are?

Despite knowing it was an exaggeration, Llewellyn couldn’t bring himself to look back.

Self-reflection and self-examination were not Llewellyn’s virtues.

Past the short corridor was a place where countless deaths had once condensed like dew on leaves, attempting to create a transcendent being.

Here, Llewellyn had stabbed and killed someone after seeing their past and regrets.

The sensation still remained in his hand. Llewellyn clenched his hand as if gripping a sword, then relaxed it as he entered the large cavern, where he saw people huddled together.

At first, he thought he was seeing things, but he wasn’t.

People were truly gathered there like insects or mice, swarming together.

They were of all ages and genders.

Despite knowing it was meaningless, family heads trying to protect their families, soldiers with injured legs, and burly thugs stood at the front of the crowd.

Their eyes were wide open, their pupils cloudy. They were dazed, consumed by fear.

Similarly, everyone behind them was in despair, without exception.

Things Llewellyn hadn’t seen in the New Continent now entered his vision.

Knowing they would be killed, knowing their chances of survival were slim.

Wanting to save their children but unable to, people who chose to stand at the very front to die first were abundant.

None of them had any assurance of relief or victory.

There was no firm resolve, not even foolish optimism.

Everyone standing there knew. Fighting meant death. Survival was not an option.

Netel, the world of Grim Darker, was originally such a place.

A place where families starved and couldn’t eat their fill, where people became cannibals to take responsibility for their children.

A barren land where one had to join groups of cannibals and eat other humans to survive.

Only those who transcended humanity could barely avoid eating others or eat only the minimum to survive.

It was a place where those who struggled to live but were too wretched to be dignified had to be inevitably eradicated.

Fertile farmland barely existed, and even when it did, it was limited to extremely few regions.

And since such things were typically held by those in power, in this land where power usually meant physical strength, one could only hope for the benevolence of the powerful.

In such a land, Llewellyn saw the people the soldiers had desperately protected.

Those who had abandoned what was most precious to them to protect others. Some of them were also dead, scattered throughout the columbarium.

Were they crushed by the powerful magic created by the pseudo-transcendent? Some lay pitifully stretched out as if they had starved.

It could have been that their exceptional senses couldn’t withstand the presence of the pseudo-transcendent, or perhaps they had truly starved.

But most were alive.

When Valterok patted his shoulder, Llewellyn recalled the dead gatekeeper.

The gatekeeper had said it was fortunate.

Judging by the traces of infiltration into the corridor and the dead soldiers…

Had he gone outside one last time, locked the door, and refused to move aside?

Or had dark wizards flooded the corridor even after he collapsed?

Llewellyn wanted to believe the former, so he decided to think that way.

He had fulfilled his duty until the end. Thanks to his struggle, many people had survived.

That made him feel somewhat relieved.

He didn’t realize it, but it was guilt. Guilt from being unable to resolve many things despite his immortality.

Suffering from this unfamiliar sensation, he approached the people.

Just his approach caused breaths to escape. Sounds of barely contained shock.

Despite the fact that even to the naked eye, there wasn’t much blood on Llewellyn, they had been trembling in fear for so long.

It was characteristic of those who thought they were prepared for any death but actually weren’t.

Llewellyn pitied them.

They had simply been born, simply heard about and come to a supposedly decent land.

Or perhaps they had been falsely accused, or sought opportunity, or maybe even came on imperial orders.

And now they ended up like this. Llewellyn felt strangely uncomfortable.

A sensation like needing to scratch his throat or clutch his chest.

As he barely managed to control this sensation, Valterok approached.

“Dark magic formulas have been inscribed.”

“…What?”

“Look at them.”

Llewellyn’s gaze turned toward the people. Some flinched at his gray eyes.

Most of them had fresh scars carved into their bodies with knives.

Scars too intricate and detailed to be mere torture.

Their wrists or ankles bore marks from being restrained by chains, and they had scabbed markings all over their bodies.

Llewellyn widened his eyes at the sight.

“…Formulas.”

“To maintain the pseudo-transcendent. Fodder or fuel to be periodically offered.”

More people held their breath at these cold yet factual words. They didn’t dare speak to the two men.

They feared their heads might roll if they spoke carelessly. Llewellyn felt uncomfortable with the fact that although he had come to save them, he was only increasing their fear.

Not anymore. He needed to reassure them. How should he do it?

Should he smile? In comics, smiling heroes are symbols of peace and reassurance.

But a smile wouldn’t come. Perhaps it’s just in comics—how could one smile in such a situation?

As Llewellyn was thinking and unclenching his fist, he heard it.

Shing, the sound of a sword being drawn.

Turning his head, he saw Valterok had drawn his sword.

A blackened sword.

A tool inscribed with the secret techniques and circuits of the Anti-Magic School, which could seal a magician’s ability to use magic just by stabbing them and made it easier to apply anti-magic power when wielded.

Simultaneously, it was a weapon for execution.

Llewellyn looked at Valterok with wide eyes.

He didn’t even give Llewellyn a glance. He simply held his sword.

The trajectory of the swing was predictable, but predictable didn’t mean simple.

It was a sword with 300 years of history.

Only then did Llewellyn understand Valterok’s title.

Valterok was both a survivor and a slaughterer.

He wasn’t called a survivor simply because he had survived.

He was called a survivor because he had killed others and survived.

And Valterok was an old monster who had survived for 300 years as both a survivor and the knight commander of the Anti-Magic School.

In other words, it meant he had continuously killed someone and survived for 300 years in this land full of struggles.

A survivor who had endured endless battles.

That was Valterok’s other side, the slaughterer.

It was the same now. He was performing the task he had done for 300 years. Swinging his sword. The beautiful curve that captivated the eye was mercy.

The civilians who died by that sword would die without even realizing they were dead.

A quick and comfortable death, like dying in one’s sleep.

But.

Llewellyn’s gaze moved beyond the trajectory of the sword to a soldier who had died leaning against the wall.

He was a rare soldier who had died with a smile in this place.

Among the civilians he had seen earlier, there was a boy who resembled him.

He had sacrificed his life to protect someone.

That sacrifice was worthwhile, and he was satisfied knowing he had saved his son or brother with his death, even though he couldn’t know what would happen afterward.

Now Llewellyn’s eyes turned to the boy, who might have been his son or brother.

He hadn’t noticed before, but the boy had a formula on his forehead.

A formula unknown to Llewellyn, who wasn’t a magician. But just the presence of the formula made Valterok consider him a potential threat.

And indeed he was. Considering what could happen if a human with an inscribed formula fell into the hands of a dark wizard.

Killing them was right. Killing them was mercy.

While alive, they would never know peace, always anxious about when the formula might activate.

Just a dark wizard passing by and detecting the formula…

Or if that dark wizard couldn’t suppress their boredom…

They would become living bombs or offspring of the pseudo-transcendent, killing countless humans.

That’s why Valterok was trying to kill them.

It was an unreasonable thing.

None of them had committed any crime.

And the soldiers had sacrificed their lives thinking these people would be safe.

Should all of that be in vain?

Llewellyn didn’t like it.

The fact that their lives would be consumed meaninglessly, and the attitude that treated it as natural.

The irrationality of this world, disguised as normalcy.

He didn’t like it.

If it were me, if it were my power.

He thought they might be alright in the sanctuary within the Pantheon where mixed-blood vampires resided.

It wasn’t certain. It was uncertain. One misstep could lead to disaster.

But Llewellyn believed not in his own power but in all the people who helped him. He believed that making a better choice for a better future, even if forced, was his duty.

The choice was made. Llewellyn exhaled.

The sword swung. It traced a long arc. Anti-magic power has no form. But the anti-magic power around the sword creates change by repelling magical power.

That’s the nature of the tool.

That change becomes an invisible slash that tears through space. A skilled warrior might block it, deflect it, or withstand it.

But civilians don’t have such power. They die if hit.

The trajectory was aimed precisely at all humans with inscribed formulas.

Llewellyn’s breath quickened.

His heart raced. The thump that resonated filled the surroundings.

The mortality that had been stirring in his heart manifested in his hands.

It wasn’t simply a power that touched life and death.

Llewellyn’s mortality interfered with the magical power flowing through space and the world.

Llewellyn’s mind dizzily recalled information.

Elegy enhances physical abilities. Naturally, defense increases.

Parrying, adding proficiency to defense.

Martial arts and Dragon Dropping. Maximizing defense with added proficiency.

What’s needed is perfect defense. The game system might apply imperfectly, but it works to some extent.

Llewellyn’s hand, swung like a dragon’s claw, met the sword strike.

KAAAAANG!

A thunderous sound and shockwave erupted, making Llewellyn’s cloak flutter. The civilians, who hadn’t even seen the sword strike, were terrified and held their breath.

But surprisingly, no one died.

People looked at the two monsters with bewildered faces.

A being who chose to become a monster and a being who, despite being a monster, continuously made human choices in an attempt to remain human.

Valterok was pushed back two steps by Llewellyn’s kick, which he delivered the instant he deflected Valterok’s sword strike.

A clear sword mark was visible in the center of his armor.

He traced that mark with his hand and raised his head.

“What is your intention?”

Llewellyn, who had withdrawn his leg and stood.

He wore an expression of disbelief before opening his mouth.

“This is my choice.”

There are times when speaking helps solidify one’s will and organize one’s thoughts.

Llewellyn felt this was such a time. He could finally put his will into words.

“As long as I’m here, no one will die.”

Valterok looked at the man and smiled for the first time in a long while.