**Chapter 36**
—
**The Grimoire — “The Book of Massacre.”**
The place where Dale now stood was the world inside that book — a mental realm reflecting the depraved ideology and malice of its author, the blood sorcerer **Duchamp**.
— *“Will you reject my contract and choose to fall, reduced to mere flesh within this world?”*
The avatar of the grimoire, the *Executioner*, spoke again — his figure framed against endless mountains of corpses and oceans of blood stretching beyond the horizon.
But Dale paid him no heed.
This was a world *inside* a book — in other words, not the real world.
Therefore, no matter what force or magic he used, he could not defeat the Executioner — that is, *The Book of Massacre* — by ordinary means.
Instead, something else began to stir beneath his feet — a cold, piercing chill, and the condensed mana of darkness swirling together.
Like a storm, frost and shadow magic intermingled, twisting and warping the world once more.
What *The Book of Massacre* showed was the inner world — the mental projection — of the blood sorcerer Duchamp.
And Dale, in turn, answered by drawing forth his own world.
Ash-grey sleet scattered through the void.
At his feet stretched an empty, endless horizon — the desolate ground of nothingness.
> “Your world cannot invade mine.”
This was both a mental barrier to shield himself from the grimoire and an abyss of thought from which even Dale himself could not escape.
The clash of ideologies — world against world.
It was, without question, a duel between high magi.
And the world of cold and shadow began to consume everything — swallowing the massacre’s realm of corpses and blood.
> “But my world is not so easily devoured.”
The world was devouring the world.
— *How can this be…?!*
A *grimoire* is the culmination of a mage’s lifetime — the crystallization of their philosophy and existence.
Thus, in many ways, *The Book of Massacre* was *Duchamp himself.*
A 6th-circle blood sorcerer, a war criminal who had sacrificed countless lives with his forbidden weapons of mass destruction —
and now, the world of such a high mage was being consumed by that of an eleven-year-old boy.
— *Do you think I’ll simply let you devour me?!*
The avatar of the grimoire — the Executioner, Duchamp’s very embodiment — stomped upon the ground, sending shockwaves toward the void beneath Dale’s feet.
The ocean of blood surged into towering waves.
A **tsunami of crimson**.
Facing it, the *Cloak of Shadows* draped around Dale’s shoulders flared like wings.
A **tidal wave of darkness**.
This was an ability he could unleash only because it was *within the book’s world*.
This was not the physical world — here, the measure of power was determined solely by the strength of one’s ideology, by the depth of one’s inner abyss.
Dale advanced — commanding legions of shadows across an endless void of frost and nihilism,
bearing on his back the image of what his empire would one day become.
It was a realm far beyond the reach of any mere 6th-circle psychopath of a mage.
The world was swallowed in darkness.
**Clang!**
A sound like shattering glass echoed, and the entire landscape collapsed.
> *“Did I return…?”*
Freed at last from the book’s world, Dale looked around.
Everywhere he saw was wrapped in deep shadow.
> “──Brother.”
The voice came — from behind him, soundless and sudden.
It was the pure, innocent voice of a little girl, unstained by even a speck of dust.
He turned.
There stood a young girl in an obsidian dress — and from her hair, two black goat horns rose proudly.
> “Brother, you called for me, didn’t you?”
Her eyes shone with the untainted curiosity of one who knew nothing of the world.
—
—
At that same moment, in a private chamber of the **Apostolic Palace**,
Cardinal **Nicolai** bit his lip in restless anxiety.
Even if the Duke of Saxen’s eldest son was the greatest prodigy of the Empire, he was still only eleven — and a mere 3rd-circle expert.
No matter how brilliant the *Black Prince* might be, his chances of returning alive from the **Library of Hell** were nearly zero.
> *“The Church shall bear no responsibility for what transpires within Hell.”*
That had been the clause binding their pact through *Geas* — the Covenant of Oaths.
From the start, Nicolai never believed Dale would return alive.
As long as proof of the contract remained, even House Saxen would be unable to act recklessly.
And yet… would the *Black Prince of Saxen*, heir to the Archduke of the Black Tower — the greatest black magician on the continent — truly have entered the Library of Hell *without a plan*?
If by chance the boy succeeded in obtaining *The Book of the Black Goat*,
then the consequences of that act…
Nicolai dared not even imagine.
Then, something struck him.
> “The Church bears no responsibility for what happens in Hell…”
That clause — it meant that *no matter what occurred there*, it would never be his fault.
“…I’ll need to make sure it stays that way.”
Resolving himself, Cardinal Nicolai — elder of the White Tower, 6th-circle white sorcerer, and seeker of the Light of Wisdom — rose from his seat without hesitation.
—
—
> “You know, brother — this place is so boring.”
The girl with the black goat’s horns spoke softly.
> “And so lonely.”
Her frail form clung to Dale like a child seeking warmth.
> “It’s such a cold, desolate, lonely place…”
“……”
But Dale was unmoved by her innocent façade — because he understood better than anyone what sort of being stood before him.
**The Book of the Black Goat.**
A forbidden grimoire written by *the Undying Duke, Frederick*,
who sacrificed his own young daughter in search of the truth beyond death.
It was no wonder the grimoire’s avatar appeared as a little girl.
But that girl was *not* the Duke’s daughter.
> “Make a contract with me,”
Dale said quietly.
> “O Black Goat of the Forest, mother of a thousand young.”
He spoke to the horned girl.
> “You want to play with me too, brother?”
She smiled, childlike and guileless.
Dale silently nodded.
> “Then show me your world.”
Instantly, the world beneath their feet twisted —
the horizon spread into the same grey sleet and empty void of frost and darkness.
The abyss of his own thought.
The girl skipped lightly across the icy ground, as if on a spring outing.
The falling snow settled gently upon her shoulders.
> “So this is your world, brother.”
After a long moment of playful wandering, she turned to face him again.
Dale gave a silent nod.
> “It’s a beautiful world.”
The horned girl smiled — a pleased, almost affectionate smile.
Beneath her dress, countless **tentacles** writhed.
> “I really like you, brother.”
Her smile was dark, cold, and twisted.
—
—
> “Ah… Aaaah…”
When the elder of the White Tower, 6th-circle white sorcerer **Nicolai**, entered Hell to silence the boy —
he and the Church knights under his command were struck speechless.
For before them stood the heir of House Saxen, the Black Prince himself —
beside him, *the most dreadful existence in all creation.*
How could one describe such a being?
A seething mass of **tentacles**,
lined with jagged **teeth**,
and ever-multiplying **flesh** —
a creature from beyond the world.
An **Abomination**.
A sight so horrific it invited madness in all who beheld it.
—
—
> “You know, brother,”
the horned girl murmured at Dale’s side.
Dressed in her obsidian gown, she looked the very image of a pure noble maiden —
and yet beneath her hem, countless tentacles writhed.
> “Who are those people?”
“Wait.”
Dale raised a hand, halting her.
> “Cardinal Nicolai.”
He turned to the terrified cardinal and his men —
their faces contorted as though beholding the most revolting thing in existence.
> “What brings you here?”
“I… I merely wished…”
Nicolai stammered, words failing him.
Dale spoke again, his tone calm.
> “According to the covenant, neither party bears any responsibility for what occurs in Hell.”
His words carried the weight of one who had foreseen everything.
Through the *Geas*, he had known Nicolai’s intent from the start —
the cardinal had come seeking the loophole in their pact.
For no matter how talented Dale was, even he could not possibly defeat a 6th-circle elder and his knights head-on.
> “There’s an old saying — the darkest place is beneath the lamp.”
Just as seizing the high ground grants advantage in battle,
so too does the environment shape victory in the realm of magic.
And this was a place where all the world’s malice and corruption had pooled,
a Hell that had spilled into reality —
a lightless realm.
To Dale, whose power stemmed from darkness,
it was the perfect battlefield.
But to those who wielded light…
it was death itself.
> “You’ve chosen the wrong place.”
And besides — their true opponent was not Dale.
It was the grimoire — the most dreadful creation of the Saxen progenitor,
**The Book of the Black Goat.**
How could an eleven-year-old possibly *control* such a thing?
For them, that question hardly mattered anymore.
> “Y-you’re mistaken! I only came here out of concern for you—!”
Nicolai’s voice broke as he tried to explain.
> “You know, brother,”
the girl interrupted sweetly — her black dress rippling as the tentacles writhed beneath.
> “Can I eat them?”
> “If you get a stomachache, don’t blame me.”
Dale nodded, unconcerned.
> “Okay,” she said, smiling.
And the ground beneath her feet turned black.
Magic — the power to make thought into reality.
A grimoire — a book that embodies a mage’s world.
This was the forbidden grimoire of the Undying Duke,
*The Book of the Black Goat* —
the world of Frederick Saxen himself.
> “…Eleison.”
> (*Have mercy.*)
Cardinal Nicolai traced the sign of the cross.
But it was not an act of surrender.
The title *6th-circle white mage* was no mere ornament.
And Dale was not the only mage in this world who wielded a grimoire.
**The Gospel.**
From Nicolai and his knights, light began to surge outward.
> “Miserere nobis.”
> (*Have mercy upon us.*)
The words echoed, and the Church knights were filled with divine fervor.
> “For the Lord wills it…”
> “May the mercy of the Sister Goddesses be upon us.”
It was not mere spiritual elevation.
Their bodies, their swords, their armor — all transfigured by radiant light,
until what stood there were no longer mortal knights,
but *angels of the battlefield* —
each with six wings and flaming swords.
The White Tower’s proudest hymn —
a battle aria of light and sanctity to counter Dale’s darkness.
Cardinal Nicolai, priest and magus both,
intoned his *Celestial Chant*, the full might of a 6th-circle white sorcerer resounding through Hell.
As the hymn of light clashed against the abyss of shadow,
Dale thought to himself—
> *“As expected… he won’t go down easily.”*
Light and darkness.
Ideology against ideology.
World against world.
What unfolded there was, without a doubt—
a battle between true archmages.
