**Chapter 45**
—
**KWA-A-A-ANG!**
The *Purifiers* detonated themselves—turning their own bodies into sacrificial bombs.
Amid the whirling explosion, Dale and Sephia chanted *Armor of Frost* without the slightest hesitation.
The molecular bonds hardened to their utmost limit, forming a glacial shell that refused to yield even to the raging inferno around them. It wasn’t enough to completely absorb the blast, but it was powerful enough to narrowly stave off fatal wounds.
That was to be expected—this was the combined water-based magic of Dale, known as the Empire’s greatest prodigy, and Sephia, the Blue Tower’s elder mage.
But the Saxen cavalry, protected by nothing more than *armor of steel*, were not so fortunate.
The sweeping heat melted their iron, seared their flesh and blood, and charred their bones.
With the Purifiers’ self-detonation, dozens of the Night Raven Knights—Saxen’s pride—were annihilated in an instant.
And that was from only one of the twelve bombs detonating.
Within the storm of fire and smoke, the remaining *bombs* began to move.
The flaming silhouettes—those *Purifiers*—charged toward Dale, intent on finishing their mission.
Even Sephia’s dissonant chant could not interfere with the instantaneous casting of their fire spells. Streams of flame erupted from their hands.
*So that’s how it’ll be.*
But Dale, too, was a veteran who had survived countless battles.
As the torrent of fire surged toward him, he made his own *shadow* move. His fluttering shadow cloak birthed a blade of darkness, and with effortless agility, he leapt aside, evading the blaze. Then, in a countercharge, he thrust his blade toward the nearest Purifier.
*Shhk!*
*That’s two.*
*Chraaaak!*
The moment the shadow blade pierced the Purifier’s chest, it split into countless fragments, shredding the enemy’s insides.
Like the whirring teeth of a high-speed grinder, it tore apart heart, viscera, shoulders, limbs, and neck—ripping the body to pieces.
Moments later, the Purifier’s body burst apart in an explosion.
This blast, however, was weaker than the first—its *bomb structure* had already been compromised.
That made two of the twelve bombs gone.
*There’s no point trying to talk with things like these.*
In the surging flames, Dale forced his focus to steady, glancing briefly at Sephia behind him.
“Be careful.”
At least, he didn’t need to worry about her.
“You too, Dale.”
Once more, several Purifiers lunged from every direction—not to cast spells, but to self-destruct.
Even for them, breaking through the twin water mages’ barrier, reinforced by Sephia’s dissonance, would be no easy task.
“……!”
**KWA-A-A-A-ANG!**
One after another, the bombs surrounding them exploded simultaneously.
If one blast had that much force, then several detonating together unleashed an inferno beyond comprehension.
It was a suicidal strike, born of utter devotion—a roar that swallowed the heavens.
The explosion devoured all.
The conflagration of hell surged violently, enough to consume Dale, Sephia, and all three hundred cavalry under Dale’s command.
The shockwave made his skull ring and his brain spin.
Amid the flames, Dale’s body lost form—collapsing into his shadow.
The cloak’s power: *Wraith Form.*
Sephia too, shielded herself with her own magic.
The elder of the Blue Tower—known for her defense—would never fall to such self-destruction.
“……!”
But aside from Dale and Sephia, none of the knights could withstand it.
Their bodies burned away in silence—without even time for a scream.
It was hell itself.
From dozens, the dead now numbered over a hundred.
Within the endless firestorm, Dale emerged from the shadows, releasing his *Wraith Form.*
He clad himself in icy armor and appeared behind a Purifier.
*Thud!*
He drove his shadow blade into the foe, spinning it like a drill—slicing, tearing, shredding until the body was unrecognizable.
Flesh, blood, and bone scattered.
*Still a few left.*
He turned his head, expressionless, after grinding the corpse into minced meat.
Behind him, Sephia stood protected by a barrier of frost, surrounded by melted metal and mangled flesh. The shattered remains of what once were knights lay strewn in ruin.
The Night Ravens—those who had sworn loyalty to him—were gone.
“……”
Seeing it, Dale bit his lip until it bled.
“Your mission has failed.”
Only three Purifiers remained.
He looked at them and spoke, voice calm as ice.
“You’ll never kill me.”
Despite the devastation, despite the sacrifice—he knew he had won.
“Hee… heeheehee…”
One of the Purifiers laughed.
A twisted, mad laughter.
“Y-you… after seeing this… you call it *victory*?”
He gestured to the mutilated knights strewn across the field.
“Even if your Black Tower toys with *death* itself…”
He pointed to the shattered armor and scattered limbs.
“Do you think we’d ever f-fear something so trivial as *death*!?”
With frenzied shouts, the Purifiers surged again.
“W-we are ready! To embrace death, to burn our bodies before it!”
Fanatics to the end.
“Hail Empire!”
They kicked off the ground, charging—ready to explode once more.
──“So you’ve resolved yourselves to die?”
A voice.
A deep, familiar male voice.
At that instant, the remaining Purifiers’ bodies detonated.
Another self-destruction.
Flames roared; Dale and Sephia quickly summoned new *Frost Armors* around themselves.
When the inferno finally subsided, Dale’s eyes widened at what he saw.
Despite their self-detonation—despite the kind of explosion that should have erased every trace of them—the Purifiers still lived.
Unscathed.
“Contrary to what most people believe…”
And then—
“…resolving to die is actually quite easy.”
The voice continued.
“It takes far greater courage… to resolve to *live.*”
A man stood there.
A man draped in a black robe.
“To choose *not to die*—that is true resolve.”
The living Purifiers looked down at their intact bodies, confused.
They hadn’t intended to survive. It wasn’t *their* will.
“Do you possess that resolve—to live?”
The man’s voice deepened.
It was the voice of the continent’s greatest necromancer.
The master of the Black Tower himself.
The Purifiers turned toward him. There was no hesitation in their movement—they charged straight at Dale’s father.
Their burning bodies blazed once again, ready to explode.
**KWA-A-A-A-ANG!**
Another massive explosion, enough to swallow the field whole.
Hellfire raged anew.
And yet—something was wrong.
There had been an explosion… but it caused *no damage.*
Not even the Purifiers themselves were harmed.
Lord Black—the *Black Duke*—waved his arm lightly.
The *flame-shadows* covering the Purifiers flickered out, vanishing like candlelight snuffed in the dark.
The Purifiers, now realizing the gravity of the situation, lifted their heads toward the black-robed man before them.
The greatest black mage on the continent.
The *Lord of the Black Tower.*
“Have you still not understood?”
The Black Duke spoke.
“That I have not granted you permission… to die.”
At his words, the color drained from their faces.
“In this place, there exists no path for you to reach death.”
For before them stood the master of the Black Tower—one who pursued the truths beyond death itself.
If he did not permit it, *death* could not exist.
“Curse: *Abomination.*”
The Black Duke’s voice resonated as eight circles spun into motion, generating black mana that fell like judgment.
Dark winds howled from every direction.
An unseen gravitational force enveloped the Purifiers—pulling them toward each other like magnetic poles. Their bodies softened, melted, and began to fuse.
“O… a… ah…?”
Their bodies grew heavy. They couldn’t move, couldn’t even scream. Their vision warped in grotesque distortion.
“Ah… ahhh… ughhh…!”
“Urrgh… aghh…!”
Voices came from beside them—no, *within* them.
Then realization dawned.
The voices of their comrades were echoing from *inside their own bodies.*
They looked down—and froze.
It was no longer their body.
It was a massive lump of flesh—three Purifiers fused into a single, grotesque sphere.
Just as the name foretold: *Abomination.*
Six eyes spun in circles.
Three mouths groaned in warped voices.
Six ears heard those cries.
Thirty fingers twitched without purpose, stuck haphazardly across the round mass.
Could one truly call such a thing *human*?
It looked more like a heap of raw materials—a failed creation awaiting the touch of a god.
“To live,” said the Black Duke, his voice calm as ever, “is far more painful and excruciating than merely resolving to die.”
His tone was cold. Detached.
“I’ll ask once more.”
Without a shred of emotion.
“Do you have the resolve… *not to die*?”
He was no god of death.
He did not grant simple ends.
Before the Lord of Black, *death* was a luxury.
The agony beyond death—that was his domain.
Dale shuddered, understanding at last the true nature of the man called the Black Duke.
The fused mass began to mutter incoherently, terror finally overtaking fanaticism.
Their warped faces—if they could still be called faces—trembled with fear.
For though they had steeled themselves to die…
None of them had ever prepared to *live.*
