**Chapter 58**
—
“Are you suggesting a magical duel with me?”
“As successors of our respective towers, and for the sake of fostering exchange between Black and Red. And since fate has seen fit for us to meet like this.”
At Dale’s question, Ray Yuris nodded calmly.
“It wouldn’t hurt to measure each other’s strength.”
“It’ll just be a trivial scuffle between kids.”
Dale replied as if it were someone else’s concern. After all, the one standing before him was only a boy his age. There was no need to reveal his full hand.
“Do you truly think so?”
Ray Yuris countered, as the two circles engraved upon his heart began to accelerate.
*Two circles…?*
The crimson torrent surging as the circles spun faster made Dale involuntarily hold his breath. Then he realized, by the rapidly rising RPM of those circles—
*That’s not the amount of mana a mere two-circle magician should be able to generate.*
Even achieving two circles at such a young age was no small feat. Though it couldn’t compare to Dale’s own rate of growth, it was still extraordinary.
Just as Dale handled high-purity mana forged from refined darkness and icy chill, Ray’s mana burned with molten intensity, like seething magma.
Crimson mana of terrifying purity, as if the fires of hell themselves were raging.
The number of circles was an essential indicator of a mage’s rank—but it never told the full story. Dale, a three-circle magician, was living proof, as was the six-circle elven mage, Sephia.
Dale could feel it instinctively.
Even if the name and deeds of this “Crimson Marquis’s son” were not yet widely known across the continent, the heir to the Red Tower and the child of the Crimson Lord were no empty titles.
It was, rather, a silence intentionally maintained from the shadows.
“Will you not bring out your artifact—‘Shadow Mantle’?”
Ray asked again, red mana forming and pulsing from his two circles.
“……”
He knew. He knew the identity of Dale’s black artifact precisely. Dale feigned surprise and drew in a sharp breath.
“As it happens, I too possess a modest artifact.”
Ray spoke further.
For the son of the Red Tower’s master, owning one or two artifacts was no surprise—and unlike Leonard Walter, Ray clearly had the ability to control his.
The world was vast. And within that vastness were men like Leonard Walter, who mistook their narrow well for the entire sky. But the young mage standing before Dale was not such a fool.
A brutal meritocracy governed their kind—and yet, in the world of magic, that merit was born of bloodline and wealth. The irony was inescapable.
*Fine. Let’s see just what kind of golden spoon this one was born with.*
With that thought, Dale stirred his cloak—the Shadow Mantle disguised as a black surcoat—allowing it to ripple faintly. Just enough for a probing skirmish.
“It may not compare to yours, Lord Dale,” Ray said, bringing out his own crimson artifact—his cherished possession.
The beloved weapon of Ray Yuris, son of the Crimson Lord.
“Tell me,” Ray asked suddenly, “have you ever eaten a friend?”
The question came out of nowhere, stopping Dale in silence.
“I have,” Ray answered himself, recalling that day’s living hell.
“I was starving. There was nothing left to eat.”
Dozens of children trapped underground, where not even a ray of sunlight reached—without food, without water.
“At first, we caught rats and insects to survive day by day.”
But humans cannot live on rats and insects alone.
“So we ate.”
Ray Yuris’s voice was calm, detached.
“We ate the flesh, the blood, the organs still clinging to bone—the marrow in the bones, the brain and spinal cord inside the skull…”
Every last part of them.
Before Ray’s grim confession, Dale said nothing.
“Humans are… a most delicious and nutritious creature.”
Only then did Dale realize—Ray had already summoned his artifact.
His mouth split unnaturally wide, revealing rows upon rows of jagged teeth deep within his jaw.
**《Dragon’s Jawbone》.**
Dale finally inhaled sharply.
*A bio-fusion artifact…*
The most powerful, grotesque, and irreversible type among all artifacts.
Dale knew what that meant. The demonic tome rooted in his own heart was, in a sense, a similar kind of fusion.
*So this is the Crimson Lord’s monster…*
A monster. Dale couldn’t help but let out a faint, ironic chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Ray asked.
“Nothing.”
Dale replied indifferently, controlling the writhing shadows glowing faintly beneath his feet.
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of what?” Dale asked back.
“……”
Ray Yuris smiled faintly.
“I think we’re going to be… good friends.”
Just then, a voice interrupted them.
“What are you two doing here?”
A voice that carried overwhelming authority, halting their childish recklessness.
“Lord Black.”
“Father.”
Standing there was Dale’s father—the greatest black mage on the continent. At his feet, black mana surged and roared like a storm.
Ray’s grotesquely split mouth had already returned to normal.
“I was just having a conversation with Lord Saxen’s son,” Ray said lightly. “As successors to the Black and Red Towers.”
“……”
Lord Black said nothing for a long moment.
“It’s getting late,” he finally said.
“Both of you should return for today.”
His tone left no room for argument. The confrontation was over.
—
—
That night, in the duke’s bedchamber—
“Papa! You’re home!”
Dale’s little sister, Lize, ran to him. She was now a lively young girl who could move freely on her own and express herself with boundless energy.
“Oh, this child,” their mother Elena said fondly, smiling.
“Yes, Lize,” the duke replied, kneeling to embrace her.
Lize kissed his cheek, and even the stoic Lord Black could not help but smile quietly at her affection.
A beloved wife and daughter—
And a son of extraordinary talent, unlike any other.
He had severed ties with the dark past of the Black Tower, wishing to become a father unashamed before his family.
This was the Saxen household—his dearest treasures, worth more than any power or truth.
Yet to protect them, he had bowed to the Empire, joining hands with their evil.
He knew well what that made him—
A weak man, a coward who submitted to power for the sake of his own safety.
“Elena,” he murmured to his wife with a faint, complicated smile.
“Thank you.”
“Oh my, what’s this all of a sudden?” Elena laughed softly, her eyes bright.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“……”
Lord Black said nothing. He merely drank the wine Elena poured him, gazing silently out into the fathomless dark of night.
—
—
Some time later—
Atop the Black Tower in Necropolis.
When the man came to him, Elder Edgar, a seven-circle black mage and high elder of the tower, did not look surprised.
Captain of the 3rd Division of the Demon Army—the Black-Red Order.
Once, he had trained side by side with the Duke of Saxen, his old rival and one of his few true friends.
“You came, Alan.”
He greeted him calmly, as though expecting it, calling the unutterable name of “Lord Black” with ease.
“Why did you betray me?”
The Duke of Saxen
—Lord Black—asked coldly.
“You’ve changed,” Edgar said with a bitter smile.
“You’ve grown weak.”
“……”
“You’ve forgotten the spirit of the Black Tower—ensnared by petty notions of morality, by the so-called sanctity of life…”
You refused to become the monster of truth.
“That day, our experiment—the experiment of the Black-Red Order—could have succeeded. No, it *did* succeed.”
Edgar’s eyes gleamed as he spoke the words the Empire desperately sought to conceal—the true purpose of the Order.
“Beyond the veil of death… You touched the truth there, didn’t you?”
The truth that the Black Tower had sought ceaselessly.
“Why did you return empty-handed from that world? Why abandon the threshold of the Ninth Circle?”
The Ninth Circle—
A domain untouched even by the five Archmages at the pinnacles of the colored towers.
It was the experiment to reach that realm.
Edgar’s confession spilled out, and Alan’s expression wavered slightly.
The Emperor’s hidden agenda.
The true purpose of the Black-Red Order.
The real reason the Empire waged its bloody war to unify the continent—
To reach godhood within the body of man.
To birth an *artificial god*, a *demon-god*.
For that purpose, the Red and Black Towers had joined hands in their pursuit of power and truth.
“Why did you forsake godhood?” Edgar pressed.
Lord Black remained silent.
“Was that why you betrayed me, old friend?”
After a long silence, Alan spoke.
“Because of you, I saw what the Black Tower had become.”
Edgar’s eyes turned cold.
“A tower of cowards, afraid to stain their hands with blood. A tower whose spirit has withered and died. A master so pitiful he trembles before the weight of life!”
“I don’t wish to kill you, Edgar.”
“Oh, but you will.”
A seven-circle magician—one step below the peak that only a handful on the continent could reach.
“And when you do, you’ll become that monster again.”
“……”
“What could make you return to that monster you once were?”
The monster of old.
“Would the grief of losing your family do it?”
At that, emotion drained from Alan’s face.
Around his feet, black mana began to whirl violently.
“Ah, so I struck a nerve,” Edgar smiled. Before him stood the very monster he remembered.
“I won’t allow it.”
“Oh, you will.”
The seven-circle black mage’s grin deepened.
“By now, they’ve reached your estate.”
“……!”
Color drained from Lord Black’s face. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the faces of Elena, Lize—and his son, Dale.
“No matter how mighty you are, even as an eight-circle mage, I can hold you here long enough.”
“That will not happen.”
At those words, the lord of the Black Tower—one of the five Archmages who stood atop the continent—unleashed his *World of Thought*.
**The World of Lord Black.**
*Fwoosh!*
*Caw! Caw!*
From behind him, several birds took flight—their feathers pure black, ominous crows whose wings shed a storm of darkness through the air.
—
