**Chapter 130**
—
There was once a boy.
The boy spoke at the age of three, could skillfully use three languages including the Imperial tongue by the age of five, and by seven, even the village chief came to seek his counsel, so wise was he.
Hearing the rumor, a wandering mage came to the boy and made an offer.
*“I will show you the truth of the world. Will you come with me?”*
After some hesitation, the boy nodded.
For in this small countryside village, there was nothing left for him to learn, nothing left that could stir his interest.
Thus, becoming the mage’s disciple, the boy wandered the continent.
And at the end of that long journey, what he saw most was *death* and *war.*
Human against human.
Beast against beast.
Human against beast.
Wherever he went, strife and conflict were unending, the stench of rotting corpses and the cries of children echoing all through the night.
Watching such dreadful sights, the boy was struck with fear.
*“What if I die like that too?”*
People who perished without even knowing why they died.
From the empty expressions on their faces, the boy felt a terror that pierced deep.
Because his mind was keener than most, he felt an especially acute horror at death
—an incalculable realm beyond reason. Eventually, he fell into insomnia, unable to sleep at all.
When the boy’s fear of death had grown so strong it brought him close to death itself, a man appeared.
*“Do you fear death? I will let you escape from it.”*
The boy, startled, asked.
*“Who are you, to say such a thing?”*
The man, hood pulled low over his face, answered.
*“A demon.”*
*“…!”*
*“Or an angel, as some would call me. Is that answer enough?”*
It was the greatest shock the boy had ever known since birth, and he nodded.
*“Yes. That is enough. Please let me escape from death.”*
The hooded man’s lips curled into a smile.
*“Kill your master, and bring me his head.”*
*“…!”*
*“Then I will grant you the power to escape death.”*
The boy wrestled with the offer.
But his deliberation did not last more than three days.
On the exact tenth year since he had become the mage’s disciple
—the one who had made him into a magician
—the boy strangled his slumbering master and made his pact with the demon.
—
—
Whitebeard, facing Arthur Bayern before his eyes, felt for the first time in a long while the sensation of *fear.*
*“Even with the blood of an angel, how can he see this form and feel no terror?”*
He had lived a thousand years, yet never had he seen such a thing.
Swordmasters who had transcended mortality by seizing a blade, archmages who had realized truth and ascended like stars into the night sky—each of them had quailed before this sight.
And yet this child, alive for only seventeen short years, was smiling as he beheld it.
“Mr. Whitebeard. Your hands are trembling—are you scared?”
At that innocent remark, Whitebeard himself felt fear instead.
It was as if one of the truths he had believed for centuries was crumbling.
And he did not hide it.
“…You truly are astounding.”
“Honestly, it’s more astounding that you transformed into something like that, Mr. Whitebeard. But….”
Arthur tilted his head.
“Did you really become a demon?”
Whitebeard gave no answer. Instead, he let out a hollow laugh.
At that laugh, Arthur only shrugged.
“No intention of answering, I see. Hm… then shall we continue?”
With those words, Arthur Bayern vanished.
An instant later, Arthur appeared behind Whitebeard, swinging his blade.
Crash—!
Magic and sword-ki collided, warping a fragment of the world for a moment.
Whitebeard swept his hand, disrupting the clash.
“Hm?”
Arthur let out a gasp as his body was lifted into the air. At the same moment, his right leg was severed.
“…!”
Eyes widening, Arthur gasped.
At the sight, Whitebeard felt his earlier composure return.
*“A black mage is, by nature, one who feeds upon fear.”*
The greater the fear, the greater the magic’s strength.
Just as Whitebeard prepared to draw on the fear reflected in Arthur Bayern’s face—
“Yap!”
With a strange cry, a new leg sprouted from Arthur’s severed stump.
“…”
Whitebeard felt the return of disquiet that had just left him.
Landing on the ground, Arthur jested lightly.
“That’s dangerous, you know? Severing someone’s leg without any warning.”
And with that, a storm of Beast bullets rained forth.
Regaining focus, Whitebeard swept his hand again, deflecting them.
Watching the bizarre display, Arthur thought:
*“Scary. So this is what a real magician looks like?”*
Strictly speaking, a black mage—but that detail mattered little now.
*“Since he took that form, there are no signs before he casts his spells.”*
Every mage Arthur had seen prepared their magic with some forewarning. Black mages too.
But this demon-like figure cast spells without the slightest sign.
*“He cut off my leg with a mere glance, and blocked my bullets with a wave of his hand. Is this what true magic is?”*
Feeling a chill crawl up his spine, Arthur’s lips twisted into a grin.
Relishing that rare, exhilarating sensation, he leapt at Whitebeard once more.
At that moment, wings burst from Whitebeard’s back.
Fwoosh—!
He soared into the air, and Arthur gave chase.
In midair, Arthur unleashed a barrage from his Beast. Whitebeard deflected the shots as before.
Judging that ordinary bullets would not work, Arthur loaded the black rounds he had kept in reserve.
Whitebeard’s eyes glinted as he muttered:
“…Those are dangerous.”
And with that, Arthur’s left wrist—the hand holding the Beast—was severed.
Blood spurted like a fountain, and Arthur, startled, fell back.
Landing against the wall of a nearby building, Arthur invoked the troll’s bloodline to regenerate his wrist.
Then, using the wall as a foothold, he sprang forward once again.
Whitebeard murmured as he watched Arthur charge, unfazed even after losing his wrist.
“…Yes, that’s right. You truly don’t know fear.”
He shook his head and spread his palm.
“In a sense, you are my greatest nemesis. For to a black mage, there is no opponent more troublesome than one who knows no fear.”
With those words, a black beam shot from Whitebeard’s hand, aimed at Arthur.
“…!”
Arthur, startled, thought quickly.
*“Too late to dodge.”*
With that judgment, he swung his sword-aura-laced blade.
Boom—!
The blade-aura, said to cut through anything, split the beam in two.
But though it severed the beam, it could not block its aftermath.
“Hm?”
Bubbles erupted across Arthur’s skin, bursting into pus.
Crackle—!
From the pus crawled grotesque insects, gnawing at his flesh.
Arthur stared at the bugs squirming under his eyes and held his breath.
Bang—!
In an instant, a burst of blood swept the crawling insects away.
Whitebeard’s eyes narrowed.
*“Troll bloodline, and vampire lord bloodline… together they’re all but immortal.”*
Then Arthur raised his blade again.
“Mr. Whitebeard, you’re amazing. To cast magic like that.”
“…You understand magic?”
“Not much. But I know it shouldn’t be possible to cast it like that.”
Whitebeard chuckled.
“Correct. Ordinary magic cannot be invoked in such a way. But black magic is different. With enough fear, black magic can do anything.”
Arthur tilted his head.
“Born of fear, you say?”
“Yes. No black mage can escape that shackle. The power of magic shifts depending on the fear the opponent feels.”
Arthur let out a laugh.
“Ah. So that’s why your magic wasn’t as impressive as I thought.”
Whitebeard did not deny it.
“Indeed. I’m quite flustered, since it’s the first time I’ve met someone like you—one who feels no fear at all.”
With those words, Whitebeard smiled.
“Which is why, from this moment, I have decided to feel fear myself.”
“…?”
“Right now, I am terribly afraid, Arthur Bayern.”
Arthur’s eyes widened.
At the same moment, Whitebeard’s right hand severed his own left hand.
Fwoosh—!
Blood sprayed as Whitebeard lifted the severed hand.
It disintegrated into fragments of flesh, glowing red, and traced a vast circle in the air.
Arthur’s mouth fell open at the sight.
Then blood-tears streamed from Whitebeard’s eyes.
“I feel fear of you, who knows no fear. I feel fear at the loss of my own arm.”
“….”
“My heart trembles in this unprecedented moment, and in the absurdity of now, I feel as though it will stop.”
As if confessing his sins, Whitebeard’s words poured out.
For the first time, Arthur felt unease.
*“Danger. This is truly dangerous.”*
He did not ignore the warning.
He sprang up and swung his blade.
Watching, Whitebeard cried out, his voice breaking.
“I feel like I might die of fear, Arthur Bayern. So please—die for me!”
As his cry rang out, Arthur’s sword touched Whitebeard’s throat.
Or rather, it *felt* as though it did.
“…!”
Arthur’s mouth parted slightly.
*“Time… has stopped?”*
It was not a slowing of time—it had simply *ceased.*
In that strange stillness, Arthur blinked. Whitebeard extended a hand.
His skeletal hand brushed Arthur’s cheek gently.
Arthur’s gaze sharpened at the unpleasant touch, but Whitebeard spoke.
“There are rumors about me, you know.”
“…Rumors?”
“You must have heard them. That a black mage who lived a thousand years destroyed an entire nation.”
Arthur’s eyes widened.
“Wha—That was real?”
Whitebeard smiled softly.
As he withdrew his hand from Arthur’s cheek, he said:
“Legends and tales are sometimes true.”
Arthur shivered.
Suddenly, an ear-splitting roar shook the world.
Arthur frowned, looking up.
And gasped.
“…Huh?”
Above the ceiling of the underground city—
A meteor was descending.
Rumble—!
As it neared the ground, everything around it burned to ash.
Arthur’s mouth hung open at the sight. Whitebeard lowered his head and whispered:
“This is the magic that destroyed a nation. Do not die, Arthur Bayern.”
With those words, Whitebeard vanished.
Arthur struggled frantically, but his frozen body would not move.
The meteor was nearly upon him.
Arthur stopped struggling, looked at it, and sighed.
“…Hah. Getting crushed by a meteor—this is a first.”
And just as fear flickered across his face—
Crash—!
The falling meteor swallowed everything.
—
—
Whitebeard stroked his beard, laughing hollowly.
“Hah… Everything returns to nothing.”
The underground city of Arcane, built with a century’s effort, was gone without a trace.
Not a figure of speech—truly, everything had vanished.
Of course, given the spell he had cast, that was to be expected.
*“Never thought I’d unleash that magic here.”*
Meteor Strike—the spell that had once annihilated a nation, now reduced to legend.
He had used it against a single man.
Yet he felt no regret.
For Arthur Bayern was to him a thoroughly alien existence.
*“To feel no fear… In all my life, there will never again be such a madman.”*
At that moment, Whitebeard coughed blood.
The rotten blood stained his beard red.
Struggling to stay conscious, he muttered:
“…There is no time. Death has come.”
A thousand years ago, through a pact with a demon, he had escaped death.
But he had only escaped—not defeated it.
Though he had seized power that could shake the world, he was still human.
Still bound to mortality, he was slowly dying.
Trembling in the same dreadful fear he had once felt a millennium ago, Whitebeard walked on.
How long did he walk?
Tap—!
At last, he reached a massive crater—the impact site of the meteor. At its heart lay a yawning wormhole.
Whitebeard leapt lightly into it.
Ssshhhhh—!
After a long descent, he reached the ground.
He lifted his head to see the wormhole’s center.
There lay a naked man, sleeping soundly.
*“Even with time-reversal cast, to survive unscathed like that….”*
The troll’s bloodline. The vampire lord’s bloodline. No wonder they were called near-immortal.
Then rain began to fall, streaming through the broken ceiling above.
Ssshhhhh—!
In the downpour, Whitebeard walked toward Arthur Bayern.
The rampaging beast of moments ago lay motionless, utterly defenseless.
Smiling, Whitebeard approached with ease.
“Bon appétit.”
With a low prayer, he opened his mouth.
And in that state, he swallowed Arthur’s head whole.
Gulp, gulp—!
His throat and stomach bulged grotesquely.
Arthur’s frame was large, and it took time to consume him.
But Whitebeard paid it no mind, focusing on devouring him to the end.
Finally, in the pouring rain, Whitebeard finished swallowing Arthur.
Rising to his feet—tap, tap, tap—he tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and belched.
“…Burp.”
Chuckling, Whitebeard murmured:
“Bon appétit.”
—
