Duke Komalon—■■■—found himself reminiscing about distant memories.  

Memories so old their colors had faded, becoming relics of the past.  

These fragments surfaced only when the Duke occasionally dreamed while sleeping.  

They were glimpses of a time when he was still an apprentice under his master, a True Mage.  

“Don’t leave any vegetables behind; eat them all.”  

“Never neglect your practice of manifestation.”  

“Let’s go for an outing.”  

“■■ was far better than you! Why on earth did you bring this worthless husk here?”  

The memories that trickled through his mind were unremarkable.  

They included moments of sharing meals with his master, being scolded about magic, going on outings, and his master defending him, despite being deemed inferior to other apprentices.  

These were memories anyone might have, unassuming, mundane.  

Yet, to Duke Komalon, these fragments were more precious than anything.  

However, the Duke, ■■■, did not particularly cherish these memories.  

Because at their end, these fragments always converged on a single moment.  

The scenes of memory would flip, and—  

“It can’t be helped. The moment the soul of this world overflowed, there was no turning back.”  

His master’s voice would echo, as it did now.  

“!”  

Startled by the familiar voice, the Duke snapped out of his reverie.  

Realizing he had momentarily lost consciousness, he quickly assessed his physical state.  

His condition was dire. His right arm was gone, and his abdomen had a gaping hole.  

Yet, the Duke’s focus was elsewhere.  

He lifted his head to look forward.  

Standing there was a man clad in a dust-covered, dark coat, gazing down at him with an expression devoid of emotion. It was Marquis Palatio.  

Like the Duke, this half-finished Mage stood blocking his path amidst the ashen world.  

“How in the world did you use a Sentence?”  

Marquis Palatio’s tone betrayed no hint of emotion.  

The Duke could not comprehend.  

There was no doubt the Marquis had used a Sentence.  

“Even if it wasn’t through Formula or Manifestation, that was undoubtedly a Sentence. How could someone like you—another half-finished Mage—possibly achieve this?”  

It was a mystery beyond understanding.  

The Marquis had wielded a Sentence.  

Even if he hadn’t mastered Formula or reached the level of Manifestation, he had nonetheless invoked its effects.  

But this didn’t mean Palatio was a complete Mage.  

No matter how much he grasped the fundamentals of Sentences or achieved Manifestation, without mastery over Formula, he could never become a True Mage.  

He was, indisputably, a half-finished Mage.  

A half-finished Mage, like the Duke himself, who had inherited Sentences from a Mage.  

“…Ha.”  

And yet, the Duke couldn’t understand it.  

■■■ ■ let out a hollow laugh.  

“You, who’ve inherited even a Sentence—why are you stopping me? Me, who carries the hopes of every Mage?”  

Surely, the Marquis had seen it too.  

The end of this world.  

The inescapable apocalypse.  

And surely, he must have known.  

That the True Mages had sacrificed everything to protect this world from its demise.  

This thought elicited bitter laughter from the Duke.  

At the half-finished Mage who sought to undo the world that all the True Mages had given their lives to preserve, he felt an unbearable sense of futility.  

So when he began weaving the seal—  

“…”  

A sudden and unconscious sense of danger forced him to defend himself with a shield.  

And then—  

Boom!  

As he was slammed into the ground, what he saw was—  

“Master~! You’re a little late!”  

—a blood-soaked figure who had shattered the very ideals the Duke had crafted.  

However, the Duke’s task did not change just because she joined the battle.  

“Convergence.”  

The Duke, ■■■, formed a seal to kill him.

***

The battle continued.  

“Point, dispersion, scattering, firmament.”  

From Duke Komalon’s lips flowed an unending stream of incantations.  

These were fragments of magic he had accumulated over centuries of living in silence, honing his craft.  

A magic unique to him, born from lack of innate talent.  

In the dark, ashen world, a river of stars unfolded.  

Though he had not inherited a Sentence, it was precisely for this reason that he could achieve such skill.  

Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of orbs rose into the air, forming a meteor shower that descended toward the earth.  

With them came a faded memory, one that could surface only in dreams.  

A voice emerged within his mind.  

“■■■, it’s fortunate you never became a True Mage.”  

Even as the memory and its voice surfaced, the magic rained down upon the beast-kin who had shattered his ideals.  

It descended upon the half-finished Mage who sought to undo the will of True Mages.  

“If you aren’t a Mage, it’s just a futile death. That’s why I’m entrusting this to you instead.”  

The voice from the faint memory rang in his ears.  

And then—  

Crackle!  

Amidst golden flashes of lightning—  

“Clear sky.”  

The Marquis evaded the magic with ease, his expression as detached as if the situation posed no threat.  

“Stay alive. Protect this world. The world we Mages gave our lives to shield.”  

The Duke recalled his master’s final words.  

A memory long buried.  

“Haah—”  

Exhaling a shallow sigh, Duke Komalon gazed ahead.  

He knew.  

His speed in reciting incantations was far greater. The pace at which he manifested magic was equally unmatched.  

By all measures, he was stronger than the half-finished Mage before him.  

And yet, his magic could not reach his opponent.  

The fragments of magic he had refined over centuries were ineffective against the half-finished Mage who was just like him.  

This time was no different.  

“…”  

Duke Komalon stared at him.  

The Marquis bore noticeably more minor wounds than before. The ground was littered with countless shattered glass vials.  

But the Marquis’s expression remained stoic, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his dust-covered dark coat, standing resolute.  

By contrast, the Duke’s condition was dire.  

The injury to his right hand from a moment of carelessness was steadily draining his strength. The hole in his abdomen was clearly robbing him of life.  

Yet even with death looming, no pain showed on his face.  

Instead, he chuckled faintly and spoke.  

“You know this, don’t you?”  

Calmly.  

“How foolish your actions are.”  

He opened his mouth to speak.  

“Even if you’ve inherited a Sentence… if you survived without receiving its essence, you must know. Soon, those things will rise, and the world will meet its end.”  

There was no emotion in his voice.  

“When the souls are full, there’s less than half a year left. If we don’t bring order to this world and humanity within that time, they’ll emerge.”  

No trace of anger could be detected.  

“You know this. And yet, are you really going to render the sacrifices of the True Mages, who gave everything to protect this world, meaningless?”  

His words were steady.  

Unwavering.  

He simply asked.  

But even in the face of the Duke’s question, the Marquis’s face remained serene.  

As if his words carried no weight, no resonance.  

The Marquis, devoid of any trace of emotion, finally opened his mouth.  

“Am I the one making the sacrifices of the True Mages meaningless?”  

His voice was plain, questioning.  

The Duke let out another bitter laugh.  

“You must know. This world survives only because of the sacrifices of the True Mages.”  

***

The Marquis, silent, continued to gaze at Duke Komalon.  

His gaze was calm.  

Yet, paradoxically, it seemed to carry an undertone of anger.  

Alon forced his sluggish mind to work in that fleeting moment.  

Was what the Duke had just said true?  

He couldn’t know.  

Then, was it a lie?  

He couldn’t know that either.  

Unfortunately, Alon was not the half-finished Mage that the Duke mistakenly believed him to be.  

He was simply an outsider—a foreign entity.  

Someone who encountered this world as a game called Psychedelia.  

Someone who knew none of this world’s hidden past.  

In the strictest sense, he was merely an outsider.  

For this reason, he couldn’t make a judgment.  

The words of the man before him—  

The words spoken by a half-finished Mage—  

He couldn’t discern whether they were truth or lies.  

“Answer me. Do you have a way to avoid rendering the True Mages’s sacrifices meaningless?”  

Alon remained silent in response to Duke Komalon’s question.  

Even if everything the Duke said was true, Alon didn’t have the capacity to render judgment.  

He wasn’t extraordinary enough to swiftly grasp the truth—or falsehood—of a world he had only just begun to understand.  

He was, after all, merely an outsider.  

But there was one thing Alon was certain of.  

One judgment he could make.  

The man before him must be stopped here and now.  

Because Duke Komalon’s purpose lay in the annihilation of humanity—or some similar grand design.  

“I see.”  

The Duke murmured quietly at Alon’s silence.  

Alon, once again, didn’t reply.  

The two locked eyes and simultaneously began weaving their seals.  

Both had come to the same realization.  

There was no point in continuing this conversation.  

Alon checked his mana reserves.  

Thanks to the vials of potion he had downed earlier, his mana pool had already recovered significantly during their brief exchange.  

At that moment, both of them began reciting their incantations simultaneously.  

“Diffraction.”  

“Blossom.”  

This battle was no longer about right or wrong.  

“Point.”  

“Flourish.”  

It was not a confrontation to discern who was virtuous.  

“Condense.”  

“Cultivate.”  

Nor to determine who was wicked.  

“Annihilation.”  

“Disperse.”  

This was simply a clash of two opposing beliefs.  

At the culmination of their respective magics—  

“I will kill you and achieve my purpose. The True Mages’ aspirations, my—”  

Duke Komalon opened his mouth.  

“Conviction.”  

And manifested his magic.  

The petals scattered around him suddenly spread outward, corroding the surrounding atmosphere and erasing everything as if wiped clean with an eraser.  

In the bloom of that overwhelming magical flower, Alon stood.  

For a brief moment, he thought.  

And then—  

“I,”  

He spoke softly.  

“Refuse.”  

With a snap of his fingers.  

Then, with a searing white tinnitus that seemed to devour the ears of all who heard it—  

The two beliefs collided.  

The convictions of two half-finished Mages came crashing together.  

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep