Chapter 98

Chapter 98
For the first time in almost two years, Mikardo was back at the Magic Tower. His original intention had been to handle a few urgent tasks and then depart without delay. The motive was straightforward: three years prior, he had uncovered a captivating structure of magic.

It seemed to be a relic from the lost age of the gods—a discovery so remarkable it could possibly enable him to shatter the confines of the eighth tier and reach the realm beyond.

Consequently, Mikardo, after journeying exhaustively throughout the empire’s domains (though avoiding the presently sealed-off Imperial sectors), meant only to collect a few essential artifacts before setting off once more.

“Tower Master, I’ve heard something rather amusing,” reported a professor from the Blue Tower, drawing near.

“What is it?”

“It appears someone has developed feelings for the Deputy Tower Master.”

“Is that so?”

Had the information come from anyone other than a professor Mikardo trusted, he likely would have dismissed it entirely.

“Go on,” Mikardo urged, his interest piqued.

The professor then laid out a thorough account, describing the entire sequence of events.

“So, that’s the situation.”

“Oh?”

Once the professor finished, Celaime Mikardo nodded several times, his expression shifting to one of keen amusement. Then, with a tone of genuine curiosity, he inquired, “But ultimately, didn’t Penia refute it entirely?”

“Technically, yes. But you know what they say—the most forceful denial can sometimes be the clearest admission.”

“A forceful denial is an admission…”

Celaime thoughtfully stroked his beard.

‘Could that really apply to Penia?’
Without meaning to, he started to visualize Penia.

She was, without doubt, a dazzlingly gifted student, a fact that even Celaime, an acknowledged genius himself, had to concede. Yet, she possessed a fierce, stubborn temperament and a deep-seated pride that made her challenging to handle.

The more he considered it, the more he thought that if anyone would behave in such a manner, it would be Penia.

It was completely plausible that she would reject something as innate as affection, branding it a “weakness,” simply because she was the first to acknowledge it.

“It’s true… If we’re talking about Penia, that does sound like her.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Celaime nodded in confirmation, remembering Penia’s relentless drive to prevail at all costs. Even if she denied it with every fiber of her being, her arrogance made it highly unlikely she would ever confess to such emotions willingly.

Naturally, if Penia had been listening to this exchange, she would likely have flown into a rage, potentially unleashing spells upon the entire tower.

Blissfully unaware of that potential outcome, Celaime pondered for a moment before speaking.

“In that situation, perhaps I should offer some assistance?”

“Well, I think that could be a good thing.”

Considering the professor’s words, Celaime emitted a thoughtful sound and began to deliberate. For a man like him, who had dedicated his whole existence to the pursuit of magic and showed little curiosity for other matters, the notion of his obstinate, proud pupil forming a romantic connection was undeniably entertaining.

“Penia admiring someone… Hmm, now that you mention it, haven’t those two been involved with each other for quite a while?”

Celaime dug up a faded memory, one he had nearly lost due to his single-minded focus on magical research.

“If I recall correctly, wasn’t it that noble who got rid of the poem…? Yes, I remember Penia seeming unusually downcast at that time.”

Revisiting these old memories, Celaime, a detached middle-aged onlooker, found the entire scenario increasingly delightful. With a smile that indicated a firm decision, he stated,

“In that case, I might as well provide some assistance in my own fashion. I’ll meet with them first and then assess the situation.”

He smiled, as if he had settled on a plan.

***

Meanwhile, Penia, completely unaware of the Tower Master’s discreet return, was in the throes of another furious episode.

“What?! It happened again?”

“Y-Yes, ma’am.”

“Lost? Again?! Another one?!”

“Well, I conducted all the standard checks, and everything was perfectly in order right up until departure…”

“I gave instructions for daily inspections!”

“I did! I checked every single day without fail! But when we reached the tower earlier today, it was just… gone…”

“How is that even possible?!”

After three straight months of recurring losses, Penia’s mental resilience was nearing total disintegration.

“Ughhh!!”

Her irritation burst forth, and as her fury peaked, the mental image of a man with an emotionless face flickered through her thoughts.

“Aaaaagh!!”

She let out a scream of pure frustration.

Outside the window, the weather was still clear and bright.

***

Shortly after, Alon, who was thoroughly confused by the unexpected arrivals of Seolrang and Deus, had barely begun to make sense of the situation when another voice cut in.

“Huh? Oh!”

Filian Merquillan, who had materialized behind Alon, initially looked bewildered before his face brightened with realization.

“Incredible—could you be the First Sword of Caliban and the First Baba Yaga of Colony?”

Despite the severe and unyielding expressions worn by Deus and Seolrang, Filian radiated enthusiasm and spoke as if seeking confirmation.

“I’ve been hoping to meet you both for so long—this is wonderful!”

A bright, cheerful smile spread across his face. However, when he saw that their stern demeanors had not softened, Filian looked confused.

“Is something the matter?”

It was then that Deus, who had been silent until that point, finally spoke.

“Did you not state that Marquis Palatio, our patron, was weak?”

“Huh, yes?”

“Marquis Palatio is not weak.”

“Is that right?”

Filian shot a sly look in Alon’s direction before turning back to reply,

“From my observation, he appears quite weak.”

“Do you have a death wish?”

At that moment, a frigid, lethal intent radiated from Deus.

‘This seems excessive.’

Surprisingly, it was Alon, not Filian, who was startled by the intensity of the response. Certainly, being called weak wasn’t pleasant, but it hardly seemed to call for such a deadly reaction.

“Isn’t this a bit of an overreaction—”

Just as Alon moved to intervene and defuse the tension, Filian cut him off.

“Well, maybe I am mistaken. But I would like to test myself against the First Sword of Caliban to be sure. Would you permit it? If Deus is victorious, I will acknowledge Marquis Palatio’s strength without any further doubt.”

“Agreed.”

Before Alon could finish speaking, the two men acted in unison, striding out of the banquet hall without a second thought.

It was over in an instant.

While the duel was supposedly to defend Alon’s honor, he had been given no opportunity to voice an opinion. Now, as he made his way to the dueling grounds, a swishing tail followed closely behind him.

“So, an aide, is it?”

“Yep! I hadn’t planned on attending, but when I found out my mentor would be here, I decided to come!”

Seolrang flashed a cheerful grin, as if to say, ‘Pretty impressive, right?’

Hearing the explanation for Seolrang and Deus’s presence, Alon found himself nodding in understanding. It was logical for both of them to be at the gathering.

Deus was, after all, the First Sword of Caliban, and Seolrang was the First Baba Yaga of the desert city, Colony.

Even so, one concern lingered.

‘Is it truly acceptable to cause a disturbance like this?’
He looked ahead at Deus and Filian, who were making their final preparations for the duel.

The banquet hall was sparsely attended, so the audience was small, but the fact that aides were publicly dueling could stir debate regardless of the reason. His initial instinct had been to step in and stop it.

But the moment had passed. Engaged in conversation with Seolrang, he had already arrived at the dueling grounds, where the two opponents had their swords ready. The opportunity to intervene was gone.

So, Alon rationalized to himself:

‘Well, it’s only a sparring match. It shouldn’t cause a major scandal.’
Having reached that conclusion, he resolved to simply observe the duel while privately turning over his own thoughts.

“Who is going to win?”

No, Alon promptly corrected his own question.

“How long will he be able to last?”

Although he knew both were Swordmasters, the result felt preordained. Even within that rank, there were clear gradations of power. Deus, who had even bested Reinhardt, would not be defeated by Filian, a recently ascended Swordmaster.

“He probably isn’t even expecting to win… or is he?”

Filian’s gaze was locked on Deus, brimming with competitive fire and an indomitable will to fight. Seeing this, Alon found himself nodding almost without realizing it.

Filian was demonstrating the exact same tenacity Alon had seen back in Psychedelia—a refusal to accept defeat, no matter how vast the gap in power. He would struggle to the very end, clutching at the faintest possibility of victory until his final breath.

‘Seeing it in games was one thing, but in real life, his character is… quite something.’
As Alon watched Filian’s blazing resolve, the rules for the duel were announced.

“The rules are straightforward: the fight continues until one participant concedes. When this dagger lands, the match will start.”

Wearing a calm smile, Filian threw a dagger from his belt high into the air. The blade caught the light of the low sun, glinting as it twisted and fell.

Then—

Thud.
The moment the dagger’s hilt struck the ground—

Crack!
The duel concluded.

“What?”

A stunned Filian took a second to comprehend his position. He was lying inelegantly on the ground, completely defeated without having grasped what occurred.

As his sight cleared, he looked up and saw—

Deus Maccalian.

The Swordmaster stood over him, weapon in hand, looking down. Filian’s bewilderment was replaced by a throbbing pain in his cheek. Then, the realization hit him:

He had been defeated.

Not just defeated—he hadn’t even managed a single swing of his sword. He had been utterly powerless.

“Ha…”

Filian released a bleak, empty laugh as the full impact of his loss settled over him.

Another person in his place might have responded in one of two ways:

Many would have fallen into despair, crushed by the realization that their diligently honed swordsmanship had been made irrelevant in an instant.

Others would have rejected the truth, deifying Deus Maccalian as an impossible standard and rationalizing their defeat as unavoidable. They would cling to excuses to protect themselves from the devastating blow to their spirit.

Because without those defenses, they would shatter.

But—

“Ha… haha…”

Filian did not break, nor did he deny what had happened. He selected a third option.

“Wow, truly… I have no words.”

Determination.

Even after being felled in a single move, after understanding he was not remotely in Deus’s league, Filian rekindled his fighting spirit and lifted his sword once more.

As Filian’s blood heated with renewed resolve—

‘What is this?’
Alon, watching from the sidelines, looked at Deus with sheer incredulity.

He had been aware. He knew Deus was powerful—powerful enough to defeat Reinhardt. But even with that knowledge, the reality of Deus dispatching Filian, a warrior stronger than many Swordmasters, in a single heartbeat, defied his imagination.

“Is this… what pure talent looks like?”

For a moment, Alon was rendered silent, awestruck by Deus’s ridiculous power, a strength that seemed to have transcended human limits in only a few short years. Then, his expression softened into one of pride.

A part of him, as someone who could scarcely manage a single spell, felt a pang of envy for Deus’s overwhelming gift, but another part of him swelled with the pride of a father watching his child accomplish incredible things.

Soon, however, his admiration found a new target.

Now, it was Filian who commanded his respect.

“Ugh!”

Even after being defeated five consecutive times, each loss coming from a single strike, Filian stubbornly rose to his feet, refusing to stay down.

By the fifth round:

“Again!”

Alon could see the fierce, unextinguished determination burning in Filian’s eyes.

By the tenth round:

“I’m not done!”

By the fifteenth round:

“You are unbelievably strong—”

By the twentieth round:

“Uh, could you wait a moment?”

For the first time, Filian raised a hand, attempting to call for a pause.

But Deus, offering no verbal response, sent him sprawling once more.

“No, please hold on—”

Crack!
“Just wait—”

Thwack!
“Let me just—”

Crack!
By the time they had gone through thirty more exchanges, with Filian unable to complete a sentence between impacts, Alon finally intervened.

“Deus, I think that’s enough now.”

“Understood.”

Or more accurately, Alon had to step in when Filian’s determination finally shattered, and the duel deteriorated into a pure, one-sided beating.

By that point, Alon witnessed something astonishing:

The perpetually determined Filian—who, even when facing impossible odds, would fight to his last gasp as if hardwired to never surrender—

“I apologize! I was entirely mistaken! I promise I will never do this again, I swear!”

—had been completely and utterly broken.

***

That very night, at the assembly of the six kings of the Allied Kingdoms:

“So, where is this magnificent Swordmaster of yours? The one you praised so highly?”

“…Ahem.”

Alon, positioned behind Critenia Siyan, saw King Shtalian V of Ashtalon wearing a deeply irritated expression, his forehead creased with displeasure.

When their eyes accidentally met, Alon swiftly looked away, unable to endure the king’s accusatory stare.