Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Murdering the Fiancée

A man once ascended to the pinnacle of sorcery through nothing but pure, unadulterated hatred.

His name was Ferda Rosnova.

Born as the third son into the esteemed Rosnova family of knights, he possessed an exceptionally weak constitution. Being the offspring of a concubine—and bearing azure eyes rather than the lineage’s traditional brown—even the manor’s servants made a sport of looking down upon him.

Eventually, when Ferda reached the age of eighteen, his father, Erembalt Rosnova, delivered a definitive piece of news.

“Arrangements have been completed for your betrothal to the Archduchess of Valdrova.”

To any uninitiated observer, it might have appeared to be a standard political alliance. Among high society, however, an engagement to the Archduchess of Valdrova was an open metaphor: an outright execution order.

Accepting the match was tantamount to striding straight into a grave, whereas refusing meant directly defying the family and suffering banishment.

“I will take my leave, exactly as you desire, Father.”

“Very well.”

Placing his survival above all else, Ferda chose life—even if that necessitated severing ties with the Rosnova lineage and heading into the bitter wilderness alone.

A crushing sense of abandonment took root within the youth’s heart. He could never forgive the older brothers who had demeaned him, nor the servants who had ridiculed him. Yet the individual who provoked his deepest fury was his own father.

You witnessed how desperately I struggled…

To earn recognition as a legitimate member of the household, he had forced his frail body through relentless daily training. He had pushed himself until he spat blood, covering his hands in rough calluses. He still remembered the approving glance his father had occasionally directed at him during those early years.

Yet as his martial growth remained completely stagnant over time, that parental expression had shifted. It was as though his father realized he had wasted time nurturing a worthless parasite. By the moment of his expulsion, the gaze his father cast upon him was indistinguishable from one looking at garbage.

Even after departing, that look burned vividly in his memory.

I will never forgive you.

I will make every single one of you regret casting me aside.

Ferda clenched his fists with immense force. In that exact instant, he sensed an energy stirring and breaking open deep within his core. It was the breakthrough of a Circle—the ring where magical energy rotates within the Dantian.

Awakening as a Mage is universally regarded as a blessing across the Serdes Continent, where gaining magical talent immediately elevates one’s social standing.

Yet awakening as late as eighteen, just as Ferda had, was generally viewed as a misfortune. It was far behind the standard schedule.

Every spellcaster relies on internal reserve as their foundational power. To master this art, one typically undergoes rigorous instruction from early childhood. Without that foundational base established in youth, learning the craft later in life demands exponentially more suffering.

Under normal circumstances that held true, but for Ferda, a delayed awakening posed no true barrier. The driving force pulling his mana forth was none other than an all-consuming hatred and a desire for retribution.

Look at him trying to mimic a Mage at his age.

He promised total obedience, so we will use him as a convenient servant until graduation.

The senior spellcasters who mocked him and the arrogant juniors merely added fuel to his inner fire. Because of his late start, sources of spite surrounded him on every side.

Keep yapping. I will see to it that you all bow and lick my boots clean!

His fixation on vengeance never wavered; rather, it fortified him with every passing day. Soon, he not only outstripped the most gifted apprentices but effortlessly eclipsed the master who had taken him in. For years afterward, his boots remained spotless and polished to a blinding shine.

Ferda grew convinced that this power was a divine gift.

The more I loathe someone, the more powerful I become.

The world offered an endless supply of things to detest. As his strength climbed at a terrifying pace, his temperament grew increasingly savage.

By the time he ascended to the rank of Archmage—a wielder of the 6th Circle, a tier achieved by fewer than a hundred individuals across the entire continent—he finally crossed the point of no return. Returning to the Rosnova estate that had discarded him, he slaughtered everyone.

He forced the treacherous servants who had mocked him to take up blades and butcher one another. He engineered a bitter feud between his eldest and second brothers, inflaming their mutual animosity until they annihilated each other.

His father, the core of his initial torment, was compelled to witness every moment. Watching his entire life’s work crumble to ash, Erembalt completely shattered, wandering the living realm as an empty, broken phantom.

What surged within Ferda’s chest was unbridled catharsis.

…There are still enemies remaining.

He had descended completely into madness, transforming into a monster guided solely by spite.

I have to eradicate them all. To accomplish that, I require far greater strength.

The rage that had consumed his family did not extinguish; it merely redirected outward, burning hotter than before. Driven past endurance by his cruelty, various forces drew their weapons against him. He became the continent’s public enemy, targeted by dozens of assassination plots.

Yet every trial only served to elevate Ferda’s power.

Eventually, Ferda attained the highest pinnacle reachable by a mortal. He was merely forty-five years old. At that relatively young age, he reached the 8th Circle, earning the title of Mana Lord. He stood as the sole Archmage across the land, holding the entire world under his heel.

It remains insufficient.

Even with everything subjugated beneath him, the fire within his soul refused to die down. The flame constantly whispered:

They despise me still. One day, they will attempt to take my life again.

Knowing the endless cycle of vengeance all too well, Ferda could never permit that.

To render them powerless… I must obliterate every last one.

Aiming to forge an absolute sanctuary, he sought the domain of the divine. Following five years of intense study, he discovered the vital component required to step into that realm:

The heart of a Red Dragon.

It felt like a grotesque twist of destiny.

The Archduchess of Valdrova.

His supposed betrothed, whose name Erembalt had utilized as the excuse for his exile, was in truth a Red Dragon.

“Destiny is truly merciless.”

Remarkably, it was the dragon—the supreme entity on the continent—who uttered these words.

Crimson scales, magnificent horns, a terrifying presence, and wings capable of blotting out the sky were the emblems of her majesty. Yet now, she lay broken. Her scales were torn away, her horns shattered, and thick streams of blood flowed from her wounds.

The single Mage before her was the one who had brought a beast capable of toppling entire empires to the brink of death.

Ferda offered a cold, hollow sneer. Even though he had pushed the dragon to the edge of ruin, his own physical state was battered and exhausted.

“You would do best to perish quietly by my hand, Valdrova.”

“For centuries, long before your birth, I have never revealed myself or brought harm to mortal kind. Thus… I cannot fathom why you carry such profound hatred toward me.”

“You claim innocence?”

Her tranquil composure infuriated him, sparking fresh rage within his chest.

“You are the ultimate source of my suffering!”

From the moment he was offered up for that engagement, every step of his life had been warped. Ferda unleashed his accumulated fury:

“Because of you! Because of your ridiculous desire for a partner, my family had the flawless excuse to throw me away!”

“Was that… truly my fault?”

“Indeed! Because of your pointless vanity! A ferocious beast demanding a human mate brought about all of this misfortune, do you hear me?!”

Ferda let out a sharp breath, followed by a bitter chuckle.

“Yet I must also thank you. Had that not happened, I never would have reached this pinnacle.”

“Is that how it is…”

Valdrova’s expression shifted strangely. Was she enraged? Was she preparing a desperate counterattack? It hardly mattered. Channeling his twisted wrath, he gathered his magical energy, ready to retaliate.

“Yes. I understand now.”

Her colossal form shifted as she raised her razor-sharp talons—weapons capable of slicing through armored knights with ease. Ferda reacted by instinctively weaving a spell circle, resolved to drag her down even if he fell in the process.

Yet her claws did not strike at Ferda.

Squelch!

Her talons tore directly into her own chest. Ferda froze in shock. What purpose was there in self-mutilation? She ripped through her durable dragon hide, laying bare her internal organs.

“You stated your magic requires my heart, correct?”

Snap!

The sound of ruptured vessels echoed. Ferda realized she was attempting to rip out her own core.

Panicking, he unleashed a barrage of destructive spells directly toward her face.

“Stop, you filthy lizard! Cease this instantly!”

He could not allow the heart to be destroyed; it was his sole path to the 9th Circle, a prize he could never afford to lose.

The protective scales shielding her skull shattered into dust, yet her hands never paused. The gruesome tearing of muscle and vessels pressed on.

“Did you not say you needed my heart?”

Her claws drew back from her chest cavity, grasping a mass of flesh larger than Ferda’s entire head.

“…The heart?”

It remained completely undamaged. Her action was not an act of destruction, but an extraction.

“Take it.”

Her mangled head spoke. Ordinarily, he would have seized the prize without hesitation. Yet his mind went blank, incapable of processing her intention. He could only stare at the pulsating organ in disbelief.

“Why… why would you do this?” Ferda muttered. “If you had fought to the bitter end… you could have easily ended my life. You surely knew that.”

“Had I resisted with all my might… you would certainly have fallen alongside me. I was aware.”

“Then why surrender it?”

“Because my existence brought you nothing but misery.”

Ferda stood entirely paralyzed. Valdrova lacked the remaining strength to hold her head upright.

“For ages… I have despised what I am.”

A deep sorrow permeated her faint words.

“I loathed the violent blood coursing through my veins, and the irrational urges to destroy everything around me. Most of all, I hated that my presence brought terror to mortals.”

The brilliance faded from her golden eyes. A massive drop swelled within them and slid down her snout—a tear.

Unlike humans, dragons do not weep over simple sorrow; yet this single tear seemed forged from pure grief.

“Had I simply died, peace would have prevailed, yet I dared to crave personal joy while living… My foolish longing brought torment to far too many souls.”

Her failing voice grew softer:

“Since my selfishness brought you ruin—I wish for you to find happiness through my demise. This is the final gift… I can grant you.”

“Find happiness, my fiancé…”

With those final words, Valdrova, the feared sovereign of the continent, breathed her last.

Ferda stood in silence. For the first time since embarking on the path of a Mage, a peculiar numbness replaced his usual burning wrath.

Why does this feel so vile?

He laid a hand over his chest. He was a ruthless monster who had walked over mountains of corpses to seize absolute power, devoid of morality or empathy.

Yet her passing weighed upon him like an inescapable curse.

Stop thinking, Ferda.

Push forward. Seize what you came for. You passed the point of return long ago.

He took up the extracted Dragon’s Heart, the catalyst to the fabled 9th Circle that could transform an Archmage into a Demigod.

He would absorb its power and continue waging war against everything that had wronged him, even if he no longer recalled why he had begun.

Ferda drew the ancient Essence into his core. As the primordial energy coursed through him, his blood surged with heat. Alongside the vast power, an overwhelming realization washed over his consciousness.

This is…

He was experiencing the memories of Valdrova’s life.

Are these her true emotions?

Before he could resist, her feelings merged entirely with his own soul.

“Ah…”

He gasped aloud. His mind cleared with sudden lucidity. The hatred and spite that had fueled his ascent vanished into nothingness.

Had her blood cleansed his spirit?

No.

The emotions radiating from the heart were far deeper—a profound emptiness that dwarfed his own petty grudges.

She was a creature that had endured thousands of years without ever receiving love, branded by mortals as a beast of pure destruction and a tyrannical calamity.

Contrasted against her immense sorrow, Ferda realized how pathetically small his own hatred had been.

“Ah…”

A quiet breath escaped his lips as true clarity returned to him for the first time.

“What… what have I done?”

Blinded by spite, he had destroyed countless innocent lives and leveled entire communities. Was this truly the path he had wanted?

Ferda collapsed to his knees, his past flashing before his eyes.

The 1st Circle had been born from the pain of rejection. The 2nd Circle from the fury of being deemed untalented. Envy, spite, resentment, and treachery had formed the foundation of every tier he had achieved.

He had betrayed others without hesitation, rising to an 8th Circle Archmage solely on a foundation of malice.

And the emotion accompanying his ascension to the 9th Circle was…

Complete void.

Everything had lost its purpose. At the same time, an overwhelming regret gripped him. Valdrova had revealed the utter futility of his entire existence.

“Foolish, reckless woman…”

He tried to despise her, but no magical power answered his attempt. He knew deep down that he was only lying to himself; the true fool had been him all along.

She had only been an excuse. Erembalt would have exiled him under any pretext, yet Ferda had directed all his fury toward an innocent being.

Valdrova had accepted his blame and genuinely prayed for the happiness of the very man murdering her.

Ferda let out a self-deprecating laugh. Around him, the 9th Circle formation shone with blinding radiance. There existed only one supreme spell available at this level:

‘Wish.’

An absolute miracle that could alter reality itself, requiring nothing more than a single intent.

Yet with the ultimate power resting in his grasp, his throat locked up. He could not formulate a single desire.

What was it that I truly sought?

It was merely to share a peaceful, quiet life with a family of his own.

That had been Valdrova’s longing as well. But he was unworthy of it after causing so much bloodshed. He had personally slain the woman who should have been his partner, while she had died by his hand. He was nothing more than the butcher of his own bride.

How could a murderer like him ever dare to dream of a peaceful household?

Find happiness, my fiancé…

Her parting words echoed in his soul, tormenting his newly awakened conscience. He despised his obsession with power and the spiteful nature that drove him to remember every slight.

Though he could find no words to utter, his soul understood what he desired.

“It is all meaningless…”

The formation flared into absolute brilliance. When the blinding light receded, the 9th Circle Archmage was gone without a trace.

“…rda?”

“Ferda.”

His senses gradually returned. As the white glare faded and a voice reached him, Ferda opened his eyes. Before him stood not a dying dragon, but a living, middle-aged nobleman.

“Ferda? Are you paying attention?”

“…Pardon?”

“What do you mean ‘pardon’? Your father is speaking to you, and you are daydreaming?”

The man before him scowled. Ferda instantly recognized him:

Erembalt Rosnova.

The man he had once called Father stood healthy and whole. Had he crossed into the afterlife? Yet the overwhelming familiarity told him otherwise.

Is this… that moment?

Ferda realized what had occurred. There was only one occasion in his life where he had sat alone in private conversation with his father.

“Your engagement to the Archduchess of Valdrova is a state decree, so I expect you to accept it without protest.”

I did not perish; I have returned to the past?

Back to the exact origin of his tragedy, the very spark that ignited his descent into madness.

Why?

His intellect could not fully explain it, but his soul knew what he had wished for in that final void.

“Ha.”

A dry laugh escaped him.

“You insolent brat, are you scoffing while I speak?”

“I apologize. It is nothing.”

“Recite what I just told you.”

“You stated that my betrothal to the Archduchess of Valdrova has been arranged.”

“Then you clearly understand its meaning, do you not?”

“I understand completely.”

Leave this house. Understanding the unspoken order, Ferda replied:

“I will accept it.”

“Indeed, you must have suffered… Wait, what?”

Erembalt’s eyes widened in sheer shock. “Wh-what did you just say?”

Ferda lowered his gaze to the paperwork on the desk and confirmed his decision. The true purpose of this second chance was to face the fate he had run from before.

“I will carry it out—this engagement.”

He would willingly become the betrothed of the terrifying Valdrova.