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[Translator - Night]
[Proofreader - Gun]
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Chapter 62: The Night Becomes a Cradle (4)
I gasped for breath, replaying what had just happened.
‘What the hell just happened?’
In the middle of the interrogation, the bastard’s body suddenly swelled up.
It was obvious he was going to self-destruct.
The mana pattern over his body had twisted violently and erratically.
Even before I could think of protecting, my instincts had already wrapped mana around my body.
I managed to block the blast, but what remained at the scene was just chunks of flesh and a pool of blood.
‘Suicide?’
…No, it’d be more accurate to call it an escape.
That guy died while making a promise for “next time.”
Which meant he had at least one method of revival through such a death.
How far ahead had they planned this?
It was frustrating how little we’d learned, but at least we uncovered the identity of our enemy—that much was encouraging.
‘Outer Realm. Church of Fate.’
A different group than the original Church of Fate, one that also follows the Goddess of Fate.
They’re based in the Outer Realm, and currently, they hold the divine blessing the Papal Church of Fate has lost.
In other words, the Goddess has taken the enemy’s side.
But when I tried to delve into the question of “why,” I was at a loss.
More than that, the thought that they may have been involved in everything since my previous life made it all feel impossibly complex.
Too much to process in this moment.
Just as that thought triggered a sigh—
Zzrrt―!
From afar, I sensed a familiar trace of mana.
I let out a dry laugh.
‘Ah, so it finally happened.’
The Prince.
The Prince’s “Dominion” had awakened.
No way I was mistaken.
I’d been exposed to that trait more than anyone, for longer than anyone—I knew it inside and out.
Of course, this had been at least partly intentional.
Wasn’t that right, Prince?
Honestly, he was just too weak.
Talented, sure—but that’s all he had.
To surpass his stagnant days spent obsessing over nothing but the sword, he needed a drastic intervention.
And beyond that, his habit of letting his guard down too easily needed to be crushed—at least once.
The situation was ideal.
With Gilgore by his side, he wasn’t likely to actually die.
Still, knowing the other traps, it was clear the Prince would face danger.
That’s why I set the scene this way—but even so, I couldn’t help but feel a bit ridiculous about it.
‘Calling on trait just because it’s a crisis? Ridiculous.’
It wasn’t funny—it was absurd.
I use my trait because I’ve already walked that path, and I understand it.
If I had a proper body, I would’ve already reached the level of Swordmaster.
But the Prince?
He lacked everything.
Body, technique, realization.
He was still stuck at the Expert level in all three core components of swordsmanship.
Yet somehow, his trait just burst forth.
Impossible.
It flew in the face of all logic and theory.
So, of course, I couldn’t help but mutter to myself:
‘This world is so damn unfair. Shit.’
How can a single talent rob someone of so much?
* * *
Callios wasn’t thinking.
It wasn’t that he gave up thinking.
Rather, he had reached a peak so extreme that thinking was no longer necessary.
‘I can feel it.’
The flow of mana, its shape, its structure—
The very essence of what “mana” was, Callios could grasp it all.
Everything had entered Callios’s domain.
And with an instinctive certainty, he knew he could bend it to his will.
This was the true face of the world he had only glimpsed in fragments until now.
And because it was just that—mere understanding—Callios imbued his will into the space around him the moment he succeeded in observing it.
Then the artifact’s magic became his.
Even the mana flowing through his opponent’s body was now his.
Dominion—
The ability to place all things beneath one’s feet, bind them, rule them, and command them—had manifested.
Of course, Callios didn’t consciously understand any of this yet.
He used it the same way one breaks past a wall—I think I can do this,” and then he just did it.
And so, he began to crush his opponent.
SMAAACK!
He drove his fist into the fake’s face.
When the bastard tried to manipulate blood to counterattack, Callios slammed that blood into the floor.
The same went for the other spells.
“So this is how you use it.”
BOOOOM—!
The magic spells collided, cancelled each other out, or turned on the fake instead.
To the fake, this was pure horror.
A power that nullified every scenario he had prepared.
An eerie, unheard-of force that rendered analysis and understanding useless.
Not being able to understand was natural.
How could anyone accept an immovable apex they’d never even experienced?
Dominion was a power incomparable to other traits.
Even Yuren’s “Shatter,” which could rip apart the structural fabric of all existence beyond physical and non-physical boundaries, was restrained by Dominion.
Yuren only managed to resist because he had the “Eye.”
In other words, to barely resist Dominion, you had to have both “Shatter” and the “Eye”—two of the highest-tier traits.
Even Yuren admitted as much:
—This is the kind of ability that pops up when a brat cheats in a mock duel.
—If you’re so mad, why don’t you try ‘dominating’ too?
—…Goddamn it.
Of course, Callios was still only at the Expert level.
This power had been forcibly drawn out—it wasn’t perfect.
But that didn’t mean the fake had any hope of resisting.
Drip—
As long as Callios’s own body could withstand it.
KRAAASH—!
KRAA-BOOM—!
Callios swung his power wildly.
He didn’t even know the limits of this power or his body yet, so calculating proper use or distribution was impossible.
He simply thought, I have to kill the fake—a kind of rampage, really.
The fake was cautious and observant.
He noticed that and tried to endure.
His logic was that if he just stood his ground until Callios burned himself out, he could win.
So he cast spells again.
Even knowing they’d be fired back at him, even knowing they’d be neutralized—he kept going.
He was buying time, trying to split Callios’s attention further.
That kind of persistent effort to seize victory deserved some praise.
But…
“Such pathetic tricks.”
KRAAAAASH!!!
…being praiseworthy isn’t the same as being impressive.
“Guhurk…?!”
The fake was stomped into the floor by Callios.
All he saw was one thing:
Callios vanished from his sight—
Then reappeared above him, stomping his shoulder.
There had been no process.
Or rather, it had been too fast for him to register.
Resistance was impossible.
Not just because of his injuries—
‘My mana…’
The moment Callios stomped him, all the mana in his body twisted, crushing the blood vessels from his neck down.
It was a terrifying technique.
Mana exhaustion, bodily collapse—
All means of resistance shattered.
Blood tears dripped from Callios’s eyes.
He had reached his limit—finally.
The fake tasted utter defeat.
His eyes burned with vengeance as he glared at Callios, but that only fueled Callios’s rage.
“You filthy insect—how dare you glare at me…!”
Callios let go of his sword.
Then, grabbing the fake by the collar, he drove his fist into his face.
“With that kind of attitude—”
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
He didn’t stop.
Half-mad, he poured out his emotions.
Consumed by a need to reclaim wounded pride and annihilate the source of his anger.
It was—
“Tch. Goddamn tantrum, in the end.”
Not a good look, in Yuren’s eyes.
“That’s enough.”
Tap—
Yuren’s divine tree branch intercepted Callios’s punch.
Callios froze, his body trembling as he lifted his head.
His vision was blurry.
Even so, he could still see.
"That damned temper of yours hasn’t changed. Anymore and you’ll destroy your body—take a rest. It’s over now. …Ugh, how am I supposed to teach you this time?"
Yuren looked genuinely troubled.
The moment Callios saw him—
“…Ah.”
—he collapsed, unconscious.
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[Translator - Night]
[Proofreader - Gun]
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* * *
Black magic controls the mind.
Curses erode the soul.
And Gilgore, who wielded both, could do many things related to the mind within the bounds of his power.
First, he dragged his opponents into a subspace.
Then, he pulled out their brains.
One by one, he sifted through the memories nestled inside.
Through this, he saw much.
It was the life of a boy—once so small—after Gilgore had left.
—Until the master returns, focus on stabilization. Halt all business expansion. Avoid unnecessary noise.
The boy had tried to uphold that principle.
Gilgore gave a bitter smile.
Even though everything had been handed to him, the boy still didn’t think of it as his.
That was laughable in its own way.
—Gather the poor. People must eat to grow loyal. Even if some die in battle, it’s better than letting them starve.
Still, his wisdom was commendable.
The boy had remembered what he was taught.
—…Slave traders? They’re mad. Execute them. They’re pests destroying Igrosia.
He was cautious and upright—
Just as Gilgore had remembered.
So then, how had that boy changed?
It didn’t take long to find out.
—…You’ve returned.
—Haha, you’ve aged quite a bit.
—You’re the same as ever, Master.
A girl with pink hair and green eyes smiled at the boy.
She even mimicked his speech, as if parodying him.
That must be the demon.
Gilgore was repulsed.
He loathed that wicked creature—
Mimicking him, tearing down everything they had built together.
But even that fury lost its direction.
The demon had already been counter-summoned by Yuren and Callios.
—I tried… But I guess it wasn’t enough.
—What wasn’t?
—I wanted to make Igrosia a better place—the one you entrusted to me.
—You’re already doing a great job! But if you’re still uneasy… then fine. From now on, I’ll help you. Let’s build it together—Igrosia, a place worth living in.
Now, he could only watch helplessly as everything burned inside.
Thus, Gilgore came to know what happened even after that loathsome creature died.
—Mm… sorry. This was all I could retrieve.
—…Ah?
The boy collapsed in front of the girl’s severed head.
It was strange.
Gilgore had never seen the boy cry—never thought he would.
Yet here he was, sobbing, clutching that head tightly.
His loyalty must have run deep.
And so—
—…She must live. Do you know how?
That’s how the boy had gone astray.
From that point, Gilgore knew what happened.
That foreigner wrapped in robes had manipulated the boy—
Whispering sweet poison to steer him for his own desires.
The boy, having lost reason, followed blindly.
Watching that process was…
Surprisingly painful for Gilgore.
He was shocked he could feel sorrow for someone else’s misfortune.
More so because that someone was the very boy he had once vowed to punish without mercy or hope.
He must’ve grown fond of him.
He tried to understand why.
Eventually, Gilgore found the answer.
‘You’re my child.’
A body cursed to never mature.
Centuries lived in solitude had built an unconscious loneliness.
That endless solitude—without hope of end—must’ve created a void.
And that boy had filled it.
What began as interest became affection, and affection became attachment.
That’s why the boy felt so special to him.
‘Haha…’
How laughable.
To realize he’d been suffocating in a loneliness he thought beneath him—
To face the truth that he was just another ordinary human.
But the more emotion he faced,
The more his rage grew.
And the rage that had lost its path found its true target.
‘It’s them.’
That foreigner—and those behind him.
The memories ended there.
Gilgore emerged from the subspace, filled with the deepest fury he’d ever known in centuries.
Yuren was waiting.
Gilgore asked:
“…Is it over?”
"We missed him. We killed him, but… not completely. I don’t think he’s really gone."
So that’s how it was.
A mix of disappointment and relief.
Gilgore let out a cold smile and muttered:
"Then I can kill him myself."
Yuren gave him a bitter look.
Gilgore ignored him and walked ahead.
The prince and the boy lay unconscious.
The battle must’ve been brutal.
Gilgore examined the boy’s body—
And closed his eyes.
‘He’s dying.’
He couldn’t be saved.
Even if he survived, he’d be paralyzed—never able to move again.
No, even before that—he had to ask himself:
‘Should I save him?’
There was grief.
There was guilt over the boy.
Yet Gilgore was, by nature, a calculating and selfish man.
If something was done, it needed just reward or punishment.
That standard applied to himself too.
And so it wouldn’t change for the boy either—no matter how much he was like a son.
Hadn’t the boy already sacrificed too much?
‘…What should I do?’
He was confused.
This was the first time in his life that Gilgore had been so conflicted.
It was the first time he’d ever felt such a tangled mess of love and hate.
The first time guilt had stalled his hand.
Wearing a bitter smile, he turned to Yuren.
Yuren glanced back at him.
Silence hung heavy.
Then, Yuren looked at the boy and spoke softly:
"It’s your choice. But if you need my opinion…"
“……”
"…I’m not a fan of executions. Too humanitarian, maybe."
Gilgore found himself drawn into that voice.
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[Translator - Night]
[Proofreader - Gun]
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