The flow of mana was nothing like before.
When the Ink Star reached its 2nd Star, it was as though the very vessel carrying mana within his body had grown larger.
Before, casting spells three or four times in a row would leave him feeling hollow deep in his chest — as if something vital had been scooped out. Now, it was different.
When the Ink Star reached its 2nd Star, it was as though the very vessel carrying mana within his body had grown larger.
Before, casting spells three or four times in a row would leave him feeling hollow deep in his chest — as if something vital had been scooped out. Now, it was different.
Ten times. No — more than that.
There wasn't even a hint of the mana running dry.
The corner of Matyos's mouth curved upward, ever so slightly.
Whoosh!
Black flames coalesced at his fingertips.
Fire that looked as though it had been rendered from melted darkness gathered into a sphere, radiating a dense, oppressive heat.
He threw it without a second thought.
BOOM!
The explosion shook the auction hall's ceiling.
The black flames detonated in the middle of the surging Undead horde.
The shockwave sent dark fire bursting outward in every direction, and rotting bodies were hurled into the air.
Arms flew off. Legs snapped. Heads rolled across the floor.
Using the Ink Star for magic was an entirely different approach — one he'd never tried before.
That was because Rosuka, who had founded the Ink Star, had been a swordsman.
So naturally, Matyos had assumed the same.
He'd taken it for granted that swordsmanship was the way to use it.
But the moment he shifted his perspective, a completely different world unfolded before him.
He'd used it during the magic exam, but this was his first time deploying it in actual combat.
His impression of using it in the field? Magnificent, without question.
To think a single Fireball could produce this kind of destructive power.
Matyos let out a quiet sound of admiration.
From behind him came the sound of something scraping across the floor.
Scritch.
An Undead with its legs severed was dragging itself toward him on its belly.
The rotting hand was just about to close around his calf.
Ashen Lightning flashed.
CRACK!
The bolt pierced straight through the crown of the Undead's skull.
The cranium shattered, and black ash scattered in its wake.
"Oh."
Matyos turned around.
"I told you to be careful."
It was Ofilienne.
She flicked her fingers with an air of mild annoyance.
Crackle!
Lightning branched outward like the roots of a tree.
The current sliced through the air and crashed down upon the Undead pressing in from all sides.
The smell of burning flesh spread through the hall.
The Undead feel no pain.
They have no reason.
But they have bodies.
When struck by lightning, muscles convulse.
Nerves sever.
Though, of course, Ofilienne's lightning was not operating at that level.
Rather than paralyzing muscles, it incinerated them whole.
The Undead collapsed to the floor, charred black.
Matyos snapped back to attention.
Whoosh!
He conjured another fireball and hurled it.
BOOM!
Another explosion.
Black flames erupted, and an entire cluster of Undead was blown away.
'Was it always this easy?'
In the original story, the Undead were no ordinary monsters.
Their bodies were stronger than when they'd been alive — beasts stripped of fear, left with nothing but feral instinct.
He'd had to work quite hard to deal with them back then.
Now a single spell wiped them out with a click.
It was a strange feeling.
'So that's why the majority of players preferred the magic route.'
In the game, there were broadly two paths.
The swordsman route.
The magic route.
The strengths and weaknesses of each were clear.
Swordsmen excelled in one-on-one combat.
But against multiple enemies, they were at a disadvantage.
Magic was the opposite.
Weak in a duel, but overwhelming against many.
And on top of that, there was the sheer visual satisfaction.
Fire erupting, lightning splitting the air, area attacks that swept away dozens in a single blow.
It was no wonder it was popular.
BOOM!
Matyos unleashed another burst of flame.
A single gesture, and fire rose to swallow the Undead whole.
Black flames spiraled, reducing rotting flesh to ash.
His shoulders lifted slightly with a sense of superiority.
'Though things have changed quite a bit from the original.'
He paused to think, then shook his head.
'Ah, forget it.'
In the original, Taibeon rescued Emily and that was the end of it.
Near the finale, Chechilron caught on to Taibeon's objective and sent his enforcers down to the underground prison.
Once Taibeon defeated the enforcers, the Emily rescue arc was over.
But now, things had changed considerably.
Chechilron's men had somehow become demons, and they were fighting against them.
"Open fire!"
Chechilron screamed.
The black-suited men who hadn't turned into Undead leveled their guns at Ofilienne.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunshots rang out in rapid succession.
But she didn't move.
She simply stood there, with perfect composure.
Crackle…
The lightning flowing around her body rippled gently.
The moment the approaching bullets touched that current — sizzle. The lead melted away.
They evaporated mid-air.
Ofilienne's gaze shifted slowly.
Then she raised a finger toward Chechilron.
Crack!
Lightning shot out like a bullet.
CRACK!
It punched straight through Chechilron's right thigh.
Flesh and bone burst simultaneously, leaving a gaping hole.
"AAAARGH!!!"
He screamed.
His body crumpled to the floor as though his legs had given out beneath him.
"My leg, my leg…!"
Blood gushed from his thigh like a fountain.
He pressed his hands against it, but it was utterly useless.
Ofilienne looked down at him.
"Pathetic little wretch."
She flicked her fingers lightly.
Zap.
A faint current grazed Chechilron's body.
His eyes rolled back.
Thud.
He lost consciousness and collapsed.
What followed was brief.
Ofilienne and Quistian cleaned up the remaining stragglers.
The resistance didn't last long.
*
The auction hall was in complete disarray.
Several chandeliers hung askew from the ceiling, swaying, while the fine carpet beneath was a smeared mess of black scorch marks and blood.
The smell of burned flesh and gunpowder still clung to the air.
Into that chaos, Porca's military police came pouring in.
Clank, clank.
Armed soldiers filed in one after another, seizing control of the scene. With every step of armored boots and military shoes against the floor, shards of broken glass crunched and scattered.
The incident had grown beyond the walls of the auction hall.
The suited men who had turned Undead had smashed through the doors and burst outside.
The corpses that flooded into the streets bit into people and ran amok, and naturally, the city descended into pandemonium in an instant.
A large contingent of military police had been deployed to contain the chaos.
And behind all of it was one man's fury.
Magistrate Nikollas.
His face was twisted beyond recognition.
He'd always had a rough temper, but this was something else entirely. The veins in his eyes looked ready to burst.
He'd fled from the Undead in a frantic scramble and had his black cloak torn in the process.
That black cloak — the symbol of his authority as Magistrate — was something he wore with pride.
His face contorted like a demon's.
"Drag that pig in front of me right now!"
A moment later.
Two military police officers hauled something in, dragging it across the floor.
It was Chechilron.
Having been shot through the thigh, he was already slumped like a man half-dead.
The blood that had dried and turned black on his trousers was still spreading in a damp stain.
He was still breathing, but couldn't even open his eyes properly.
Severe blood loss.
Even so, Nikollas showed no sign of showing him any mercy.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the hall, the injured were being treated.
Guests in torn gowns and blood-stained tuxedos sat in chairs or slumped against walls, groaning.
Military physicians were wrapping bandages and stanching wounds.
Of course, these were the patrons of an illegal slave auction.
Under any normal circumstances, every last one of them should have been arrested.
But reality was different.
Most were nobles or men of enormous capital.
In other words, people of standing.
So no one raised the issue too loudly.
Everyone was quietly letting it slide.
Matyos watched the bustling scene in silence.
His mind was a little tangled.
Chechilron was not a character who was supposed to disappear like this in the original story.
He continued to appear even after Emily's rescue.
He'd been quite a persistent villain — one who kept applying pressure by invoking the money he'd invested in Emily and his rights as her patron.
'He was a fairly troublesome one…'
Matyos glanced at Chechilron.
Now he was being dragged away by military police, doing nothing but bleeding.
To think it would end like this.
Tiana Pilrn, and now Emily too.
The butterfly effect of everything I've done has spawned a catastrophic tornado.
It seems I've given up on expecting the original story to play out anymore.
Chechilron had been a significant villain in the Emily rescue arc.
'I suppose even he couldn't stand against Sister.'
The more he thought about it, the less surprising it was.
Ofilienne wasn't simply someone with a talent for magic.
The Moretti family — a storied house of arcane mastery.
Even within that long and illustrious history, she was a genius spoken of by name.
In the latter half of the original story, she appeared as a boss-tier existence who overwhelmed the protagonist's party.
There was no way a mere black-market auctioneer skulking in the shadows could hold out against someone like her.
It was then.
"Taibeon…"
A quiet voice.
He turned his head to find two people standing nearby.
Emily and Taibeon.
Emily was wearing nothing but a thin dress. Whether from being dragged here in a hurry, the fabric was disheveled, and it was sheer enough that her skin showed faintly through it.
Taibeon hesitated for a moment, then took off his coat.
And carefully draped it over her shoulders.
"…Are you alright?"
He asked.
"You're not hurt anywhere?"
Emily's eyes wandered.
"…You already asked that."
"How many times are you going to ask?"
Taibeon said, his expression earnest.
"No matter how many times I check, it matters."
His gaze moved over Emily's face.
"You were taken to a place like that. I'll ask again. Are you hurt?"
"…I told you, I'm not. What about you — why did you even come? It was dangerous."
"I made a promise back then. That if you were ever in danger, I'd come for you."
"When was that promise even made…"
"About twelve years ago? So — are you alright? Is there anything you need?"
Emily pulled the coat tightly around herself.
A brief silence passed.
Emily lowered her head.
"…Then."
It was a small voice.
"Tonight… stay with me."
Taibeon's ears turned red.
"…Alright."
The two of them averted their eyes at the same moment.
Unable to even look at each other, they stared off at the floor or the wall for no particular reason.
Absolutely tooth-rotting.
Still, it wasn't an unpleasant sight to see.
It was then.
"Mati."
A voice came from behind him.
Soft.
But with a faint, inexplicable chill to it.
Matyos's shoulders went rigid.
"Don't we have something to talk about?"