Chapter 90

Use it as you see fit.

Alter left only those words, before launching a preemptive strike toward Maltiel. His staff, where pure white light had begun to coalesce, did not wait for the boy to collect himself.

Leaves were engulfed in flames, and a searing wind caressed the boy’s cheek. Lightning flashed, extending upward to the sky, and an unidentifiable pressure descended upon the ranks.

“Rex, the artifact!”

Rex, as if awaiting just that command, exhaled a deep breath, bringing his hands before his chest. Soon, fine particles escaped his breast, forming into the shape of a great horn.

“All troops, charge at once to the sound of the horn! The opponent is a Grand Duke, do not miss this chance!”

He felt uncertainty. He couldn’t be sure if this operation was the right one.

But before he could voice such doubts, the trees blanketing the mountain cried out in unison. The leaves embroidering the slope lifted into the air, and beside Alter, the Grand Duke descended.

Then, the sound of the horn reverberated across the mountain.

A massive fissure began to crack the ground beneath Maltiel and Alter.

From within the inky crevice, stark white bone jutted forth. Crawling from the gap, the bone instantly scaled Maltiel’s legs, entwining his pitch-black form.

“A lure, was it.”

Maltiel disregarded the pale white grasps climbing over him and reached out a hand. Alter’s head was right before him; with just a bit more reach, he could extinguish the 8th Circle archmage.

A mage always brings a significant variable to the battlefield. Even if his entire body would be bound by bone in a second, Maltiel resolved to erase the mage before him from this world, right now.

‘Situational assessment or analysis can wait. Eliminating the 8th Circle mage before me is the priority.’

Flutter—

In the next instant, Alter’s robes billowed tautly, and his body fell backward. One of the soldiers, who had begun charging towards Alter at the horn’s signal, had yanked the old man back.

It was a rough, unceremonious gesture, but it kept the old man’s head attached to his neck.

Maltiel’s fist, engulfed in jet-black light, cleaved through the empty air. The moment Alter’s hair brushed against the darkness, it severed and vanished.

“Tch.”

Then, Maltiel’s body locked in place.

The bone, sprung up from beneath his feet like shackles, firmly seized his form.

Maltiel shifted his gaze downward. To discern the identity of the sudden void that had unfolded and the bones that crawled from beneath his feet.

Within that fissure, countless skulls were piled high. They gazed up at Maltiel, emitting a desolate chill.

‘Magic? No, I sense a force, but not the *feeling* of magic. An artifact, perhaps.’

[The Horn That Calls Them]

The horn, blown with all Rex’s might, could create rifts to any place desired by the user, summoning undead crafted from bone.

These undead could detach and reassemble their bones, transforming into more efficient forms of soldiery. When needed, they could become bone dust or solid bone clumps, binding the feet or hands of their foes.

Depending on the user’s creativity and skill, it was possible not only to overwhelm enemies with a skeleton legion, but also to pulverize them into a mist, scattering it in all directions to obscure vision.

A near omnipotent artifact, its possibilities were limitless, its drawbacks nonexistent.

But Maltiel knew little of its true nature.

‘…Artifacts often possess unpredictable effects and repercussions. It is futile to try and analyze them clumsily.’

Maltiel decided to ignore the skeletons creeping up from beneath his feet.

No matter how hard he tried, there was no way he could discern the identity of an artifact he’d never seen, or the power it held.

Things that could be known through deduction and reason, and things that could not, no matter the effort.

Maltiel knew the difference between the two with perfect clarity.

“aaagh!”

The soldiers swung axes and swords at Maltiel. Fear tugged at their feet, but not a single one hesitated or froze.

“How wretched.”

Crack…!

The pure white bones binding Maltiel’s body began to fracture. The undead that had crawled from the rift had momentarily restrained the Archlord’s movements, but that was all.

The next instant, the skeletons that had held Maltiel tight shattered into fragments, their bone dust blooming like a fine haze all around him. Maltiel’s wings contracted sharply.

It would take Maltiel less than a second to annihilate the soldiers charging toward him, risking their lives.

“Hey.”

That instant.

Cutting through the soldiers’ near-screaming roars and the sound of bones shattering.

A boy’s voice drifted.

“…”

Maltiel’s thoughts stalled, just for a moment.

He relaxed the power coiled in his wings and slowly turned his head toward the direction of the voice.

At the end of his gaze stood a boy with snow-white hair.

“…!”

A tremor raced across his pitch-black form.

“I’ve made an inexcusable error! Is the ability of mental intrusion truly exclusive to Bel Artoa?!”

He shouted instinctively, without conscious thought.

A wide smile stretched across Maltiel’s face. A smile filled with malice and sinister intent, and in that instant, cold sweat beaded on the boy’s forehead as terror froze him in place.

*Crack!*

As Maltiel directed his chilling smile at the boy, soldiers’ axes and blades tore into Maltiel’s skin. Red flashes, as though steel struck against steel, erupted from various points on the Overlord’s body, and soon, black blood burst through the wounds.

But that was all.

None of the soldiers managed to reach Maltiel’s core.

“Fools.”

“…All troops, retreat!”

The white-haired boy hastily pulled the soldiers back. They retreated into the forest, cold sweat pouring down them as they hurriedly fastened their altars around their waists. Amidst the chaos, the Overlord, standing at the epicenter of fear, slowly began to move towards the boy.

His own safety? A troublesome high-ranking mage? The unidentified bones that had suddenly burst from the ground?

Whatever it was, it mattered nothing compared to the life of the boy before him.

‘A heaven-sent opportunity.’

Maltiel had fled Valerand to survive. Anyone could see that staying there would only lead to a dog’s death, nothing more.

Grisha was there, Bell was there, and above all, the Sword Saint. Fighting the boy there would certainly end with him achieving nothing, killed by the interference of those three.

But now?

The most problematic Sword Saint had chased after Mikael instead of him, and Grisha and Bell were stuck in Valerand.

The boy was now as good as naked, defenseless.

Maltiel made his decision.

“I concede. I have been defeated.”

He would forgo escape.

Losing four Grand Dukes in a single day was undeniably a severe blow. Perhaps today’s defeat would rob the Demon race of the strength to rise again and fight the Allied Forces.

In countless battles, Demons would be helpless, eliminated by the Allied Forces. The Allies would easily continue their winning streak.

Even without him risking his life, today would be an important day for the Allied Forces. That fact remained unchanged.

Two Grand Dukes were already dead, and it was practically a foregone conclusion that Mikael would soon be killed by the Sword Saint’s blade.

Even if he lived, having lost three Grand Dukes, maintaining the current battle lines spread across the continent would be virtually impossible. Before long, most of the fronts would collapse, and the Allied Forces scattered across the continent would gather in one place.

The Demon race, having lost more than 40% of its power, would soon be driven into a corner.

The Allied Forces would launch an offensive to sever the Demon’s windpipe, and the offense and defense, unchanged for 30 years, would finally be reversed.

Maltiel alone could not reverse this flow. The winds had already begun to blow.

“Nevertheless, there are still things that can be done.”

*Goo Woong…!*

Behind Maltiel, tearing through a vast rift, a colossal hand clawed its way out.

A giant of bone, large enough to swallow even the orc Rex whole, emerged behind Maltiel. The giant extended its massive hand toward the demon before it.

*Bang!*

The next instant, it shattered into fragments with an immense shockwave.

Maltiel had not used any particular magic. He had merely contracted his wings, then unleashed them with devastating force.

“This mad…”

The boy could only close his eyes against the overwhelming shockwave Maltiel had created.

“Are you not satisfied? Three Archlords would have been a historic victory… What imbecile sent you here?”

“…Volt!”

Alter’s staff, hidden among the soldiers in the shadows of the trees, blazed to life once more.

Erratic bolts of lightning, splintering through the air, pierced Maltiel’s skull.

Ink-black blood erupted like a fountain, meeting the lingering lightning and hissing into vapor.

*Crackle.*

Yet the Archlord’s stride did not falter. Each time he stepped on fallen leaves, they rotted and decayed. The abundant foliage rapidly turned to dust, scattering beneath the Archlord’s feet.

Maltiel instantaneously restored new bone and flesh upon his neck.

His ink-black face still bore that unsettling, insidious smile.

“The situation is favorable! We have the artifact, and Alter is here! Soldiers, do not falter! Hesitation is death!”

The boy remained composed, urging on the soldiers.

“Certainly, the situation is… favorable to you.”

Once more, a white-hot blaze erupted from between the shadows of the trees. This time, Maltiel unfurled his wings, shrouding his body. As the ink-black wings clashed against the lightning, crimson sparks burst forth.

Malthael clipped his burning wings with his own fingernails. New wings sprouted in an instant.

Before the boy, an orc wielding a horn and axe burst forth. The resolute warrior was prepared to sacrifice his life to protect the mage.

“There are too many unfavorable variables on this battlefield for me.”

Malthael ceased his steps, gazing at the orc whose one arm was replaced with a mechanical prosthetic.

The red-skinned orc was unremarkable. The massive axe and mechanical arm were somewhat impressive, but that was all. Excessively ordinary for a soldier guarding the boy.

However, the horn in his hand… it felt foreign, somehow.

‘An artifact.’

Malthael had no choice but to halt. He couldn’t predict what power that artifact contained.

“An Eighth Circle Archmage, an artifact of unknown power, soldiers who are, without exception, reasonably skilled… and you, Bean.”

His voice echoed with an eerie quality.

“Perhaps it’s best to clean up the board.”

The monster, who always wore a complacent, mocking smile, wore a heavy, serious expression for the first time.

The monster brought his jet-black palms together as if in prayer, then carefully raised his hands beneath his chin.

An icy silence descended upon the battlefield.

Burning leaves, passing wind, even the sun gazing down from the heavens. All were silenced, able to do nothing but stare at the Overlord.

“…Crazy b*stard.”

The white-haired boy muttered a low lament, as if foreseeing what was to come.

“All troops, flee this place!”

Soon, a desperate cry, carried by burning leaves and branches, filled the mountain.

“Hoo…”

Even within that roaring, Maltiel closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and quietly focused on the flow of mana within his body.

“Torn wounds. Molars forced back behind the neck. A broken tusk.”

The incantation rode a jet-black tongue, vibrating through the air. Soon, something akin to darkness began to seep from between Maltiel’s palms, clinging beneath his chin.

“Obliteration.”

The criteria by which magic chooses its master is singular: talent.

Exceptional, outstanding talent. Magic merely blesses it.