A Wager Between Armors
"Damn it!!"
Furious, Malcolm squeezed out jet-black again and again, conjuring fresh doppelgängers. Simon had struck down the staff embedded in the ground, but the magic circle had held firm — and the creation of the doppelgängers went on without a hitch.
So the staff wasn't the medium for his magic after all.
Simon let slip a disappointed smile. Malcolm, on the other hand, stoked his fighting spirit all the hotter.
So one attack got blocked! Big deal — nothing's changed!
Malcolm's doppelgängers hurled themselves at Simon once more. This time it wasn't an encirclement but a staggered assault, striking in successive waves.
Simon coolly swept his gaze across the field and moved his arm. His subspace opened once more, and four tentacle blades slithered out with a soft hiss.
The blades moved in different directions, at different speeds — and at the same time, they complemented one another.
Every object that moved in a line inevitably left gaps in its wake, but those gaps were covered and interwoven by the other blades, the whole weaving together into a single organic flow.
It was control that transcended mere practicality and reached the realm of beauty.
Four blades crisscrossed in different directions, guarding their master without a single opening — and from within that lattice, Simon himself strode forward.
Ziiiing—
He advanced with his left foot planted flat against the ground. The magic circle formed beneath that left foot held steady all the while, and Simon remained free to wield Overlord's blades as he pleased.
Malcolm, who had spread his own magic circle across the floor, could not flee. He had to keep his feet planted on it at all times, feeding it jet-black to manufacture his doppelgängers.
In other words, Malcolm's maximum range of movement was the edge of his own circle.
Shlaaaaash! Shlaaaash!
The blades swept out, doppelgängers burst apart in succession, scattering like coal dust on the wind — the cycle repeated over and over. Now every doppelgänger that surfaced was destroyed on arrival. Watching doubles of himself — perfect mirror images, one hundred percent identical — being slaughtered wholesale, Malcolm bit down hard on his lip.
"Waaaargh!"
"That's it, No. 1!!"
The stands had boiled over into a cauldron of frenzy.
Malcolm's doppelgängers were impressive in their own right, but Simon was demonstrating a fighting style that no other necromancer on the continent could claim — something utterly unique, wholly his own. It was only natural that the crowd's attention gravitated toward him.
Even the high-ranking dignitaries watching from the VIP section couldn't hold back their exclamations.
"Magnificent. The top seat at Kizen is no empty title."
"What manner of dark magic is that?"
"It isn't dark magic at all. A combat style of drawing things out of a subspace and recalling them — whatever he keeps in there must be his summons!"
The one who answered wasn't one of the noble-born necromancers, but Princess Molly of the Dresden Kingdom. The surrounding nobles nodded along, smiling as though it all made sense now.
Everyone knew she was an expert on necromancers — she never missed a Duel Evaluation at Kizen, no matter how important the occasion elsewhere.
Incredible!
Turning back toward the arena, the princess bit down lightly on her thumbnail, her face flushed with excitement.
I always assumed a necromancer's summons were just undead, but they can be controlled with that level of precision?!
Jane's promise that she wouldn't be disappointed had been no empty boast. She didn't want to miss a single second of Simon's fight. She craned her neck forward, hips lifting slightly off her seat.
A name worth remembering — Simon Polentia!
Meanwhile, a short distance down from the VIP section, a heavy silence hung over one row of the stands.
"Professor Bahil. Manage your expression. Man-age it."
Chehekl, chief TA of the Curse Studies department, reminded him with a sharp flick of her fingers.
Bahil had been in a foul mood for a solid month. Nothing had gone the way he wanted.
Simon hadn't joined the curse research society, and now, in front of a massive crowd at this Duel Evaluation, he was fighting with summoning magic.
And yet.
……?
Chehekl started at the sight of Bahil's face. It wasn't the demon-mask glare he wore like a second skin — it was a smile gone soft and melty, like a grandfather doting on his first grandchild.
"Talent — potential, too — comes in degrees," Bahil said, running his tongue across his lips. "But this has left 'degree' far behind in the dust! Is it not breathtaking?"
"……"
Chehekl's face registered her disbelief.
"You're not angry that Simon is fighting without curses?"
"Of course I'm angry. I'm seething! But!"
Unable to contain himself, Bahil straightened in his seat.
"When I imagine a genius like that coming under my wing — yes. I can endure. Gladly!"
"……By anyone's measure, though, Professor Aaron of Summoning is the front-runner in the Simon contest."
"No need to rush. The talent will land in my hands regardless."
Bahil rested his chin on his raised knee and smiled.
"At least for this one moment — right now, watching his match — I'd like to be nothing more than one pure, honest necromancer."
As the match wore on, Simon's grip on its momentum grew overwhelming. Twenty doppelgängers that Malcolm had scraped together with agonizing effort were wiped out by a single sweep of Overlord's blades.
Damn it!
Even when Malcolm personally controlled two or three of his doubles to bait out a feint, the blades didn't take the hook.
Simon wasn't predicting the doppelgängers' movements — he was literally watching each motion unfold to its end before directing his blades.
It was a luxury only possible because the gap in speed was so vast, and a stability born precisely from that.
My jet-black is running low. And he keeps closing the distance.
Malcolm staggered backward.
Somewhere along the way he had reached the very edge of his doppelgänger circle. One more step pushed back, and he'd lose the spell entirely.
Time to throw the dice!
This was no moment for half measures.
Malcolm swept his arm behind his back and opened his subspace, letting a blue-tinted potion bottle the size of a fist drop into his palm.
A specialty product of the great criminal syndicate, the Randolph Gang. Its true nature was a liquid bomb — a potion imbued with jet-black that detonated in a colossal blast. It was manufactured from the byproducts of the explosive monster Longger, and the Randolph Gang had raked in astronomical fortunes distributing the stuff, toppling organization after organization in the underworld.
Ordinarily the blast was nearly as likely to catch the thrower as the target, so it was reserved strictly for moments of desperation — but for Malcolm, wielder of doppelgängers, that flaw meant nothing.
He wrung out his jet-black and conjured ten doppelgängers in a single breath.
Flit-flit-flit!
The doppelgängers shuffled about busily, swapping positions in a blur. It looked like nothing more than a confusion tactic — but at that very moment, three of the doppelgängers were already clutching bombs in their hands.
I finish it with this attack! Go!
Ten bomb-toting doppelgängers charged at Simon from every direction at once. Simon left just one blade on defense and sent the remaining three slashing out at them.
Shlak! Shlaaaash!
The blades carved through the doppelgängers like writhing serpents, tearing them apart as they passed.
Then one doppelgänger was destroyed, and a potion bottle clattered to the ground. The doppelgänger behind it scooped it up in an instant — but Simon didn't miss the exchange.
Explosive potions—!
By the time you notice, it's already too late!
Malcolm broke into a knowing grin.
The doppelgängers, each potion ignited with jet-black, hurled themselves at Simon in one concerted charge. Black light seethed and spilled from the bottles.
I've won!
The corners of Malcolm's mouth twisted in triumph.
KWAAAAAAAANG!
A gray explosion swallowed the center of the arena.
Spectators screamed and ducked for cover. A large-scale barrier spread over the stands, yet everyone could still feel the shockwave and raw power of the blast.
Malcolm cackled into the head-on gale from the explosion.
Worth every risk of smuggling it out behind his father's back. He'd get an earful when word reached his father later, but the reward — toppling Special Admission No. 1 and walking into the Noble club — would far outweigh the scolding.
Rrrrumble—
Explosion clouds and thick dust settled across the entire arena. A deep hush fell over the stands.
Every spectator held their breath, waiting for the dust to clear—
"……There he is!"
Someone shouted.
"I see him!"
"Completely unharmed!"
"WAAAAAAARGH!"
At the avalanche of cheers, Malcolm's eyes darted in confusion.
No way. He survived that much firepower?
But now even Malcolm could see it for himself.
Snick. Srrrrrackle.
Six of Overlord's blades, coiled like a serpent wrapped around itself, walled off Simon's body without a single gap.
The blades slid apart, and from the darkness between them, Simon's eyes flared with a fierce gleam.
Malcolm's scalp prickled, and goosebumps raced up his arms.
Am I... feeling fear?
Impossible. He had always been the object of fear, the one who planted it in others.
Just as Malcolm bit his lip bloody, one of Overlord's blades shot toward him with a whoosh!
Thwack!
It skewered the doppelgänger standing directly in front of Malcolm. Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck — but thankfully, the blade couldn't reach any farther. It dispatched the doppelgänger and slid smoothly back.
"Ha!"
Malcolm's mouth flew open.
"Hahahahaha! Useless! It's useless! I already mapped out the reach of every one of your attacks!"
Shlaaaaaash!
Another blade lanced toward him.
"Didn't I just say it's usele—?!"
At that instant, the segments of the tentacle blade slid smoothly apart, exposing the mithril framework beneath. Its length stretched a full one and a half times longer.
Simon smiled.
This is fun!
Boxing an opponent inside their own patterns and expectations, then shattering the box — the thrill of that moment was like no other.
Malcolm's face crumpled beautifully.
WHAAAAM!
The tentacle slammed full-force into his chest. His body flew several meters through the air and crashed into the wall.
Amid the roar of the ecstatic crowd, Simon exhaled a long, slow breath.
Getting close to my limit.
The finger wearing the ring was burning hot. Simon recalled every blade and began walking toward Malcolm.
Everything so far had gone exactly to plan.
The explosion earlier had been unforeseen, but he'd handled it safely, and he'd succeeded in driving Malcolm outside the magic circle before the ring could overheat from the strain.
Malcolm had drained his jet-black at a reckless rate powering his doppelgängers, while Simon had run his entire match around Overlord.
Simpl put, Simon had vastly more jet-black left in the tank. If both sides now lost access to their signature techniques — Overlord and the doppelgängers alike — the advantage was overwhelmingly, unavoidably his.
"Heh heh heh……!"
Malcolm wobbled upright, glaring dead at Simon.
"You think this means you've won?"
He was gripping an artifact hanging around his neck.
"The real fight starts now."
Vrrrrrrm!
The artifact erupted in a blinding flash. Refined jet-black soon flowed out from within it, spreading across Malcolm's body.
It took the form of armor. Princess Molly, watching from the stands, shot to her feet.
Wh-why? Why is that treasure in the hands of a gangster's son?
It was a completely different structure from the Black Clothes of a magic combatant, which wrapped the body in jet-black drawn from one's own mana. Here, the shape of the jet-black had hardened and been fitted perfectly into a suit of armor, until even Malcolm's face vanished behind a helm.
The armor known in common parlance as the Black Knight's panoply — an artifact armor carried by the Black Knights of the Dresden Kingdom.
"Gwahahaha!"
Malcolm howled with mad laughter, tracing an R-mark in the air with his finger.
At that gesture, Princess Molly's expression froze over like a glacier.
That idiot of a brother……!
"Simon Polentia."
Malcolm, clad in the Black Knight's armor, swaggered closer with a smirk.
"A gift from someone who holds a grudge against you."
"……"
Simon scratched at his temple.
Try as he might, he couldn't recall ever doing anything that would earn him that kind of enmity.
"They call this karma, you know. Your own actions, come home like a boomerang."
"Sounds fun."
Simon grinned and pulled an imaginary lever. Two skeletons emerged from his subspace.
"Then I'll suit up too."
"What?"
Shlaaaaaash!
The two skeletons came apart in an instant and began clamping onto Simon's body piece by piece. The noble-born necromancers in the stands were beside themselves.
"That's Bone Armor!"
"A first-year using Bone Armor?!"
Click. Clack. Click-click-click.
As the skeleton's bones spread over him from head to toe, Simon spoke up.
"Wanna make a bet?"
"On what?"
Simon ran a hand over the fitted Bone Armor and smiled in satisfaction.
"Which suit's better."