Chapter 121
Chapter 121
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 120
Chapter Title: Demon Sword Forte (22) - The Attained Realm
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Humans are truly useful materials.
For example, to magically replicate a "creature's digestive organ," you'd need enough money to build an entire mansion.
But if you use the "real thing," a few coins would more than suffice.
Poor people are everywhere, and among them, no small number are willing to sell even their own children just to survive.
The Sage was one such child who was sold.
The mage who bought the Sage was a man who realized using humans as materials was ideal for solving the various issues unique to golems. He was also narrow-minded enough not to understand that other mages weren't incapable of such acts—they simply chose not to do them.
The mage's stronghold was filled with people.
There were children like the Sage, sold by their parents; beggars lured in by promises of full bellies; and others whose hands and feet were bound tight, as if they'd been kidnapped from somewhere.
And among them, the Sage received a certain special treatment.
While others were fed some slimy, tasteless sludge, the Sage got proper bread and soup.
While others were crammed into narrow cages, eating and shitting in endless repetition, the Sage at least had a space he could call a "room" and some freedom of movement.
While others had their limbs or organs harvested as the mage's research materials, left clinging to life by force, the Sage was allowed to keep his body intact.
As was only natural, the Sage became the target of everyone's hatred and envy.
The Sage desperately tried to defend himself.
And rightly so—he had contributed nothing to this situation.
He hadn't asked to be born, sold, or given special treatment. Everything had been decided by those around him without his input.
But no one listened to his excuses.
Everyone resented, condemned, and cursed him.
And eventually, even those voices faded away.
All the other materials besides the Sage had been used up.
In the silent, empty space, the Sage asked the mage.
Why he was being given special treatment.
Why he wasn't being used as a material.
He didn't expect an answer.
The Sage had asked the mage many things before, but he'd never received a proper reply.
Coming from the slums, the Sage didn't know what a jeweler was, but he grasped the meaning from the context.
And he grew terrified.
From the mage's attitude, he realized the man had finished his practice.
There were no other materials left besides the Sage.
The mage had already completed enough practice.
However, realizing what was about to happen to him and resisting it were two entirely different things.
The mage effortlessly subdued the Sage's struggles and used him to create a flesh golem. He was delighted with the result.
"Hahaha! Excellent! Perfect! Such magnificent mana! Such superb computational power! This new body is beyond reproach!"
There are many who dream of immortality, and the paths to it are varied.
The mage had chosen body swapping.
The idea that if his old flesh was a hassle, he could craft a fresh, powerful new one and transfer over.
The mage's research was an utter success, and he laughed maniacally in joy at the immortality now within reach.
Kwachik!
There was one thing he hadn't anticipated.
The Sage's talent far exceeded what he'd imagined, leaving the original ego intact when it should have vanished.
The overconfident mage's head exploded, and the Sage inherited the man's entire legacy.
Years holed up in the mage's workshop.
Having grown into a full-fledged mage in his own right, the first thing the Sage attempted was reclaiming his original body.
His skill was sufficient. His knowledge was ample. Unlike the mage, he even had the sense not to need living humans as materials.
But the Sage couldn't fulfill his wish.
He couldn't remember what he looked like.
No matter how hard he tried, every flesh golem he made looked the same.
Gruff, sharp-featured, and irritable.
A middle-aged man embodying the image of that cantankerous mage.
His enemy and mentor.
After much searching, the Sage tracked down the people who had once been his parents.
Hiding his identity, he pressed money into their hands and asked.
What the young Sage had looked like, what he'd liked, what his voice had sounded like.
They couldn't answer properly.
They didn't even realize the man before them was their child, let alone notice his resemblance to the buyer from years ago.
The Sage came to hate humans.
Even himself was no exception.
He did have to interact with others out of necessity at times, but he always stayed wary, suspicious, and distant.
"Hm, what an unlucky face. You're not wearing a mask, are you?"
That is, until he met a certain fool.
Until he met that idiot who seemed a perfect inversion of the "humans" the Sage despised.
The Sage realized there might be decent people among humans after all—and that even those with traits he hated could change for the better with time and experience.
If their adventure had ended in a true happy ending, the Sage might have broken free from the suffocating yoke he'd borne.
But their conclusion was no happy ending.
His comrades—people he hadn't hated, people he honestly loved and cherished—met their deaths.
And then, like maggots drawn to their radiant glory, they crawled in.
What was sincere about it?
What gratitude?
Those who had watched from the sidelines or taken easy credit while they fought desperately now brazenly reached out as the sweet fruits of victory ripened after the war's end.
The Sage wanted to kill them all, but it was impossible.
He could handle one nation alone, perhaps, but not many—and those maggots held the surviving families of his fallen comrades.
Above all, the Demon King hadn't been fully eradicated.
The helmet he'd left behind still harbored immense power, and without someone to guard and seal it, all their battles would be for naught.
So the Sage took their outstretched hands.
He watched them divvy up the "ownerless lands" with their excuses and schemes. He watched them rewrite the Hero's tale to suit their tastes under the guise of "preventing public chaos."
Even a woman from a village the Hero had saved showed up with a child in tow, claiming a night with him. Honestly, the Sage had no idea if it was true.
He could verify it if he tried, but he couldn't bring himself to.
If even that was fake, he'd want to slaughter everything—duties be damned.
Cutting off contact with the world, the Sage immersed himself in research.
Researching ways to fully annihilate the Demon King's helmet. Ways to properly conclude their fight.
Yet in a corner of his heart, endless resentment continued to burn.
Why was the world so unjust?
Why didn't those who toiled get rewards commensurate with their efforts? Why didn't the devoted receive fitting compensation? Why did the noble hesitate to sully themselves for their principles?
Why did the suffering, tormented, blood-vomiting souls lose out to those who schemed, chased profits, and exploited others?
No answers came.
He wasn't even sure if answers existed.
Then one day, a doubt arose.
Was destroying this helmet truly the right thing?
The Demon King wasn't unique.
Their world held several beings on par with this helmet's owner.
If they invaded again, would this repeat?
The noble sacrificing themselves, only for the vile to reap the rewards?
The Sage's reason detected the abnormality in his thought process.
He suspected it stemmed from the helmet's influence—the Demon King's will tempting him.
But the rage and fury in his heart ignored that rational voice.
No, it erased the very fact of its existence.
The moment he donned the black helmet, everything became clear to the Sage.
If it was the world's law that the diligent went unrewarded, then create a system where they could be.
If the vile tried to scheme again, funnel their resources to those who could use them "better."
If he loathed himself, offer up this wretched flesh as sacrifice too.
Then the Hero could truly defeat the Demon King.
This time, it would succeed.
This time, it would reach the proper conclusion.
The Sage realized he had attained transcendence.
He didn't realize that transcendence had been warped and corrupted by external interference.
He failed to recognize the contradiction of wearing the very "Demon King" he was meant to defeat.
The Demon King and the Sage merged into one.
A lofty realm, even if twisted, inscribed new laws upon the world.
And.
Pina Valestia opened her eyes.
"Ugh...!"
Pina, who had collapsed on the floor, groaned as she opened her eyes.
A vast hall scarred with traces of battle everywhere.
It took her a while to realize this was the top of the tower she had once challenged.
And it was no wonder.
Memories of traveling as the Hero with the Sage, the Saintess, and other comrades.
And the memories of reliving that life from the Sage's perspective.
Even if some parts had been skipped, making it not a complete experience, how could her mind stay intact with centuries of memories flooding in at once?
"Miss Pina, are you alright!?"
Kairun asked urgently upon seeing her.
"You wouldn't respond no matter how much I called while you were out cold! I was so worried!!"
"Uh, um, s-sorry. But how long was I down?"
"About 10 minutes!"
Long in one sense, but ridiculously short compared to what she'd felt.
Honestly, she still lacked a sense of reality, but unfortunately, there was no time for her to leisurely adjust.
Pajik.
The sound of stone cracking.
Pina and Kairun turned toward the source to see fissures forming all over the Sage's statue.
The cracks grew, eventually shattering the statue completely. Something burst out and floated into the air.
A pitch-black helmet.
Pina knew what it was.
The remnant of the once-called "Slaughter" Demon King glared with sinister eyes at its target.
Pina first thought it was her, but soon realized the truth.
Not her.
The true target it glared at was.
Only then did Pina realize the bizarre memories she'd experienced deviated from the system's original intent.
The system had probably meant for her to only live as "Hero Fernando."
Over and over, repeating death endlessly.
Experiencing the Hero's conclusion, that tragedy and regret firsthand, to make her sympathize.
But Forte's interference had flipped the script, revealing the Sage's memories it never intended to show.
And to the system—no, to the Sage who had become the system—that must have been utterly infuriating.
As if to prove it, the system stopped displaying messages.
In its stead, plant-like stems sprouted from below the black helmet, forming a human shape.
At the same time, darkness poured from the helmet, intertwining with the plants into one form.
What emerged was a black knight: human in shape, but no human.
The black knight extended a hand, compressing darkness into a sword.
He swung it.
Eujik.
A crack formed on Forte's blade.