The Essence of Magic
The Essence of Magic
Because the word for magic was rooted in the character for "demon" (魔), its essence was deeply intertwined with demons. This began when the demons born from Solomon's division of the Demon King's soul into seventy-two fragments spread across the world.
In that era, magic was created based upon the sorcery wielded by those demons. Observing them—beings who used mere fragments of the Demon King's authority, the power to force absurdity into reality—the scholars of the age agonized over how they might wield such abilities themselves.
The devices born from that agony were the magic circle and the circle.
The magic circle was a device that simplified the scales of transaction the demons used, converting the trade items into mana—a renewable supernatural power that existed both within the body and in nature.
The circle, simply put, was a kind of processing device that existed within the domain of technique, amplifying the value of mana.
And the concept utterly opposite to that was holy power.
That was not of the Demon King, but a human imitation of the abilities of the Chief God and the Saint. If mana was the power to make desire and absurdity into reality, then holy power was the ability to make the Chief God's mercy and one's own faith into reality.
The two were as incompatible as water and oil.
Because of this, the relationship between the Holy Kingdom and the Magic Kingdom was poor. They were in a position where even complementing each other's shortcomings would not have been enough, yet each clung stubbornly to its own path.
Having already walked a long, long road from that fundamental schism at the crossroads, they could never join hands.
From each perspective, the other was heresy.
So the Magic Kingdom seized this war as an opportunity. An opportunity to prove who was right. To shatter the alliance between the Holy Kingdom and the Holy Empire and prove that the path of magic was the correct one.
Even the Seven-Colored Magic Tower Masters had taken part in this war. After spending their entire lives researching a truth they could never reach, they had been granted an opportunity to prove the correctness of that truth.
For nearly the first time in the Magic Kingdom's long history, every single Tower Master had sortied. The most powerful mages of the current era—beings who could each become a king in their own right—had come to prove that divinity was mistaken.
That was why they stood on Osman's side and supported them.
Because they had layered those walls with defenses and enhancement magic no being could penetrate, creating the strongest fortress in history and forcing a war of attrition their opponent could not win.
'Even if it's the Saint, she won't be able to break these walls easily.'
After all, it was a barrier that symbolized the Magic Kingdom itself. No matter how powerful and twisted a being might be, she was alone, wasn't she? If it were possible for one Saint to overturn an entire nation single-handedly, the world would have long since been ruled beneath the Holy Kingdom's banner.
Furthermore, magic and divinity had a natural opposition to each other.
An opposition in which they denied each other, could erase each other.
So it was a war to prove, between two opposing truths, which was correct. The Magic Kingdom had joined without a second thought beyond that—and cast that thought aside the moment the black mist settled in.
Because the being they had brought was no Saint.
A coldness surpassing midwinter descended upon the battlefield in an instant. It was not a physical cold. It was a chill of illusion, born of fear—a psychological tension dyed with the very concept of dread—that stained the entirety of the vast battlefield.
"...Red. What we're feeling right now is."
Not the Saint's divine authority.
Even without it being said aloud, everyone present felt it in their bones.
The foundation of holy power was warmth. The Chief God's gaze was an ability created in imitation of that grace, and so even its essence was gentle and warm.
But what was here now was different.
It was sharp and cold. Heavy and sticky.
It was a death-mist given form as primal terror.
Every Tower Master grasped its identity immediately.
The darkest mana, which had been the origin of everything. The very source of magic they had striven so desperately to reach—the beginning that every mage from the primeval first to the wizards of today had yearned for.
"...The Demon King."
The Holy Kingdom had brought the Demon King.
Since when had such a being even existed?
How could they not have known of so monstrous an existence?
Had someone tampered with the memories of the world itself...?
It was at the moment they recognized it.
The minds of those who had perceived the distortion were turned inside out.
And then, their brains paid the price for accepting knowledge that should never have been accepted. Alongside violent nausea born from excruciating headaches, lukewarm nosebleeds began to pour.
Yet they were the masters of the Magic Towers.
The undisputed strongest mages of the era.
They swiftly regained their senses and mended their broken bodies.
The green light of regeneration wrapped tenderly around them.
At the same time, a spectrum of emotions flickered past.
Some cheered.
Because what they had so desperately yearned for now existed before their very eyes. They cheered at the sight of the truth they had sought to reach.
Some despaired.
Because a being who had attained a path they could never touch had descended. They despaired at the realization of how small they themselves were.
Some burned with fervor.
Because they might achieve a feat no mage had ever accomplished. They burned at the possibility that their own names might be recorded in history.
And most of them were afraid.
Afraid of the descent of that vast, undefinable being.
They feared a death in which they would die futilely, never reaching the truth.
At that moment, the first to speak was the Red Magic Tower Lord.
"This is exactly why you scholar bastards."
The Red Magic Tower Lord—a master of combat magic and the storm of the battlefield—mocked those who trembled.
"What exactly did you think war was, really...?"
He was likely the most battle-hardened among the Tower Masters. Red had risen to the position of Magic Tower Lord after surviving wars great and small and being recognized for his merits, and so he had always come to the battlefield with death accepted as a given.
But several of the other Tower Masters were different.
"Ideals like proving correctness should stay as armchair theory. You came to the battlefield declaring you'd actually prove it—and now you're trembling because you're afraid to die?"
They were nothing short of utter morons.
Using war as a means to prove right and wrong?
They had gotten the idea badly, badly wrong. From the very moment war contains the notion of 'rightness,' it is hypocrisy. Only wrongness exists on the battlefield.
Those fools had come here without even knowing that much.
"Cowards are useless on the battlefield. If you're scared, get the hell out of here, go home, wash your feet, and go to sleep."
Red snapped at them sharply.
And Red's opinion was correct.
That was why, among those academic, hidebound, arrogant Tower Masters, not a single one could refute what he said.
"This time, I agree with that redhead too. So, cowards are a hindrance—get the hell out of here, quickly. Because I'm so happy to have gotten this chance to check where I stand and where the truth lies that I feel like I'm going insane."
And for once, even Blue—who fought with him constantly, every single day—agreed with his opinion. People had joked that when water and fire joined hands, the apocalypse would come for the Tower Masters. Had that day arrived today?
"Um... sorry to interrupt while you're in the middle of arguing."
At that moment, Green, breaking into a cold sweat, opened his mouth.
"...Right now, the defensive magic is all breaking down. So could you finish your argument quickly and start thinking of a solution?"
Because this was not a debate with time frozen still.
The descended Demon King was not waiting quietly for their squabble to end, either. At this very moment, as people were dying in real time, the longer the Tower Masters' argument dragged on, the more it multiplied meaningless sacrifices.
"Seriously... it's a massive disaster out there."
Everything was visible through the eyes of the familiar he had tasked with reconnaissance.
The scene outside was a panorama of hell itself—too painful even to look upon.
Green of Healing did not have the heart to abandon that place of agony.
So even at risk of straining himself, he channeled his power and simply kept guarding the barrier.
"...I will go first."
At that moment, Purple of Blasphemy raised his hand. As the Tower Master closest to the most primal magic, he declared to them that he would claim the right to be the first to face the king of primordial times—he, the master of the lowest-ranking tower.
"Think rationally, Purple."
This was not an opponent against whom divide-and-conquer would work. It was a being against which they did not even know if they could prevail even if all the Tower Masters gathered their power. But Purple was no idiot, either. Had he been an idiot, he would never have been able to enter a Magic Tower, let alone become its master.
"It's because I'll get in the way of your abilities. You're telling me to provide support from the rear."
Because his ability could not distinguish friend from foe.
He meant for them to support him as much as possible from beyond the blast radius, and he had judged that he himself—being the closest to the primordial—should step forward as the vanguard, serve as a shield, and at least drain the enemy's stamina. That was why he had raised his hand.
"In any case, no one knows what the Demon King's abilities are right now, do they?"
Because no accurate records existed. The truth known only to the Holy Kingdom had been completely erased and expunged by Solomon, their king. No strategy against the Demon King—nor anything of the sort—existed in the present world.
Therefore, Purple had volunteered as a test subject.
A test subject who would draw out as many of the Demon King's abilities as possible.
Forcing absurdity into reality meant its boundaries and degrees were inherently ambiguous. To unravel precisely what it was and in what manner it operated, Purple was the most optimized being.
Everyone fell silent, affirming his sortie.
"Cowards, you come out too. Shouldn't you engrave upon your eyes the sight of the Blasphemy you so looked down upon doing battle?"
It was a sneer tinged with emotion. For it was Purple's tower that had been dismissed as base and vile, never noble. But now, at this moment, he was telling them to inscribe that very magic—which might prove their sole hope—into their eyes and apologize.
And it was not a statement that could be denied here and now.
No matter how afraid they had been, they were Magic Tower Lords.
They were, in their own persons, the faces that represented their towers.
For beings whose very flesh was governed by pride, words of that kind carried a fairly tremendous effect.
And in that moment, the seven Magic Towers headed toward the battlefield.
The one to take the first step was Purple.
*
Every object in the world possesses a divine mission.
A sword has the mission to cut something.
A bowl has the mission to hold something.
Poison has the mission to kill something.
And these remain even when the objects lose their usefulness.
The mission of a dead being becomes a thought-entity and dwells within it.
The most primal kind of imprint.
It was, in essence, a kind of desire.
Because it held the feeling of wanting to do, of wanting to achieve.
And that applies even to humans who have already died. What they yearned for most in life became a thought-entity. And the Demon King was even capable of controlling those very desires.
Beings buried in the soil, erased by time.
The faded thought-entities within them began to be stimulated. Soon, the absurd force that stimulated desire and made it into reality touched the bleached bone fragments of those who had faded—and made them move again.
The countless beings who had died beneath the name of Osman.
And those who had died of old age, leaving only their names behind as they entered their coffins—all indiscriminately raised their bodies.
Clouds billowed forth above the walking corpses and bone fragments.
Clouds bearing the light of Green, the symbol of life, bestowed life once more upon those beings who had already entered their rest.
And the Demon King informed them of the end of that rest.
Humans are inherently greedy creatures.
How could such a multitude of sin hold no greed in death? On the contrary, is it not the natural course that in the moment their masks are stripped away, the most primal greed floods their bodies to the brim?
They were not taking a noble rest.
They were merely imprisoned in death with their desires denied.
No human empties their heart and dies peacefully.
Rather, at the very edge of the end, they harbor an even greater yearning.
Greater than everything they had accumulated in their entire lives.
Because they died with a twisted obsession for life.
Once more, the beings who had gained the life they so yearned for began to run rampant. And then, to make those who still possessed that life just like themselves, they began to hurl themselves forward like a pack of wild dogs.
Everyone was thrown into panic by the walking death.
It was not that the undead were an unknown concept. But.
Undead clad in demonic energy like the ones before their eyes were few.
And moreover, the only thing that could destroy them was the Chief God's blessing.
This was because, without holy power—which the Holy Kingdom and the Holy Empire had nearly monopolized—they were incredibly difficult beings to defeat.
Still, for now, they gripped their swords to survive. It was just as they were steeling their will, raising spears and shields to confront the horde—
Every piece of armament that touched the mist rotted away entirely.
Despair, by its nature, grows greatest when hope is given and then taken away. It was merely the Demon King's mercy, for he pursued pure chaos. Had he truly willed it, they would have rotted and crumbled already.
Simply because the greater the despair, the greater the yearning would be.
He had kept them alive as a process to create fine thought-entities. So it was just as they were embracing every shade of thought toward the death closing in on them without a single weapon—
A sound like the snap of fingers seemed to ring out.
In an instant, a boundary line appeared between them and the thought-entities. And simultaneously with the sound of another snap, the boundary line became a fuse, igniting a wall of pure-white flame. A combined attack from White of Purification and Red of Destruction.
A wall of purifying flame descended upon that spot.
A kind of sacred flame that punished all evil it touched.
Magic that imitated holy power bloomed in that place.
"...You were doing something rather amusing."
They had created light from the darkest power. Though it was an imitated light, was not light still light? The Demon King laughed at the existence of mana that devoured mana—possessing at least the single mission of purifying evil.
Because they had been doing something so pathetic.
Those who denied holy power had ultimately acknowledged the necessity of that power, but, unwilling to join hands, had created a new, independent holy power of their own, hadn't they?
And using his own stolen techniques, at that.
"I'll have to teach them a lesson. These fools."
Teach them what magic truly was.
When wielding the divine authority that held its original intent.
"Then, please—teach me that lesson."
At that moment, Purple answered the Demon King and simultaneously activated his magic. With chains and hands that existed beyond the visible—unseen—he seized the Demon King's physical body.
Soon, Red and White, seeing this, were just about to launch their combined attack upon the immobilized Demon King—
"...You're trying to bind me with my own technique?"
How insolent, for mere thieves.
At that, the Demon King faintly furrowed his brow and released his power.
It was the moment he released just one of his three pairs of wings.
Purple's binding shattered.
Simultaneously, White's flame, which had been hurtling toward him, vanished.
The instinctive terror that made the whole body shudder manifested once more.
Just as everyone was thinking once again that the first display had not been the extent of it—
"...As expected of a master."
Purple, who had already stepped forward, let out a self-deprecating joke. Then, to forget that fear, he swiftly unfurled his spell formula.
This time, the target was not the Demon King. It was the legion of corpses, controlled by the Demon King, that were moving to tear him apart beyond the wall of flame.
He channeled his magic to try and seize control over them.
The reason Purple was the color of Blasphemy was simple.
Their predecessors had been necromancers.
Because they were beings who desecrated death.
He employed a sorcery to desecrate what had already been desecrated once. For by its nature, cutting and seizing a spell formula was easier than weaving its knots.
If tying a knot was elaborate needlework, cutting was the work of scissors. No matter how finely woven, if it was thread, it was only natural for it to be cut by scissors. So it was just as Purple drew his scissors to sever the Demon King's thread—
"...Aren't you violating the rules a little too often, Master?"
A miracle was displayed: the thread defeated the scissors. The hand that had tried to cut the knot was crushed—Purple's fingers shattered. Through that pain, he felt the level of the being before him more keenly than ever.
And then, chewing it over inwardly, he thought.
'... Fuck.'
If I'd known it was this bad, I would have gone out second.