Chapter 33
Chapter 33
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: Slicing Through Death
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“Living long lets you experience all sorts of wondrous things. Truly, it’s worth sticking around.”
Ah, but had he really lived that long? The Old Man of the Mountain stroked his goatee and nodded slowly.
A being who had transcended death itself by sacrificing hundreds of Hashashin. Even for him, the sight before his eyes was utterly alien.
What had appeared alongside the embers was a jet-black arm bone more than twice the size of a human arm. The dark bone, infused with green flames, gave the illusion that one’s body was already burning just from looking at it.
[Kekeke. I didn’t expect you to twist it like this.]
Molech’s laughter echoed from the depths of his soul. While buying time by listening to the Old Man of the Mountain’s tales, Damian had been mulling over countermeasures beyond black magic—Stone Scales.
If he could topple the Old Man of the Mountain with Stone Scales reinforced by the Book of Hell, that would have been ideal. But he had a faint premonition that it wouldn’t work.
The Book of Hell, the foundation of black magic. Of the three ways to wield it, only one remained.
However, summoning Molech with the single secured Book of Hell—Mem—was impossible.
Even summoning a single Infernal before his regression had consumed five tomes, and Molech, a lord of hell, would demand far more.
Yet Damian possessed vast knowledge of black magic and demons.
Most contents of the Book of Hell were abstract and esoteric. Practical knowledge was exceedingly rare.
But Damian had read countless Books of Hell before his regression. Though the soul-bound contracts were gone, that knowledge endured.
Damian’s conclusions were two-fold. One: summon an Infernal as Molech’s kin. The other: summon a part of Molech himself.
He had never attempted either.
Before his regression, the hell lords he had contracted were Gremory and Decarabia alone. With too few Books of Hell secured, opportunity had never arisen.
But he didn’t deem it impossible.
In a situation where he might meet death beneath the southern great desert before achieving his grand revenge. Yet Damian’s mind was calmer than ever.
There was nothing to gain from his duel with the Old Man of the Mountain.
‘If there’s nothing to gain, then create it.’
Growth through battle with the strong. The powerlessness he had felt until moments ago now sparked a new thrill in Damian.
Until now, no battle had truly threatened his life. He had grown even in those, so how much more would he advance by felling this foe?
To defeat Michael and Rubia, he had to surpass his pre-regression self.
He had to accomplish what he hadn’t then, what he had deemed impossible.
‘Even so, he’s weaker than those two.’
No matter his status as Hashashin’s founder and first leader, he couldn’t rival the two unrivaled throughout history.
Failing to surpass even this specter rendered revenge meaningless.
Thus, Damian chose the latter method. It was riskier and more difficult than the former, but offered greater potential for growth.
Summoning an ordinary Infernal wouldn’t let him beat Michael and Rubia anyway.
But summoning a part of Molech was different. In a desperate fight, more cards in hand meant greater advantage.
Before the decisive clash with those two, he would collect every Book of Hell in the empire if possible, but he didn’t know how many that would be.
He might never gather enough for a full hell lord summoning. But partial summoning was viable.
Moreover, demon summoning left the black mage powerless afterward.
Indeed, before his regression, Damian had nearly fainted right after summoning an Infernal.
Against normal foes, there was no worry post-summoning. But Michael and Rubia were different.
They would exploit that gap to take his head.
Swoosh. As Damian raised his right arm, Molech’s arm moved in sync. Being a partial summon, control rested with him.
“The king of Infernals, Molech.”
Even the lord’s name was known to the Old Man of the Mountain. His knowledge of black magic and demons exceeded Damian’s expectations.
[Kekeke. It’s been ages since I saw a human this repulsive. Wait—is he even human? I don’t want to see him anymore. Turn him to ash.]
To the hell lord’s eyes, the first Old Man of the Mountain was a being far beyond common sense.
“Our goal has inadvertently benefited you.”
He meant Paruzan. Had she been at his side, Damian would have hesitated longer before this choice.
But the Old Man of the Mountain had not only knocked her out but also sheltered her safely.
Moreover, his aim was securing her safety. Taking a hostage was off the table.
The old man swung his massive scythe. Dozens of slashing strikes surged toward Damian. An assault focused on quantity over individual power.
Damian’s current state wasn’t ideal. Even light blows could prove fatal.
Snap. But none reached him. With a flick of a finger bone, the slashes turned to ash instantly.
Whoosh. Ignition beyond perception. The resulting scorching air filled the basement.
Damian’s Hellfire ignited centered on the caster without blood as medium. But Molech’s was different.
Flames could erupt anywhere in perceived space in an instant.
Yet the fiercest firepower naturally emanated from the caster—from Molech’s right arm.
“This….”
The Old Man of the Mountain groaned as the black finger bones seized him. In a split second, the extending hand had completely locked his movements.
The power Damian wielded now wasn’t from a soul contract—it was Molech’s innate might.
Not just the world-scorching Hellfire; Molech’s flesh itself surpassed human limits.
Even the Old Man of the Mountain’s agile movements were ultimately human. A part though it was, it couldn’t be outdone by a hell lord.
—Burn.
Damian’s voice resounded from the flames. Instantly, the Old Man of the Mountain’s body crumbled to ash and vanished.
“Hot stuff.”
But the old man’s voice came from behind Damian. Accompanied by the sound of wind being cleaved.
Yet this space was under Damian’s control now. Even slashes from blind spots were no trouble to incinerate.
The issue was why the Old Man of the Mountain was still alive and well.
‘How?’
He had clearly burned him away, yet the man stood plainly before his eyes. No trickery of the senses. The situation baffled him all the more.
But Damian focused on resolving the present rather than understanding. Molech’s hand shot toward the old man once more.
Boom! Boom! This time, instead of burning, it grabbed and repeatedly slammed him into the floor. Cracks like spiderwebs soon riddled the solid stone.
Cough. As the old man spat blood, Damian finally incinerated his body.
“Ow, my aching bones.”
“Couldn’t you go easy?”
Now identical voices echoed from both sides. Two Old Men of the Mountain, wielding massive scythes, charged at Damian from left and right.
Damian crushed the left one in Molech’s grip and reduced the right to ash before it could even raise its scythe.
But the result was the same. The Old Man of the Mountain became one again, then three, then two, then five. He multiplied endlessly without dying.
‘Feels like fighting a ghost.’
Of course, no attacks reached Damian. With Molech’s right arm dominating the space, nothing escaped his flames.
Yet he couldn’t inflict fatal wounds. And the time he could wield Molech’s power was limited.
Time wasn’t on Damian’s side.
“Didn’t I tell you? I am the first Old Man of the Mountain.”
With leisure, he could survey via black magic—Gaze—but not now.
Any gap Damian showed invited immediate slashes.
“Countless Old Men of the Mountain have existed while Hashashin’s history endured.”
His breath grew labored. Signifying little time left to control Molech’s right arm.
“They became a sort of ideal for the myriad Hashashin.”
The rate of erupting flames visibly slowed. Over a dozen Old Men of the Mountain closed in, pressing him.
“Layer upon layer, they gathered unto me. Ready to answer the call anytime.”
Molech’s voice fell silent. But Damian felt his gaze upon him.
For the loquacious lord to go quiet meant this battle had truly piqued his interest.
“I am death itself.”
The Old Man of the Mountain’s massive scythe now loomed high above Damian’s head.
He had unleashed hellish conflagration all around, yet now it couldn’t touch the old man.
“Can you burn death?”
Death. Recognizing it, time around him slowed rapidly.
Scattering embers, the old man’s face peering down, the towering scythe. The dozen-plus Old Men of the Mountain had merged into one before him.
‘Death. A single concept.’
The old man’s koan-like words suddenly made sense.
A concept shared by countless Hashashin. That was the Old Man of the Mountain’s true nature. Thus, as they neared death, he could return to this world.
He was the first Old Man of the Mountain—and all who had faced death since. A ghost linking their deaths, endlessly proliferating.
He could burn parts, but not the whole. Damian couldn’t imagine incinerating infinitely extended timelines.
Unknowing its end, the flames would burn eternally.
‘Linked… them?’
Damian had died once. From that, borrowing Ishtar’s power, he regressed to the past.
Regression. Superficially, returning to the past. But inversely, appending a new timeline.
Just like the Old Man of the Mountain.
And to link meant, conversely, it could be severed. Not erased, but its integrity shattered.
In slowed time, the emotionless Old Man of the Mountain stood. Now Damian perceived his existence clearly.
That was no person. No, not even a living being. A mass of indescribable mingled hues. A concept retaining form no matter how burned.
‘Why?’
It can’t be burned. His mind whispered.
But it can be cut. The mingled colors had clear boundaries, gaps for a single blade to pierce.
‘I can do it. Recall that moment, that moment.’
The sensation from sparring with Agnes.
Ignoring all else, becoming one with his sword—no, the sword and self as one.
Union with the blade.
The sword, once strewn on the floor, now filled Damian’s hand.
One step. Toward the Old Man of the Mountain—no, the mass entwined with countless deaths.
The sword swings. No—I am swung.
In this moment closer to death than any since regression, thus clearer than ever, he saw death plainly.
He felt the sensation of cleaving something. But no sound came.
“This… no… it can’t be….”
Now, only the wrinkled face remained what could be called the Old Man of the Mountain.
His body was a bizarre form of multicolored mass and green Hellfire intertwined.
Viscous fluid leaked from his lips.
Not blood.
Something more fundamental, sustaining the concept of the Old Man of the Mountain, spilling out.
Beyond the grotesquely twisting face, emotions of thousands emanated. All showed fear.
“Great existence. Is this truly your will?”
Damian’s sword was embedded just below the Old Man of the Mountain’s neck.
He had slashed death itself.