Chapter 5. Ruins of the Dead God (2)
Episode 5. Ruins of the Dead Gods (2)
Summer in the North was distinctly different from summers elsewhere on the continent.
When warm sunlight brightened the world, the accumulated snow from winter would gradually melt, creating small streams that gurgled away—only to freeze solid again come nightfall. It was more like the transitional period between early spring and early winter than true summer.
But to Northerners accustomed to biting blizzards, this was summer in its warmest form, and the streets buzzed with vitality.
Children laughing and playing, merchants hawking their wares in the market, pedestrians haggling over prices, traders transporting dried meats—everyone moved busily, taking advantage of the brief summer.
Yet.
There were places far removed from such liveliness.
A gloomy underground chamber. Dried bloodstains, dark and crimson, clung to the walls, as if the echoes of pain, screams, and desperate pleas for mercy still lingered in the air. There, a man drove a red-hot iron spike into another man's shoulder.
Sssss—
"GAAAHH!"
A horrific scream reverberated through the chamber. The man writhed in agony, his body contorting violently. But the iron chains binding his limbs were unyielding—no amount of struggle would free him.
"I—I told you everything already. Please, just kill me."
One of the trash from Chwimongyahwa. His voice was ragged as he pleaded with the man before him. It wasn't a plea for life—it was a desperate cry for release from suffering, even if that release came only in death.
The man left the spike embedded and tilted his head.
"Hard to believe. So it really was Sion Karsen—that half-wit—who killed my brother."
At that moment, a woman in a black suit spoke in a honeyed voice.
"That's what he said, didn't he? Yan Hashiman."
Yan Hashiman. Brother of Yoen Hashiman, wanted with a bounty of 100 million Jeni.
"...Still, I never thought my brother would lose to someone like that."
"Perhaps he was drunk."
Yan sighed, recalling his brother's habits.
"...Fair enough."
Yan picked up a heavy iron hammer. Step by step, he approached the bound man. His movements were devoid of hesitation. His dry, emotionless gaze fixed on the man, who hung his head limply, expression blank.
THUD.
The hammer came down.
The thick scent of blood filled the underground chamber. Yan watched impassively as crimson streaks trickled down the wall.
"Still, revenge is necessary."
A month had passed.
What had I been doing all this time?
Feeding the Fire Dragon's bloodline into my Holy Wheel and core, refining mana into pure magic power, expelling impurities, and running endless laps and squats while wearing a weighted vest packed with stones.
Physical training was always the right choice. It was the most reliable investment—effort in, results out, with minimal betrayal. But that wasn't all.
I was a magic swordsman, but my true strength lay in magic. I had no intention of neglecting my swordsmanship—it was essential for survival—but at its core, it was merely a means of self-defense.
In the great war to come, magic would be my greatest weapon.
And so, I had one goal:
Ascending my Holy Wheel.
A 1-Star Mage consumes the mana stored in their Holy Wheel to manifest an element aligned with their affinity. For me, that meant conjuring fire from nothingness.
But a 2-Star Mage goes beyond mere manifestation—they shape it. In other words, Holy Wheel ascension was an expansion of magical consciousness.
Did this expansion come easily?
No. I had to engrave "mana circuits" into my body—specifically, into my veins. The important part? It hurt like hell.
"Ready."
Having absorbed a substantial amount of the Fire Dragon's bloodline, I had enough Flame Realm mana. I took a deep breath and began constructing the mana circuits.
"...Ugh."
It felt like my flesh was being torn apart. Excruciating pain surged through me. Of course it did—this was essentially tattooing my veins with a needle.
But if I didn't push through in one go, this process could take years. So I gritted my teeth. Endure it, Sion Karsen!
I'd done this before.
One decisive push!
CRACK—
I clenched my jaw so hard I thought my teeth might shatter. Sweat poured down like rain, drenching my entire body.
How much time passed?
PING—
Another star appeared in my Holy Wheel.
At last, I had become a 2-Star Mage.
"Haah... haah... Still not enough."
Beyond "form," the next step was instilling "will."
I pushed straight to 3-Star.
PING—
Another star lit up.
'3-Star!'
Still not enough.
Beyond "form" and "will,"
I needed to create "structure."
I ascended to 4-Star.
PING—
Another star appeared.
The highest realm I could reach for now.
"I... did it."
THUD—
I collapsed to the floor.
'They'll probably start moving soon... I should head out...'
My consciousness faded.
If you asked where magic was most advanced on the Valhalla Continent, everyone would point to the central regions.
And if you asked where the highest magical authority resided within those regions, everyone would name the Black Magic Tower.
The tower revered by all mages across the world. The gathering place of all mysteries. The sacred ground of the wise.
At the very peak of that Black Magic Tower,
Five elders, draped in black robes that covered even their heads, had gathered. Each one was a 7-Star Archmage.
They convened around the [Oracle].
The masterwork of the Great Sage, said to have peered into all dimensions of existence two thousand years ago.
The Great Sage himself was long dead, but the Oracle remained as the world's chronicler. And one of the things it recorded was the "Ranking System."
An elder with deeply wrinkled hands tapped the table.
TAP. TAP.
All eyes turned to him. Beneath the black robe, a pair of crimson eyes gleamed—an eerie glow that sent shivers down spines regardless of age. His parched lips parted.
"The 4-Star record has been updated."
The reason for their gathering was this:
The Oracle recorded every mage's "Holy Wheel ascension" and ranked them based on how quickly they achieved it.
The categories spanned 1 to 9 Stars.
The records tracked age and time.
For the first time in 300 years—since Archmage Brillis Arcadin—the top spot had been overturned. And now, just 20 years later, it had happened again.
【 Age 22, 1-Star → 4-Star. 37 days. 】
An impossible number.
Normally, reaching 1-Star after mana sensitivity took 3 to 10 years. Even prodigies took over a year.
Naturally, progressing from 1-Star to 2-Star took even longer, and 3-Star to 4-Star was beyond question.
Some never reached it in their lifetime. Even those called geniuses needed at least 20 years.
And yet. Someone had reached 4-Star in just 37 days.
"The first time since Hashivalt of the Imperial Academy broke the record 20 years ago."
"What was the record back then?"
"Five years."
Five years.
Hashivalt had halved the time it took for so-called geniuses to reach that stage. A truly astonishing feat.
But.
"37 days? Does that even make sense?"
"If this were within the bounds of common sense, we wouldn't be gathered here."
"I can't believe it even after seeing it."
"Could the Oracle have made a mistake?"
"Impossible. The Oracle's ranking system is flawless. It hasn't been wrong once in two thousand years."
The pinnacle of the continent's magical world—the Black Magic Tower.
And at its summit, the elders.
These were ancient beings who had extended their lifespans through various means, each having lived over 300 years. Yet even they struggled to comprehend this development.
"Twenty years since Hashivalt reached 4-Star, and he's already a 6-Star Mage. One more step, and he'll stand where we do."
"Are you saying someone with even greater talent has appeared?"
"It's too soon to be certain."
"Has the record-breaker been identified?"
"No. At the very least, they don't seem to be from the Tower or the Imperial Academy."
"Someone unaffiliated with the greatest magical institutions?"
"Precisely."
The elders did not take this lightly. Beings who had existed loftily in the abyss for so long did not welcome sudden waves of change.
"This could send ripples through the magical world."
"For now, we should keep this classified until we identify them."
"Send out agents to locate this record-breaker."
"Agreed."
The other elders nodded.
Unanimous.
And so, without Sion's knowledge, he had drawn the attention of the Black Magic Tower. His great achievement was now a closely guarded secret.
FLASH!
My eyes snapped open.
"Ughhh..."
I clutched my head, throbbing with intense pain. The sudden ascension had overloaded my brain.
"Damn it, no matter how many times I go through this, I never get used to it."
Inhale—
Exhale—
I steadied my breathing, calming both body and mind. Thankfully, my physical training had kept my body from breaking down completely.
Before my regression, the pain had been so severe—like my muscles were tearing apart—that I couldn't move for days.
Another piece of good news: With my Holy Wheel ascended, the mana in my core had grown denser.
How much time had passed?
I brushed myself off and stood up.
"Let's test it."
I reached out, drawing mana from my Holy Wheel.
WHOOSH—
Flames ignited in my palm, and I infused them with "form." The fire abandoned its tendency to spread and instead condensed. [Flame Sword]
SWISH— SWISH—
The condensed flames took the shape of a sword. Gripping the Flame Sword, I executed a series of sword techniques.
SLASH! WHOOSH—
"2-Star magic works fine."
Next, I threw the [Flame Sword] into the air and infused "form" with "will." [Fire Eagle]
WHOOSH—
The flames formed a head, from which a beak emerged. Wings spread wide. It had truly transformed into a hawk. And then it soared.
WHOOSH— WHOOSH—
The sound of its wingbeats was majestic. The [Fire Eagle], now complete with form and will, circled through the underground cavern.
3-Star magic worked without issue.
Then.
CLAP!
With a clap, the [Fire Eagle] split into four. Four flaming hawks spiraled above me.
CLAP!
They plummeted to the ground like lightning.
WHOOSH— KABOOM!
"[Eagle Plant.]"
Four massive pillars of fire erupted, each with a blazing hollow at its center.
SNAP!
I flicked my fingers, and small firebirds burst from the pillars. Like a factory producing flame avians, the magic had been "structured."
"4-Star magic is flawless too."
Inhale—
Exhale—
As I breathed slowly, my endlessly rotating Holy Wheel absorbed ambient mana.
The absorbed mana converted into Flame Realm mana, restoring my magic power at an incredible rate.
"Recovery's good too."
A thrilling sensation. While ascending the Holy Wheel required vast amounts of Flame Realm mana, once formed, I could recover mana even without it.
In other words, I had become a mage who could breathe fire even in the harshest cold. Of course, I had no intention of revealing my magic for now.
I'd have to hold back until "that expedition."
So for now, what I needed to train wasn't magic—it was swordsmanship. My own unique sword style, devised through exchanges with the Resistance's finest swordsmen in my past life.
Karsen-style Ancient Sword Art (Modified).
I gripped my sword. Until the time came to bare my fangs, this blade would protect me—and eliminate my enemies.