A Villain's Will to Survive

Chapter 344: Train Track (2)

“For it is my own spell, crafted by my very hand, and my lighthouse—one I personally ascended and descended to reconstruct,” I said.

… At that moment, everyone was enveloped in silence, no sound—not even a breath—stirred in the dark office, yet the emotion in the eyes of those who watched me, steeped in that silence, was clear—sickening in its raw honesty.

“Umm…”

At length, those were the words they managed to utter.

“Why…?”

It was a question—their muttering breath asking for the reason why.

“For it is the will of the Altar,” I replied, rising from my chair.

The Altar’s purpose—meaning Quay’s—was the destruction of the continent.

“There is nothing to be surprised about. Was this not expected? Had you even once read God’s holy book…” I continued.

Quay’s holy book, in the very passages where he directly left his revelations, contained numerous metaphors and allusions signifying the continent’s destruction.

“You would not be unaware.”

Then, with his body twitching and as a particular passage belatedly came to mind, Relin stammered, “If that is the case, the true meaning of continental purification that the Altar’s priests speak of would be…”

“The Altar’s God considers us as the descendants of the Godslayer. Therefore, the continent’s purification is, in fact, the continent’s destruction. The lighthouse stands as the chosen method for this act.”

Upon hearing my words, the professors exchanged glances, communicating silently through their expressions.

“Worry not,” I continued, offering them a low smile. “For your souls, having cooperated with the Altar, are destined for willing preservation, to inhabit new bodies in a new world, thus reborn as new beings.”

I reiterated to them the very words Quay had once spoken to me.

“Reborn as new beings…? Does that mean we would be…” Relin replied, asking cautiously.

Relin’s expression remained hopeful, despite it all.

“All your memories of now will be erased, and you will become entirely new beings,” I said, lightly cutting that thread.

“T-That would be nothing less than death, would it not?!” Relin replied, shouting and slamming his hands on the desk while his boarish face reddened and tears shimmered in his eyes.

“It is for that reason the lighthouse stands, and for that reason, the spell exists,” I said, glaring at Relin, my lips twisting.

The professors’ faces hardened. Occasionally, twitches of tension rippled like wrinkles across their skin, and their breaths were ragged as if they had been betrayed by someone.

“Go on.”

The professors, ghastly pale and merely mouthing words, were oblivious to the true nature of their chosen course, having merely chased after comfortable complacency, and I smiled at those whose expressions were a fitting spectacle.

“And let the brief span of your remaining life be pleasant,” I concluded.

***

Meanwhile, inside the painting prison—a world utterly distinct from the continent—its population, already exceeding five percent of the continent’s, and people of diverse origins from the Empire, principalities, and kingdoms, with varying eye and skin colors, lived there, alternately engaging in cooperation and conflict, and were indeed preserved by Epherene.

“Is it even possible to ever leave here? I’m honestly starting to wonder,” Ihelm said.

Within the exquisitely beautiful office of the painting world’s headquarters, a place itself like a painting, at Arlos’s declaration the Sylvia, Creator of this realm, merely shook her head with a look of utter disdain and, giving no attention to the likes of a puppeteer, resumed her laborious magical transcription work.

“Hello?”

“… All you ever do is doubt. That is why Deculein does not trust you,” Sylvia replied.

“What are you talking about? Have you forgotten the time on the Island of the Voice? Deculein’s trust was in me and Idnik—”

It was the memory of that day on the Island of the Voice when Sylvia overcame herself and held onto Deculein’s love with all her strength.

“What are you saying. He placed his trust in me in the end, and not in any of you. He trusted my decision.”

Sylvia’s pride lay precisely there—her decision to kill the man she most loved and to shatter the false paradise where they could have been together forever was, for her, an immense source of satisfaction.

Therefore, Sylvia would absolutely save Deculein, because he had saved her before…

“I mean, the problem, rather, is that too many people are content within this place. Within this false world.”

In this place, all necessities—food, clothing, and shelter—were resolved through Sylvia’s magic and mana. One had no need to hunt, no need to cultivate, and no concern for a place to stay, all due to Sylvia, their omniscient Creator.

“More importantly, how is the preparation of the puppet progressing,” Sylvia asked Arlos.

“I have managed a fragile connection with the external world’s puppet, but the transfer of advanced consciousness proves impossible,” Arlos replied, straightening her posture once more.

Although Arlos managed to connect with her puppets spread across the continent beyond the confines of the painting prison, she struggled with precise control—transmitting an entire consciousness to control them proved difficult.

“This manual control device is essential,” Arlos continued, presenting a rectangular machine.

It was a long board with several sticks attached, the type of object one would occasionally see in an arcade.

“This allows for movement and even communication. Do you find this sufficient?”

Sylvia stared at Arlos and the object, seemingly assessing the mana and spell it contained, and then nodded.

“It should be enough,” Sylvia replied.

“Alright… hmm,” Arlos said, clearing her throat.

Then, measuring Sylvia’s expression, Arlos asked, “But are you really considering lending your assistance to Deculein?”

“Why would you ask that,” Sylvia replied, continuing to scribble something onto the magic paper.

“Deculein wouldn’t ask for your assistance.”

As Arlos had stated, Deculein would not seek assistance, making Sylvia’s help an act of unsolicited salvation, a rescue on her own terms.

“Instead, your goodwill would only disrupt his plans.”

Sylvia stared silently at Arlos, who, in turn, stole a glance at the magic spell laid out on Sylvia’s desk—a spell designed to save Deculein, to guarantee he wouldn’t die.

“… What, exactly, is the purpose of that spell?” Arlos asked.

“I am going to paint his portrait,” Sylvia replied, letting out a sigh and voicing a rather strange notion.

“A portrait?”

“Within it, I am going to preserve him.”

Then, as Sylvia resumed her absorption in magic, Arlos felt inexplicably confused but merely glanced at Sylvia’s blonde crown before shrugging her shoulders.

“Alright, do as you please. I will control my puppet, then…” Arlos replied.

***

In the place of worship for the Altar of the Land of Destruction’s lighthouse, Quay contemplated his painting as he stared upon the many canvases in his flower garden, each a painting that held numerous criminals from the continent.

This very canvas, known as the painting prison and regarded as the outer edge of the world, was an authority Quay had achieved—no, rather, awakened to—after ten thousand years of prayer.

“Epherene, I think I understand what you’re thinking,” Quay said.

However, Epherene, seemingly attempting to counteract Quay’s authority, actively began putting people into the canvas because her purpose was the preservation of humanity.

Since the outer edge of the world was a space even Quay could not interfere with, it was a somewhat meaningful act if her goal was to escape his control—though true escape would likely be impossible.

“But there can be no escape.”

The outer edge of the world was a place separated and isolated from the world itself, meaning no magic could pull the humans inside back out. At best, a case like Yulie’s current situation was the utmost limit, which was rightly seen as a miracle defying providence—nothing more than a miracle born from Yulie’s determination with Deculein.

“Are you, then, viewing your artistry?”

… At that moment, a voice from behind caused Quay to turn, and there, in the mirror, stood Deculein.

“Yes, I, too, am unaware of their activities within, as it is a completely isolated place,” Quay replied.

“Indeed, you are rather imperfect to be called a God,” Deculein replied.

“I guess,” Quay said, a low smile on his face. “What about you? There is only a little time remaining. Is it not visible from the continent?”

In the universe, a comet—no, a meteorite of planetary proportions—was currently racing towards the continent. The lighthouse, soon to activate, would pull its orbit entirely, causing the continent to be utterly obliterated and turned into cosmic debris. After that, Quay would begin to recreate the continent.

“I am aware that the lighthouse’s purpose has been revealed as an anonymous mage exposed it.”

“Is that so? Does this mean you’ve also been exposed?”

“It is but a matter of time.”

Thud.

From inside the mirror, Deculein stepped forth, moving out into the world beyond.

“I will begin the lighthouse’s operation from this moment forward,” Deculein continued, a staff gripped in one hand and a book on the other.

“What is that book?”

“This is meant as a gift for Grand Prince Creáto.”

“A gift?”

Deculein nodded, offering no words.

“Tell me. I will not interfere. In any event, I promise you I will let everything proceed as it must,” Quay said, a smile playing on his lips as he looked at Deculein.

“What you refer to, as God says.”

If Deculein’s words were true, then the God he spoke of would arrive with that very meteorite, a moment Quay somewhat anticipated.

“It is the key to the lighthouse,” Deculein replied after assessing Quay’s expression.

“A key?”

“This book alone holds the means to interpret all aspects of the lighthouse. It is a gift I leave for Grand Prince Creáto.”

In the lighthouse, all of Deculein’s magical knowledge was applied with the utmost perfection of his talent for Comprehension, making it an OOPArts even to Quay, far exceeding the current continent’s magic system.

It was a monumental achievement that could entirely reshape the framework of magic, but Deculein’s claim that such an achievement could be understood in a mere single book confused even Quay, and what followed was even stranger.

“Take it,” Deculein said, extending it to Quay.

“Why are you giving this to me?” Quay replied, his eyes widening.

“Let it be you who delivers it to Grand Prince Creáto.”

“Me?”

Deculein nodded, showing not a hint of hesitation, and in fact, his expression suggested he wondered why such a question was even asked.

“You trust me?” Quay added.

“Indeed, I place my trust in you above the other rotten wretches of this world. You are unblemished faith, and paradoxically, more impeccable and immaculate than any other.”

Quay stared at the book without a word.

Then, a faint smile spread, and it belonged to Deculein.

“Quay, you once stated that I resembled the talent of an old friend of yours.”

“… Yes.”

“It is the power known as Comprehension, and at this time, it is a power that belongs to none other than myself,” Deculein said.

Comprehension was a talent that Kim Woo-Jin had thoughtlessly added to Deculein.

“When first I came to this world, my knowledge was nonexistent, and therefore my Comprehension of even the merest principle of magic demanded considerable mana.”

The humiliating days of expending mana into learning mere Telekinesis and suffering exhaustion from adopting a single spell were now felt like distant memories to him.

“But not anymore, Quay,” Deculein continued, extending his book to Quay again.

Quay received the book, and on its cover was written a single title in an exquisitely fluid and elegant hand—Deculein’s Final Summary, a legacy piece, as if it were a last will.

“… I somehow feel I can reach a state of God beyond what even you would.”

Deculein’s words were rather arrogant, yet Quay did not grow irate.

“With merely the power to comprehend?” Quay asked, looking up at Deculein.

Deculein shook his head, smiling as if he found Quay delightfully naive.

“It is far from mere comprehension. More than comprehending the world, more than comprehending the continent…”

After a brief silence, Deculein looked into Quay’s eyes, and in that precise moment, a certain mana shimmered in Deculein’s eyes, granting Quay a sudden realization.

“… It is the comprehension of presence itself.”

Deculein’s Comprehension had reached a certain crossroads, resembling a flower bud beneath the rain, ready to bloom—a talent about to be in full blossom.

“I hold Comprehension of you, Quay.”

Quay wore a contented smile.

“Even in this very moment and in every moment that follows…”

As expected, Deculein was the most difficult human to contend with on this continent.

“I will come to learn of you thereby comprehending you and ultimately…”

Given that he held the most fundamental and unique talent in existence.

“I will defeat you,” Deculein concluded.

Indeed, the power to comprehend all presence was unquestionably the power of a God, for if it were not, no other power could claim that title.

“… Is that so? If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles, do you?” Quay muttered, pointing toward Deculein’s book. “Creáto will appreciate this. I’ll make sure it reaches him. I won’t even sneak a look.”

“Then I will now proceed to the lighthouse,” Deculein replied, nodding.

Then, with a mischievous voice, to Deculein, who was walking past him, Quay asked, “Are you going to wait for Sophien there? Are you going to wait for your death? Are you going to pray for Sophien to kill you?”

The sound of Deculein’s walking steps stopped.

“Was Sophien, then, incapable of your Comprehension?” Quay continued.

Then, a slight, bitter twist appeared at the corner of Deculein’s lips.

“… It was not that I was incapable, but rather that I chose not to.”

“You chose not to?”

“Indeed, as a subject, how could I dare to comprehend Her Majesty at will? I can but trust and patiently bide.”

Quay kept Deculein steadily in his sight.

Deculein’s heart differed from that of a follower who served a God and from a human who loved their beloved.

He was…

“That final moment, when the blade thrusts my heart… the moment a villain, designed for death, meets his end…” Deculein concluded.

The most perfect subject, a villain by the name of Deculein.

“… Yeah.”

At that moment, Quay began to subtly sense it—the audacious claim Deculein had once made—that God had prepared the individual named Deculein specifically for Quay…

“I too am curious to see that end,” Quay concluded.

That God had sent himself down for Quay—that perhaps Deculein’s words might indeed be true…