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Chapter 272: Null City (9)

Slice!

With a sound like a giant radish being chopped, a black hand was severed.

“Keuk! Cough, cough!”

At the same time, Fran collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath.

Pabababak!

The severed black hand scuttled along the floor, spread wide, and lunged at him.

“Uwaaah!”

Instinctively, Fran transformed his entire body into wind—then immediately regretted it.

He’d forgotten that the hand could grab even wind.

“Blink.”

But space twisted in that instant, and the hand clawed nothing but empty air.

“Hm?”

When the expected spray of blood and flesh didn’t appear, the old woman tilted her head. She fixed her gaze on Oscar and spoke.

“You’re a spatial mage, aren’t you?”

For the first time since the battle began, her eyes lit up.

The demon who had created this space had died, and she’d been troubled about it—now the perfect replacement had appeared.

“Excellent. Truly excellent. From now on, you will maintain this space.”

“……”

Oscar narrowed his eyes without replying. He didn’t care what she was saying. What unsettled him was a strange sense of déjà vu.

That ornate dress and elegant tone… they felt oddly familiar.

“Banavel Morit?”

“Oh?”

Her parasol lifted slightly as the old woman gave him a curious look.

“Few youngsters these days know my name… How do you?”

“……”

Banavel Morit.

A master of the black art Black Hand and commander of Death Knights.

A 7th-level mage.

Oscar had encountered her often enough on the battlefield, twenty-one years ago.

Yes—if he had to explain it, she was… a former comrade.

‘Not that we were ever close.’

Even back then, relations between the White Tower and the Black Tower were far from good.

The Black Tower, burdened with a negative public image, called the White Tower hypocrites.

The White Tower, in turn, simply ignored them.

Oscar spoke slowly.

“I read about it. The battle of Mogley Marsh.”

“Ah, that! What a splendid fight it was.”

Her face lit with a bright smile.

“Kill and kill and kill again. The demons just kept coming, endless waves of them. I hardly slept for five whole days.”

“…Why?”

Oscar’s voice came out heavy.

“Why has someone who once fought on the Empire’s front lines ended up like this?”

“Pft! I changed?”

Her lace-gloved hand rose elegantly to cover her mouth.

Then, lowering it, her voice chilled.

“It wasn’t I who changed. It was the Empire.”

The sudden frost in her tone seemed to drop the temperature of the operating room.

“Child, we fought with everything we had.”

“……”

“The Black Tower’s image was poor? I didn’t care. Necromancy has always been shunned, in every age. So long as we were true to ourselves, that was enough. That was what we were taught, and that’s how we lived. On the battlefield, we were feared by friend and foe alike—but we were always at the forefront.”

Swish.

The parasol lowered, hiding her face.

But even veiled, her rage was unmistakable.

“And what was our reward? Imperial watchdogs wherever we went. Disgusted stares, as though we were traitors. And in the end, they tore from me the thing most precious of all.”

Magical power rippled violently around her.

Killian scowled, but Oscar raised an arm to stop him.

“Why!!!”

Kaaaang!

With her piercing cry, her mana surged, sending every surgical tool levitating.

“Why did we deserve that treatment? Because a handful of our kind betrayed the Empire? Then what of the rest of us? Hm? Answer me, boy.”

“……”

Her words weren’t incomprehensible.

Not all Black Tower mages were vile.

But their magic drew suspicion, and the betrayals of a few had tarred them all.

Banavel herself had been a war hero, beyond question.

“So the world made you bitter?”

“Yes. Bitter enough to wish it all would burn.”

No trace remained of the noble figure who, alongside her husband, had once swept the battlefield as the Couple Who Brought Death.

Yet Oscar understood why.

“It must be because of the Death Knight.”

“…!”

Banavel’s eyes widened.

“How do you…?”

“No other reason fits.”

Her Death Knight was no ordinary undead.

It was the corpse of her husband—a once-promising knight, slain by demons.

Oscar asked quietly, with sadness in his eyes,

“Was there no other choice?”

“…The Empire took him from me. They swore it was only to avoid social unrest, not for battle. But they still stole him away.”

The Imperial rationale was understandable.

A Death Knight forged from a 7th-level knight, commanded by a 7th-level necromancer—an uncontrollable force.

“And so you joined hands with the demons you once despised?”

“I don’t care who rules this land. All I want is to be with him again.”

“…Even if that land is a wasteland where all life has perished?”

“Child. Whatever you say, I cannot, and will not, stop.”

Oscar nodded slowly.

“I see. The war hero I read about… no longer exists.”

“There is no going back. I’ve come too far.”

She glanced at the corpses of mercenaries, mages, and demons strewn about, and chuckled.

“So all I can do is press forward, harder than ever.”

“…Understood.”

Her revenge, born of madness, could only end in eternal rest.

But to fight a 7th-level mage head-on was suicide.

‘I need to escape and regroup with our forces outside.’

Oscar tugged at the threads of space.

“Futile.”

But the path outward didn’t budge.

Banavel smirked.

“This space may have been created by that corpse, but it was maintained by me. Without my leave, none may leave.”

“Damn.”

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So there was no avoiding a fight.

Oscar grimaced and shouted,

“Killian! Protect Veronica!”

“Got it!”

Safeguarding the wounded wasn’t optional.

If they died, fine—but if taken hostage, it would be disastrous.

Banavel, of course, would not stand idle.

“How amusing. Struggle all you like—you’ll never escape my grasp.”

With a roar, her ferocious mana shook the entire floor.

Kwaaaah!

Five black hands erupted from the ground.

“Kh!”

Three aimed at Oscar.

The other two lunged for Killian, racing toward Veronica.

‘I have to help him!’

Even while slashing and dodging, Oscar’s eyes stayed fixed on Killian.

If he fell, they’d lose before the real fight even began.

“I told you already.”

Killian’s gaze flicked toward Oscar—not the hands.

“We’re not burdens anymore. We’re comrades.”

The tattoos on his body blazed with light.

Accelerating to inhuman speed, Killian scooped Veronica onto his back—

Just as two black hands caught up, fists raised to crush him.

『Wolf’s Song, Crescent Moon.』

Shhhhrak!

With just two fingers, Killian sliced the fists clean through.

Silver mana gleamed at his fingertips, visible to the naked eye.

“…And my scissors beat rock.”

Oscar, watching his comrade’s resolve, shouted:

“Well done!”

He pressed the attack.

Opening the Wind Archive, Oscar’s hair flared upward with surging mana.

“Heaven-Splitting Sword.”

“…What?”

Banavel’s eyes flew wide.

The Heaven-Splitting Sword—one of the White Tower’s ultimate spells.

She’d seen it countless times on battlefields.

‘It’s coming!’

She instinctively raised her parasol, layering it with black mana to shield herself.

‘This should suffice.’

Even such a spell couldn’t breach this defense.

Relief flickered across her face—

Until she saw Oscar smiling.

‘…He’s smiling?’

Despite knowing she’d block it?

A sense of wrongness struck her—

And then the ceiling collapsed, unleashing a torrent of wind.

“Urgh!”

“Sorry, that’s just Wind Press.”

And it wasn’t ordinary wind, but freezing, glacial air.

“Ghhhk!”

Pinned by the crushing gale, she was held still for just a moment.

Enough for the true Heaven-Splitting Sword to strike—

From below.

“…!”

Kwoooom!

A colossal blade burst up through the floor, impaling her.

She tried to shield herself, but not all of the damage was deflected.

“Gaaahhh!”

Blood sprayed as she screamed.

Clutching her mouth with a gloved hand, her eyes twisted with rage.

“How dare you…!”

And then—she invoked the privilege of all master mages.

“You mean World Liberation.”

“…!?”

Banavel froze.

That was indeed what she had been preparing—World Liberation.

‘He read me?’

But she dismissed the thought.

‘Any archmage can use World Liberation. Even a child knows that.’

So why would he say it?

To shake her concentration.

Falling for it and not using her trump card would be the true folly.

Scowling, she shouted louder.

“World Liberation—Swamp of Black Plague!”

Dark mana spread outward, coating the walls, floor, and ceiling.

Soon, the entire building would be consumed.

Then her victory was assured.

‘They can’t dodge the Black Hands forever.’

This was the same spell that had allowed her to stand alone against thousands of demons at Mogley Marsh.

The difference between a high mage and insects beneath them.

Certain of triumph, she smiled—

Until Oscar murmured.

“Thoughts may change, but one’s nature never does. You were never that close to demons, were you?”

“…What?”

Bewildered, Banavel frowned—

“World Liberation.”

Oscar unleashed his own.

Cracks ripped through the building.

Two World Liberations colliding in such an unstable space—it was catastrophic.

‘Mine may be half-formed…’

But Banavel’s wasn’t.

Had she known the truth from the dead space mage, she’d never have risked casting it.

“W-what?!”

The space collapsed.

Her control was long gone.

She looked wildly around—only to realize the White Tower mages had already escaped.

“Aaaahhh!”

Unable to use spatial magic herself, Banavel was swallowed by the collapsing void.

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