How had things come to this?
Trapped within a mound of ice, writhing, the Grand Elder stared blankly, his mouth slightly open.
“I was a little worried, you see. The Second Elder’s magic is absurdly strong, so if you were even half as powerful as him, it would have been quite troublesome.”
A broken cane lay abandoned on the floor.
With his back turned, Cruello nudged it with his foot.
Like a cat toying with a plaything.
Unlike the elder, who seemed on the verge of drawing his last breath, Cruello remained completely unscathed, standing there as composed as ever.
The Grand Elder let out a slow breath.
“To think your strength is at a level I can handle alone... how fortunate.”
“You’ve been hiding your power all this time, haven’t you?”
“Well, have I ever really shown it properly?”
The man tilted his head slightly, neither smiling nor frowning.
“Qudil was useless, Ares never even came within my reach, the Second Elder only caused me grief, and as for my uncle—well, my fiancée took care of him.”
“......”
“In the end, you simply underestimated me without any real basis. That’s all.”
“...A word of advice—you would be wise not to kill me. No leader stands alone without their subordinates.”
“Hah, is that your way of begging for your life, Grand Elder?”
“Master!”
“I’m afraid that would be quite difficult. If you were to survive and start spouting nonsense, it would become rather troublesome.”
“How dare you... how dare...”
“Oh, Grand Elder, demons don’t manifest in this world. Morion will vanish, just as it is.”
Ha. Hahaha.
The Grand Elder spat bloodied saliva onto the ice and let out a hoarse laugh.
“Ahahaha... you dare to lie to me as well! Even if that is what you wish, Master, how could you be so blind to its impossibility?”
“Well, it’s not as if I ever expected you to listen.”
“Half of Morion is the culmination of our ancestors’ desires. How can you not see it, standing here today, in this very place? Drawn by that uncontrollable power...”
The old man’s gaze burned into Cruello’s back.
Then suddenly, his breath caught.
His eyes widened as if they were about to split open.
A butterfly fluttered toward him.
A pure white butterfly—just as Nigellia had described.
“How many times must I explain how the prophecy is delivered?”
“A demon’s messenger, clad in the body of a white butterfly, will come.”
“And it will whisper His words—so vividly they will be seared into your mind.”
There were no windows in the shrine the elder had built.
It could not have flown in from outside.
Like the previous prayer rooms, the chamber had been sealed off with precise magical precautions. No subtle magic should have been possible here.
Then... was the Second Elder telling the truth all along?
Was this truly—
The butterfly settled onto the old man’s forehead.
[Soon, My will shall unfold upon this land.]
[The world will be swallowed by darkness, and many shall drown in despair.]
Ah. Aah... At last!
This could not be false.
A deep, reverent bliss shone in the Grand Elder’s eyes.
And then—
[But your place has not been prepared.]
What? Why?
The incomprehensible prophecy made the Grand Elder’s lips part.
But he could not utter a single word.
His own shadow lunged upward, clamping over his mouth, slithering inside.
“Mmph—! Mmmgh...!”
He twisted in agony, writhing against the intrusion, but resistance was meaningless.
The shadow slithered down his throat, settling against the violent thrum of his heart.
[You should have guarded the key more carefully.]
With that final, mocking decree, the Grand Elder’s hand dropped limply to his side.
The shadow, having fulfilled its purpose, silently returned to its place as if nothing had happened.
“...Grand Elder?”
The prolonged silence drew Cruello’s attention. He finally turned to look at the elder.
A loose, lifeless body slumped before him.
He scoffed.
“So much for all that composure. When faced with death, even you are helpless.”
Despair contorted the old man’s face.
Though even that paled in comparison to Nigellia’s expression.
Cruello crushed the broken cane beneath his foot.
Now then—it was time for a funeral.
***
That morning, I received an obituary.
Still half-asleep, I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the document.
Heorim White Desert.
The Grand Elder.
Cruello’s request for me to attend the funeral was succinct—clean-cut, nothing more.
Even as I sluggishly climbed into the carriage, my mind still struggled to process it.
“...What the hell happened?”
Why was the Grand Elder dead?
There was no way he had died of natural causes in a situation like this. A mage of his caliber wouldn’t have succumbed to an accident, either.
So, who killed him?
Logically, the most obvious answer was Cruello.
And yet, I couldn’t shake the lingering unease about Nigellia.
Pebula. The Evil God. The Saint. The Prophecy.
Thoughts twisted endlessly in my head, each one leading to another.
Frustrated, I ran my fingers through my hair, messing it up.
“Ugh... whatever. I’ll find out when I ask.”
Right on cue, the carriage arrived at the Grand Elder’s estate.
From the window, I could see a familiar sea of black.
Just like at Count Bonetti’s funeral.
A flood of mourners, clad in black, poured into the hall.
I blended into the crowd naturally.
Whispers swirled around me.
“How did he pass away?”
“I don’t know. The White Desert faction refuses to disclose the cause of death.”
“What on earth could have happened?”
Exactly. What really did happen?
Sighing, I gripped the condolence flowers in my hand.
Cruello, standing at the entrance to greet guests, spotted me and approached.
“I called for you on short notice. Thanks for coming.”
“Well, half the nature of a funeral is urgency, isn’t it? ...But why are you the one organizing it?”
“Eden fainted.”
“Ah.”
I glanced around once before lowering my voice.
Then, I asked.
This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.
“So, who killed the Grand Elder?”
“I did.”
Cruello?
It wasn’t the worst answer I could’ve expected, but it wasn’t exactly a relief either.
I frowned.
“You said you’d call me when the Grand Elder arrived at the estate.”
“I didn’t ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) think there’d be a better time. He was manageable on my own. I accidentally killed him, but well, what can you do?”
“...When you say ‘manageable,’ you don’t mean you barely survived but just managed to hang on, do you?”
“I wasn’t hurt. Mostly.”
I narrowed my eyes at him before abruptly grabbing his sleeve and pulling it up.
Clean.
Then the other arm—same result.
Cruello watched me with amusement as I examined him, and once I finally let him go, he got to the point.
“I need you to check the body while you offer your condolences. We couldn’t find the key at the Grand Elder’s residence—there’s a chance he put it back on himself.”
“In that short amount of time? With all these people around?”
“If necessary, I’ll make time after the funeral. White Desert is under my jurisdiction—I can’t exactly be stopped from grave-robbing.”
“Don’t test my morals and abilities.”
Just because I’ve been distant from my god lately doesn’t mean you should say something like that to a priest.
Cruello shrugged, utterly serious, before half-heartedly adding that it was just a joke.
Then he turned away, saying he had another request.
I assumed he was off to greet more guests, but instead, he headed straight for the exit.
“Where are you going?”
“Funeral arrangements are more complicated than you’d think. There are a lot of people to meet, a lot of documents to handle. Want to help?”
“Take care.”
I know when to let things go.
Cruello chuckled, as if expecting my response.
“Then I’ll leave it to you, darling.”
Leaving the funeral arrangements to the head steward, Cruello immediately opened a gate.
A moment later, he arrived at the very place where the Grand Elder had died.
A vast underground chamber, where a massive stone effigy of a woman loomed over the space.
The old man had carefully laid out a magic circle and embedded mana stones to prepare for Morion’s release.
To stabilize its power.
And to keep its energy from seeping out and drawing the attention of temple priests.
“...How convenient.”
Murmuring to himself, Cruello wasted no time pulling out the keys.
One by one, he tossed them into the air, letting them hover.
The first, Qudil’s violet key.
The second, Ares’s emerald key.
The third, Nigellia’s crimson key.
The fourth, Tetanio’s deep blue key.
And finally—
“The last one.”
Heorim’s golden key—the one Siora had been searching for.
Cruello hesitated for a moment, absently running his fingers over the golden metal before sweeping his hand through the air.
As the five keys gathered, they began drawing mana from the surrounding mana stones, spinning rapidly.
Soon, they started settling into position.
A massive inverted pentagram formed in the air, centered around them.
The magic circle shifted in color—violet, green, red, blue, gold—before all five hues blended into pure black.
The moment the keys stopped spinning, a rectangular gate opened at the very center.
“...”
Before stepping inside, Cruello turned toward one side of the chamber.
A coffin he had placed there in advance awaited him.
Lifting the lid, he carefully cradled the body resting within.
Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he stepped into the gate.
Ironically, the space created by dark magic was pure white.
A vast expanse of blinding white stretched in every direction.
Only one object interrupted the emptiness—a colossal crystal of unfathomable darkness, absorbing all surrounding light.
Judging by its sheer size, it was at least five meters tall.
The black crystal bore an uncanny resemblance to obsidian—perhaps that was why it had been named Morion.
It exuded an overwhelming sense of foreboding, flaunting its accumulated malice.
Cruello tilted his head back, gazing at Morion.
For the first time, his previously indifferent eyes gleamed with something new—desire.
“So this is Morion...”
He murmured the name to himself.
Then, carefully, he laid the figure in his arms before the towering crystal.
The body had long since perished, but thanks to preservation magic, it remained intact, as if merely sleeping.
Only the ashen tint of her skin and the deathly chill of her flesh betrayed the truth.
Cruello pressed his lips to her cold forehead.
“At last... I made it, Viga.”
Her name was Viga.
His maid—who had died years ago.
‘Conquer death and bring back the dead.’
That was the creed of the Black Serpent cult, a temptation many had succumbed to.
Amy’s death, then Viga’s death.
Losing those dearest to him, one after another, had inevitably stirred something within Cruello—the very thing the cult longed for.
But he didn’t desire the advent of a demon.
No.
Cruello desired the power to undo death itself.