SOTBW - 249

At that moment, a burst of black flames exploded right in front of Mackanon. Swiftly dodging, Mackanon hovered upside-down in midair and glanced at the spot where Belshua had been moments ago.  

The black flames seemed to embody an essential void and unease—this was the innate power of Marquis Hilberta Sylin. No magic could extinguish those flames. It was these same ominously pitch-black flames that had reduced Emaydis Lockhart’s birthplace, once the most prosperous city, to ashes within minutes.  

But hadn’t Mahilen’s magic been sealed away?  

Mackanon tilted his head in puzzlement. In that instant, pitch-black thorns erupted from the empty air, relentlessly pursuing him like eels as they multiplied endlessly.  

Amidst the spreading black smoke, amber eyes gleamed sharply like blades. Pure golden irises, devoid of any impurities, radiated murderous intent. Yet Mackanon showed no fear. On the contrary, he grinned innocently, finding the situation amusing.  

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you like this.”  

At that moment, the thorns finally pierced through Mackanon’s body. As if he had anticipated this outcome from the moment Mahilen made up his mind, Mackanon went limp, skewered like a kebab.  

The airborne thorns rained down upon Mackanon. The embedded thorns multiplied like vines, tearing into his insides, but Mackanon remained unfazed. Despite living for eons, his pain receptors hadn’t dulled—he simply felt no pain at all.  

This level of attack wasn’t enough to hurt Mackanon. For someone destined to live eternally, physical pain was nothing more than a stimulant that sharpened his focus.  

The countless black thorns filling the sky abruptly turned into pillars of salt. Multiple magical circles appeared around Mackanon, whose flesh had been shredded. Kissing the ring on his little finger, Mackanon’s body healed at a speed almost impossible to track with the naked eye.  

Fiddling with his now ragged clothing, Mackanon pouted in a small voice.  

“Villeton gave this to me as a gift…”  

Seeing the irreparably damaged garment only fueled his irritation. Twisting all the black thorns into salt pillars simultaneously, Mackanon glared disapprovingly at the ground beneath him.  

As the thick smoke cleared, silver hair came into view.  

There stood Mahilen, his former self—once so powerful that no one could stop him—his face contorted with anger like never before.  

“Have you been cooperating with Kieron all this time?”  

Mahilen interrogated him in a frigid tone. Mackanon shrugged nonchalantly.  

“I did lend him a soul compass, but… I wouldn’t exactly call that cooperation…”  

Before Mackanon could finish his sentence, a pitch-black line appeared behind him. It opened its jaws wide like a maw, lunging toward him.  

The black line moved with crocodile-like speed, crushing Mackanon’s body. Crunch. Even an immortal would be doomed to wander this world formlessly for eternity if the flesh housing their soul were destroyed.  

The sound of bones and flesh being crushed echoed, but Mahilen clicked his tongue in annoyance. The Mackanon devoured by the black line froze white and crumbled into salt.  

Mahilen’s eyes darted quickly around the area. There was no trace of teleportation—meaning Mackanon was still somewhere nearby…  

Narrowing his eyes, Mahilen suddenly stomped his foot as if kicking the floor. A sharp cracking sound reverberated below. A silvery-white magical circle, fractured like broken glass, rose into view. Beneath Mahilen’s feet, Mackanon stood lazily attached to the mirrored surface, smirking meaningfully.  

“That magic crystal—it was left behind by Sylin, wasn’t it?”  

Without hesitation, Mahilen unleashed another explosion, brushing off Mackanon like an irritating bug. He knew the black flames would consume everything alive they touched until they burned out—but he didn’t hesitate to use them. Mackanon laughed wildly, delighted by how furious Mahilen had become.  

“I told you to stay put, Marquis. Just watch, I said. You’re the one who ignored my advice.”  

Their magical circles tangled messily together.  

Mahilen pursued Mackanon, who was falling leisurely.  

“Why are you in Bastronia? Tell me!”  

Mahilen shouted.  

Mackanon shrugged again.  

“I have work to do too, you know. I can’t just slack off shamelessly.”  

Reaching out, Mahilen grabbed Mackanon by the scruff of his neck.  

“Why did you lend Kieron the soul compass? Why, damn it!”

Mahilen’s roar was like the cry of a great beast. An ordinary person would have been paralyzed with fear. But Mackanon, unfazed, sighed casually and lightly tapped the back of the hand gripping his collar.  

“What does it matter to you?”  

“You know exactly what that bastard thinks of Emaydis!”  

Just as Mackanon’s lower back was about to hit the ground, an enormous surge of salt erupted from the earth. The fine grains, almost invisible to the naked eye, enveloped Mackanon and pressed down on Mahilen.  

Mahilen hesitated as he tried to incinerate the suffocating salt with flames but quickly realized he had used more magic than intended. Estimating the remaining amount of magic in the crystal, Mahilen clenched his molars and reverted to Belshua Chernon’s human form.  

Mackanon chuckled at the now-ordinary-looking Belshua. From this point on, Mackanon held the upper hand.  

Grabbing Belshua by the scruff of his neck, Mackanon flung the dragon-sealed body to the ground. The salt surrounding Belshua shifted like sand blown by the wind before hardening into shackles, binding his limbs to the floor.  

Belshua grimaced fiercely, his face contorted in frustration. Mackanon, forming a blade in his hand, moved to stab Belshua’s heart but lost interest upon seeing the unwavering gaze. Ordinary humans would suffer for years from the mere memory of being stabbed, but Belshua was no ordinary human—this was a dragon. Torture couldn’t break his mind.  

Mackanon tilted his chin with a mischievous grin.  

“Even if I hadn’t given Kieron the soul compass, he was destined to linger around Emaydis anyway. So don’t interfere with Kieron. Najane needs him if she’s going to come to resent Maximón.”  

“I didn’t see Kieron in the fates I observed.”  

“When did human destinies ever follow a single predetermined path? You of all people should know that.”  

Belshua fell silent, unable to refute Mackanon’s words.  

If Mackanon was right, Najane would inevitably come to despise Maximón because of Kieron, who had taken on Luna’s form. Maximón, in turn, would someday hate Najane for believing she betrayed him. Both would deeply regret hating the ones they loved.  

In this process, Najane’s death was inevitable, and Maximón’s demise was an unavoidable fate. Though their deaths might seem similar, there was a crucial difference: when Najane dies, everything ends. But if Maximón dies, this world gets another chance.  

Belshua wondered why Sylin had designed such a fate. Why had he intertwined Najane and Maximón’s destinies? Maximón would kill Najane to survive, and Najane would raise her sword against Maximón to save the world.  

If only their relationship had been one-sided hatred without affection, perhaps the pain would have been lessened. Mackanon likely knew the reason. Mahilen, having contributed partially to the creation of the Seriths, hadn’t been privy to the full plans of the Dragon Lord and Mackanon. Even so, he was certain of one thing: Najane had to stab Maximón’s heart for everything to finally end.  

Najane loving Maximón and eventually having to kill him felt like a punishment of sorts. Perhaps it was Emaydis’ cruel retribution for destroying Sainth. Was this fate crafted out of a resolve to personally oversee the only way to save Sainth from the Seriths—through annihilation?  

Thinking of Sylin, who bore the suffering of the entire world at the boundary of reincarnation, Belshua’s face twisted in anguish. It didn’t matter what Sylin’s intentions were. Belshua’s thoughts and judgments were irrelevant. All that mattered was that this time, everything would come to an end—and perhaps Emaydis could finally find happiness.  

“Untie me, Mackanon.”  

Belshua glared at Mackanon, his limbs still bound. Mackanon sat atop Belshua’s stomach, smirking obnoxiously.  

“There was something I always wanted to ask you. Why did you mix your flesh and blood when creating Maximón?”  

At Mackanon’s question, Belshua froze. Mackanon furrowed his brow like a pensive sage, then sneered mockingly, feigning ignorance.  

“Did you enjoy watching Emaydis love a being born from your disgusting flesh? Was it some kind of self-gratification?”  

“Don’t speak recklessly without knowing the circumstances. At the time, it was the best option.”  

“Was making Maximón like you really the best choice?”  

Mackanon scoffed.  

“How did it feel to watch Maximón receive infinite love from Najane? Did it excite you? Did it comfort you to see that noble and pure soul love a man reborn from your vile flesh and blood? Or did it make you jealous, wishing to take his place?”  

Belshua didn’t respond. It was true—he had mixed his own flesh and blood into the infant’s body to house half of Sainth’ soul.  

But not once had he thought of Maximón as his own reflection. Sainth’ essence resided within him. That Maximón’s personality had diverged so drastically from Sainth’ was indeed Belshua’s mistake—he acknowledged that much. And that was all. Maximón was a separate entity from Mahilen.  

Belshua refused to accept any resemblance between himself and Maximón. To admit such a connection would send him plummeting into an even darker abyss. The mere thought of Najane loving someone akin to Mahilen made it feel as though his throat was constricted, leaving him unable to breathe.

Therefore, Maximón was simply Maximón.  

He had to be Maximón—not a part of Mahilen.  

Belshua knew why Mackanon was spouting such words. Mackanon wanted Belshua’s mind to crumble just as his own had. He desired for Belshua, who also had to endure eons of existence, to suffer the same torment.  

Belshua clamped down hard on the stirring emotions threatening to overwhelm him. But Mackanon noticed it far too easily. As expected, this approach was far more enjoyable than simply stabbing him with a blade.  

“Do you think Najane loved him because he was you? Or because he carried Sainth within him?”  

Mackanon taunted him gleefully.  

“One thing is certain—if Maximón had been a carbon copy of you from head to toe, Emaydis would never have loved him.”  

“…”  

Belshua maintained an impassive expression.  

Mackanon leaned in close, his voice dropping to a sorrowful whisper.  

“Oh… You look lonely, Mahilen.”  

With a tearful tone, Mackanon pressed closer to Belshua’s face and asked:  

“Can you see my loneliness too?”  

The violet eyes that symbolized a sacred power user quickly brimmed with tears.  

Belshua spat in his face.  

“I don’t see any of that nonsense, so get that annoying face out of my sight.”  

In an instant, Mackanon’s eyes turned icy cold. The saliva that had splattered on his cheek crystallized into salt and shattered, falling to the ground. Salt spread across the earth like crawling insects, sealing Belshua’s mouth shut. Sword-like formations of salt, resembling skeletal structures, surged upward from below, piercing through Belshua’s body.