Killing the Fiancée
There was one unique individual who rose to become an Archmage driven by hatred alone.
His name was Ferda Rosnova.
Born the third son of the knightly House Rosnova, he was exceptionally frail of body. As the child of a concubine, and possessing blue eyes rather than the brown that had been inherited through generations of the family, even the servants of Rosnova often treated him with contempt.
In the end, his father, Erembalt Rosnova, delivered a certain piece of news in the year Ferda turned eighteen.
“Your engagement to the Grand Duke of Baldrova has been arranged.”
One might take it for a simple betrothal, yet among the nobility, “engagement to the Grand Duke of Baldrova” was an established euphemism.
In short, it was a death sentence.
Accept the engagement and the path led to death; refuse it and one defied the family’s will, earning banishment.
“I shall do as Father wishes.”
“Very well.”
To Ferda, life mattered more. He naturally chose to live, and so had to abandon the Rosnova name and leave the household.
A deep sense of betrayal took root in the young Ferda’s heart. He could not forgive the elder brothers who had scorned him, nor the servants. What angered him most of all was his father.
Even though you knew how hard I was trying…
To become a true member of this house he had forced his weak body to move. Every day he coughed blood and practiced until calluses formed on his hands. There had been a time when his father’s gaze seemed to regard all that effort with quiet pride. Yet as the years passed and Ferda remained stuck in place, that expression gradually changed—as though what he had raised all this time was nothing more than a cuckoo’s chick. When he finally cast his son out, his father’s face looked as if he were staring down at filth. Even after several days that gaze remained vivid before Ferda’s eyes.
I will never forgive them.
Sorrow slowly transformed into rage, and that rage became the flames of vengeance that burned within him.
I’ll make every one of you who abandoned me regret it.
Ferda clenched his fist tightly. At that moment he felt something stir and awaken inside his body. In his dantian, mana began to rotate, forming a single circle—the instant a Circle opened.
On the day Ferda Rosnova was driven from his family, he became a mage.
Awakening as a mage is a blessing. On the Serdes Continent, the mere ability to wield magic is enough to alter one’s station. Yet for someone like Ferda to awaken at eighteen was unfortunate—far too late. Every mage draws upon the power of their inner self as motive force. To master that concept completely one must train from early childhood; otherwise the price of learning it in later years is multiplied many times over in suffering.
It should have been so. For Ferda, however, the late awakening proved no obstacle. The driving force that allowed him to draw up mana was none other than hatred and the thirst for revenge.
—Look at that old bastard still strutting around pretending he’ll be a mage.
—He said he’ll do anything he’s told. Might as well think of him as a useful slave until graduation.
That motive force was spurred on by the senior mages who looked down on him and by the younger juniors as well. Because he had started so late, fuel for his hatred lay everywhere around him.
Bark all you like. I’ll make every last one of you lick my toes clean.
His burning desire to grow stronger and his obsession with vengeance never faded; day by day they forged him harder. Before long he had surpassed not only the promising senior mages but even the master who had taught him. For a long while his toes never had the chance to gather dust.
Ferda regarded his power as a blessing.
When I hate someone, I grow stronger.
Hatred was everywhere. The faster he grew, the more visibly savage his temperament became. And so, when Ferda finally ascended to the ranks of the Archmages—those fewer than a hundred on the continent who had opened the 6th Circle—he crossed a line he could never uncross.
He returned to House Rosnova, the family that had cast him out so cruelly, and slaughtered them all.
He forced blades into the hands of the servants who had insulted him and made them kill one another. He sowed discord between the eldest and second sons until they destroyed each other in mutual hatred. And the father, with whom the grudge ran deepest, he forced to watch it all. Seeing the house he had built and was meant to protect collapse in wretched ruin, Erembalt finally went mad and aged decades in a single stroke. He became a broken wreck, a ghost that merely haunted the living world.
Thus everything connected to House Rosnova vanished, leaving only Ferda. The revenge he had so desperately craved against his family was achieved in twisted form. What filled his chest was catharsis—and thirst.
…There are still enemies left.
Ferda was already far from sane. He had become a monster who listened only to his own emotions.
I must erase them all. For that I need still greater power.
The rage that had been aimed at his family did not cool; it simply turned elsewhere and burned even deeper. People who could no longer endure the outrages born of his absurd sophistry drew their swords. He became an enemy of the continent; dozens of intricate schemes were set in motion to kill him. Yet every ordeal only made Ferda stronger.
At last he reached the highest realm a human could attain. At the age of forty-five he opened the 8th Circle and became what men called a Mana Lord—the one and only Archmage of the continent who stood above all others.
Still not enough.
Even with everything beneath his feet, the flame kindled in his heart refused to die. That flame whispered to him:
They still resent you. One day they will surely try to kill you again.
Knowing well the endless chain of hatred and revenge, Ferda could not leave it be.
I must crush them so thoroughly they can never move again… wipe them all out.
To build his own utopia he began to covet even the domain of the gods. After five years of research he finally discovered the ultimate material required to reach that place.
It was the heart of a Red Dragon.
It almost seemed a cruel jest of fate.
The Grand Duke of Baldrova…
His own betrothed. The very pretext Erembalt had used to drive Ferda out. The true identity of that being was none other than a Red Dragon.
—Fate is truly a fickle thing.
The one who spoke those words was, oddly enough, the dragon reputed to be the strongest on the continent. Red scales, magnificent horns, oppressive eyes, and wings that seemed ready to blanket the world—all of them symbols of its majesty. Yet now it was different. Scales had been torn away in places; horns were broken and bent, bright blood streaming from the fractures.
The one who had driven a dragon capable of casually destroying nations into such a state was a single mage.
—Never did We imagine that the one who was to be betrothed to Us would come to kill Us.
Ferda smiled. The smile was closer to the arrogance of one who knew he held the upper hand. For all that he had driven a dragon to the brink of death, his own body was far from whole.
“It would be better for you to die quietly by my hand, Baldrova.”
—We are aware that We bear the name of tyrant. Yet for these past several decades, even before you were born, We have never once shown Ourselves. Nor have We ever harmed a single human. And yet… We cannot understand why you show Us such hostility.
“You claim you did nothing?”
Baldrova’s calm tone sounded to him like the careless words of someone who had never known hardship. Irritation surged through Ferda.
“You are the root of my misfortune.”
From the moment he became a sacrifice to that engagement, everything in Ferda’s life had twisted. He poured out his feelings with feverish intensity.
“Because of you…! Because of your useless greed for a betrothed, the pretext for casting me out of my house was complete!”
—Is that… because of Us?
“Yes! Because you, a savage dragon, greedily sought to take a human as your mate—that greed birthed my misery, do you understand?!”
Ferda exhaled harshly, then let out a bitter laugh.
“And yet at the same time I am grateful. Thanks to it I was able to climb all the way to this place.”
—Is that so…
Baldrova’s face twitched oddly. Was she angry? She might be preparing a final struggle. It did not matter. By spewing that twisted emotion just now he had been able to turn the Red Circle. Ferda finished preparing to respond.
—Yes. So that is how it was. We understand.
The dragon’s massive body moved. She showed her claws—sharp, hard blades that could tear knights apart with a single swipe. Ferda reflexively prepared a magic circle. It was late, but with this he could at least take her with him.
She raised her claws, yet they did not point at Ferda.
Thud!
The place her claws sank into was her own chest. Ferda could not comprehend the act. What did this self-harm mean? Tough hide tore open and the entrails within were laid bare.
—You said your magic required Our heart, did you not?
Snap—!
The sound of vessels severing. In that instant Ferda understood. She was trying to destroy her own heart.
“No!”
He unleashed magic at her face.
“Stop it, you filthy lizard bitch! Stop right now!”
He could not allow her to destroy her heart. This was the one and only chance to reach the 9th Circle. He absolutely could not let it slip away! The scales protecting her head shattered into flying fragments. Yet Baldrova’s hand never stopped. The sound of vessels and muscle tearing continued without pause.
—You said you needed Our heart, yes?
Her claws withdrew from within the entrails. What came out with them was a lump of flesh larger than Ferda’s head.
“…A heart?”
It retained a perfectly intact form. What she had done was not destruction but extraction.
—Take it.
Baldrova’s half-vanished head spoke those words. The Ferda of ordinary times would have said thanks and picked it up. Even the twisted Ferda of now could not understand what she had done; he simply stared blankly down at the heart.
“…Why make this choice?”
He asked the question.
“If you had moved… you could easily have killed me. You cannot have been unaware of that, can you?”
—If We made a final struggle… you too would surely die. We know this well.
“Then why did you not?”
—Because you became unhappy because of Us.
Even in that moment Ferda remained frozen. Baldrova no longer had the strength to hold up her neck.
—We have… long hated Ourselves.
A thick loathing seeped through the calm tone.
—We despised the savage blood that flows through these veins. We hated the self that rages without reason and yearns to destroy. What We hated most of all was that those things make people fear Us.
The color in her golden eyes grew pale. Something swelled within them, then rolled down her cheek. Tears. A dragon’s tears are different from a human’s. Dragons are not sentimental enough to weep from mere sorrow. Yet those tears seemed wrought of sorrow alone.
—If We simply died, everything would be resolved… yet We dreamed of living and finding happiness. Our foolish dream has burdened far too many people.
“…”
—Since you became unhappy because of Us, O mortal, you who suffered through Our selfishness—may you at least find happiness through Us. That is… the last thing We can do for you.
With her final breath came one last, lingering phrase.
—Be happy, my betrothed…
Thus died Baldrova, the hidden tyrant of the continent.
Ferda stared blankly down at Baldrova, whose eyes were now quietly closed. For the first time since the day hatred had made him a mage, he felt a strange emotion.
Why does this feel so… unclean?
He unconsciously laid a hand over his own chest. Ferda had crossed over countless corpses to reach this place. He had killed every soul who stood in his way and taken whatever he needed to grow stronger. He knew full well that he was a broken thing lacking both conscience and empathy. Yet her death somehow clung to his ankles—like a curse she had laid upon him.
Do not think, Ferda.
Move forward. Take what you came to take. You have already crossed a river from which there is no return.
He picked up the thing she had laid out. The heart of a dragon. The origin that would allow any mage to reach the 9th Circle—the dream of every mage. The object that could elevate one from Archmage into the ranks of the Demigod who transcended mere existence.
He would absorb it. And then, as always, he would take revenge on everything that had made him unhappy. Continue the revenge whose very reason he had already forgotten.
Ferda absorbed the Essence contained within the heart. As the Essence of a dragon that had lived since ancient times flowed through his veins, his blood began to boil. Immense power poured in—and at the same time Ferda sensed something amiss.
This is…
A sensation that let him feel Baldrova’s entire life.
Her emotions?
Those emotions became part of him before he could even resist.
“Ah…”
Ferda let out a soft exclamation. His mind began to grow astonishingly clear. The hatred and thirst for revenge that had been the motive force of his power were vanishing. Had her blood purified his spirit?
No.
The emotion he felt from that heart was closer to negation. It was an emotion as if he stood at the edge of an abyss incomparably deeper than his own hatred or rage. A Red Dragon who had lived thousands of years yet never once been loved. Uncontrollable rage of power, Wicked Red Dragon, Dragon-Slayer… Titles built upon notoriety had been plastered over her image until Baldrova became a complete tyrant. These were the curses she had accumulated over the ages. Yet Baldrova had loved even those trivial things. That was why she had chosen to hide herself. Because she loved everyone, she had steadfastly endured loneliness and sorrow. And Ferda had severed that final thread.
That was why his mind had cleared. Ferda realized how utterly trivial the rage and hatred he himself had felt truly were.
“Ahh…”
A small cry escaped his lips. For twenty years Ferda had never once been in his right mind. Now, for the first time, he could become his complete self.
“What… have I done?”
Blinded by emotion, he had finally been swallowed by that power and destroyed everything. Someone, someone’s family, someone’s village… Had that truly been what he wanted?
“Ahh…”
Ferda simply sank to the ground where he stood. With his mind now pure white, a Circle formed before him. As each Circle was completed, his entire life flashed past like a lantern slide. When he opened the 1st Circle it was the sorrow of being cast from his family. The 2nd Circle was the rage of being mocked for lacking talent. Inferiority, resentment, jealousy, betrayal… Every one of Ferda’s Circles had been built upon negative emotions. He had not hesitated to betray if it meant survival, and he had repeatedly played the bat to grow stronger. Thus he had become an 8th-Circle Archmage.
And the emotion he felt upon reaching the 9th Circle was—
Emptiness…
Everything felt meaningless. At the same time he was angry. Because that woman, Baldrova, had turned everything he had done until now into a mistake.
“Stupid, half-witted bitch…”
He tried to resent Baldrova. Yet there was none of the old motive force behind the words. He knew full well they were empty. The true fool had been himself for resenting her. From the beginning she had been nothing more than a pretext. Erembalt had already decided to cast Ferda out; even without her he would have manufactured some excuse. Ferda had known that, and still taken his anger out on her.
Baldrova had accepted that foolish sophistry. And she had wished for one person to be happy—the very one who had come to kill her. Sincerely.
Ferda gave a hollow laugh. Contrary to his heart, the magic circle of the 9th Circle shone brilliantly. A mage who reaches the 9th Circle can cast only one spell.
Wish.
An absolute power that grants whatever one desires, overturning the principles of all creation. A simple spell that requires only a single word. He had finally grasped what he had so long sought, yet words would not come, as though his throat were blocked. He could not think of a wish.
What was it I wanted so desperately?
To erase everything that rejected him. That had been the wish of the madman Ferda. The Ferda of now had no such dream. Suddenly he recalled the dream he had drawn as a child. What he had clumsily sketched with colored pencils was—
Simply building a modest family and living in peace.
That had also been Baldrova’s wish. Yet he could not make such a wish now. After killing so many people, he could not simply live comfortably. Above all—
Ferda had killed the dragon who should have been his betrothed, and Baldrova had met death at the hands of the human who should have been hers. This was no different from murdering his own fiancée with his own hands. How could such a man even imagine the happiness of building a family?
—Be happy, my betrothed…
His revived conscience repeated those words and tormented him. He reproached the self who had spent decades running only after power. He loathed the pettiness of the self who had memorized every name for the sake of revenge. And the emotion he could not put into words—his heart understood it.
“Meaningless…”
The magic circle blazed with light. When the light completely faded, the 9th-Circle Archmage vanished without a trace.
“…rda?”
“…”
“Ferda.”
No—consciousness returned. The brilliant light receded, and at the sound of his name being called Ferda opened his eyes. Sitting before him was not a bleeding dragon but a middle-aged man.
“Ferda? Are you listening?”
“…Yes?”
“What do you mean, ‘yes’? Your father has been speaking, and you’ve been staring off into space this whole time?”
The middle-aged man before him furrowed his brow. Ferda knew who this man was.
Erembalt Rosnova.
The being he had once affectionately called Father. Unlike the last time Ferda had seen him, he looked hale and vigorous. Had he died and come to the afterlife? Yet everything about this place felt strangely familiar.
This is… that time?
Ferda understood almost at once. The single occasion when he and his father—who had never properly spoken with him in life—had been alone together.
“Your engagement to the Grand Duke of Baldrova has been decided. It is a matter determined by the nation, so I hope you will accept it without complaint.”
Engagement to the Grand Duke of Baldrova.
I did not die. I have returned to this time?
The era he had regarded as the beginning of his misfortune. The very moment that had become the starting point of an uncontrollable thirst for revenge.
Why?
His head still could not comprehend it. But his heart already knew. In the midst of that emptiness, what he himself had wished for.
“Huh.”
An awkward sigh escaped Ferda’s lips.
“You little— Your father is speaking and you’re sighing?”
“I apologize. It’s nothing.”
“Repeat what this father just said.”
“You said there is an engagement with the Grand Duke of Baldrova.”
“You understand well enough what that means, do you not?”
“I do.”
Get out of this house.
That was how Ferda understood it as he answered his father.
“I understand.”
“Yes, you’ve suffered enough already… Hmm?”
Erembalt’s eyes went round as he looked at his son again.
“W-what did you just say?”
Ferda looked down at the documents laid before him and answered once more. The meaning of this regression was to face what he had been unable to do in his previous life.
“I will do it. That engagement.”
It was to formally enter into betrothal with the tyrant Baldrova.