Endgame

Lektüre nudged Duncan was slumped over the table.

Duncan.

This Duncan was probably in his early twenties, wearing a crisp suit, with dark brown hair and a hint of youthful naiveté on his face. He groggily raised his head and rubbed his eyes.

"Ah... it seems I accidentally fell asleep."

Lektüre stood by the table, looking down at his chest. Her gaze fell on the brand-new, exquisitely crafted badge.

"Oh? This is the badge the Empire Eisberg awarded you for your achievements, isn't it?" Her voice was soft, tinged with a smile. "Congratulations."

Duncan lowered his head and looked at the badge. The metal gleamed with a calm luster under the indoor light.

"Yes, indeed." He held the badge, his tone carrying a sense of accomplishment. "It wasn't just the badge; with it, I also gained an enormous fortune that is unimaginable to us minor nobles on the border."

He looked up at Lektüre.

"With these, your illness can be cured...?"

He stopped halfway through his sentence.

He stared blankly at his beloved wife.

Lektüre smiled and tilted her head slightly.

"What's wrong, Duncan?"

Duncan didn't speak. He looked at her for several seconds. Then, he slowly leaned back in his chair, his shoulders relaxing.

"... It was just a dream."

He said it in a low voice.

"I still vividly remember the day I received this badge... It felt like all my hard work had finally paid off. I had planned to rush back to Weise the next day to be with you..."

He paused for a moment.

"But on the night of the awarding ceremony, I learned that you... Weise... had been turned into gold by the teacher."

He lowered his head and ran his thumb along the cool surface of the badge.

"Is that so? I guess I lost to Macht, Lektüre. I couldn't save you."

The room was quiet. The light streaming in from the window was hazy and unreal.

"I haven't worked this hard for this honor or money..."

He tugged at the corners of his mouth, a brief, self-deprecating smile.

"Never mind, Lektüre. I'm content to see you one last time in my dreams."

He looked up at her, his voice steady and clear.

"I'm sorry, Lektüre, I've never told you before, I..."

Lektüre interrupted him.

"Wait, Duncan."

Duncan stopped.

"... What's wrong?"

Lektüre didn't answer immediately. She looked at him for a long time, her eyes as gentle as the light coming through the window.

"Duncan," she asked softly, "Has it been a long time?"

Duncan remained silent for a moment.

"... Perhaps. Half a century has passed. I haven't neglected my training at all, but... I guess I still lost to my teacher. He was just too strong..."

"No, Duncan." Lektüre shook her head, her smile deepening, carrying an undeniable certainty. "You won't lose."

She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around Duncan's neck, and gently hugged him from behind. Her cheek was close to his ear, and her voice was soft, yet every word was clear.

"You must be having a very tough time, Duncan."

"But the Duncan I know, even when he's in dire straits, even when his life hangs by a thread, will fight with all his might, struggling ugly until the very last moment."

Duncan looked at the hands that were wrapped around him.

"... Really?" he said softly, as if recalling something. "Speaking of which, I think I hurt a teacher once... Which time was it...?"

He tried to recall, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Ugh--!"

Excruciating pain.

A cold, sharp pain, as if tearing the soul apart, exploded from every part of my body, instantly engulfing all traces of warmth.

Duncan suddenly opened his eyes.

The vision quickly went from blurry to clear.

Gold.

All I could see was solidified, cold gold.

He was sitting on the same floor, with his back against a golden wall. Beneath him was a sticky, not-yet-completely-congealed, warm liquid—his own blood.

The honeycomb-shaped Defensive Magic shield shattered silently not far in front of him, turning into dust and dissipating.

The last barrier he had erected with magic dissipated.

The Defensive Magic collapsed, and the magic power that supported it was almost completely exhausted. A feeling of emptiness, as if all the energy had been drained, came from deep within the body, followed by a tidal wave of sharp pain.

Duncan lowered his head.

There's hardly a single good spot left on his body.

His robes were torn into countless strips, sticking to his torn flesh. Wounds of varying depths covered his torso and limbs, some so deep that bone was visible. The worst wound was below his left chest, almost touching his heart, and was now oozing blood with his weak breaths.

He coughed, bringing up even more bloody froth.

That was the sound of his Defensive Magic losing its support and his mana being completely depleted, as he was struck solidly by Macht's last golden blade.

No, perhaps it's not the last one.

Duncan lifted his heavy eyelids and looked towards the other end of the street.

Macht was standing there.

His signature overcoat was gone, replaced by a simple, ancient-looking Golden Trident with a cold, hard gleam at its tip. The long, slender shaft exuded an inorganic sharpness in the dim light.

Clearly, he had used all his strength.

Macht strode forward at a leisurely pace. The golden soles of his boots tapped the ground with a rhythmic and clear "tap, tap," which sounded particularly jarring in the deathly silence.

He stopped a few steps in front of Duncan, his trident pointing diagonally at the ground.

"Lord Duncan," he began, his voice steady, devoid of any joy of victory or deliberate pity, simply stating a fact, "It's over."

Duncan looked up at him.

The blood and dust on his face blurred his expression, but his eyes, despite the pain and dizziness from blood loss, remained calm and even brighter than before.

"... It's not over yet, teacher."

His voice was hoarse, and every word sounded like it was being ground out of sandpaper.

"I haven't lost yet."

Macht paused for two seconds.

Without warning, without any preparation, the Golden Trident transformed into a blurry golden line, tearing through the air and piercing straight for Duncan's throat, moving so fast that it left only a blur.

With his last ounce of strength, Duncan gathered his magic, raised the staff that had been with him for many years, and held it horizontally in front of him.

"Clang--!"

An extremely piercing metallic crackling sound.

The staff snapped in two.

The staff split in two, the upper half spinning as it flew out and crashed onto the golden ground not far away with a dull thud.

Duncan gripped the remaining half of the broken staff, his hand ripped open by the impact, blood trickling down the shaft.

Macht retracted his trident and aimed it at him again.

"This time," he said, his tone still calm, "It's really over."

He prepared to deliver the final blow.

But just before the halberd tip was about to be thrust out—

He saw Duncan raise his left hand.

The hand was covered in blood, its knuckles twisted, and it trembled violently. But it rose up, its five fingers spread, its palm facing him.

Macht's gaze fell on Duncan's palm. There, a faint, almost imperceptible magical light was gathering.

"... Killing Magic?"

He spoke, his voice carrying a hint of confirmation.

"This kind of attack is useless against me. You already knew that, didn't you?"

He paused, as if making an assessment.

Even if you seem to have improved it, almost turning it into some other kind of magic...

His words came to an abrupt end.

Duncan's left hand simply, directly, and even somewhat roughly pushed forward.

"Puff."

A soft sound.

It was as slight as popping a blister.

Macht's body stiffened.

He lowered his head and looked at his chest.

There, slightly to the right of his heart, appeared a round hole the size of a bowl, open from front to back. The edges were smooth, there was no blood, and no internal organs were visible; only a void of darkness and a vast flow of his own magical power rapidly dissipating and escaping from it.

He raised his right hand and lightly covered the empty space in front of it, as if trying to confirm something. His fingers touched the edge, and all he felt was a cold emptiness and the sensation of magic rapidly draining away.

"This is..." he said softly, his voice carrying a genuine sense of confusion for the first time, "This is Killing Magic?"

Duncan clutched the worst wound below his left chest, his body trembling slightly from the intense pain and exhaustion. But his gaze remained steady as he stared at the hole in Macht's chest.

"Compressed... Demon-Slaying Magic..."

He gasped for breath, and blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.

"You're too close to me... Although you haven't let your guard down... you probably think that even if I attack, I can't possibly hurt you... This is my... last trump card. I'll only use it when victory is truly assured."

"Teacher... this is what you taught me."

Macht fell silent.

He remained standing there, his hand still lightly covering his chest. Vast magical power poured out of the void like a burst dam. He could feel his power draining away at an alarming rate.

A few seconds later, he lowered his hand, raised his head, and looked at Duncan again. A crack finally appeared on his calm expression—not in pain, not in anger, but in a more complex, almost bewildered inquiry.

"... Is that so?" he said.

He gripped the Golden Trident tightly, seemingly with plenty of energy, and raised the tip slightly, pointing it at Duncan once more.

"However, I still have the strength to kill you."

He pronounced each word very clearly.

I didn't lose.

Duncan stared at him for several seconds.

Then, he suddenly laughed. The laughter was soft, hoarse with blood and foam, but there was something strange and knowing in it.

"... teacher."

He spoke haltingly, coughing as he laughed.

You are... lying.

Macht's fingers tightened slightly as he gripped the halberd.

"If you really do have the strength to kill me," Duncan gasped, using the broken half of his cane to prop himself up slightly against the wall, his gaze fixed straight into Macht's eyes, "You will act immediately. Without hesitation. Safeguard... your victory."

He stopped, took a deep breath, and suppressed the metallic taste in his throat.

"Teacher... when you lie, there are... subtle little movements. Perhaps you yourself... didn't even notice them."

He spoke the last sentence clearly, word by word.

"Yes... I won."

The streets were deathly silent.

Only the wind, sweeping across this golden ruin, uttered a low, mournful wail.

Macht stood still, gripping his halberd, the hollow in his chest silently oozing dissipated magical dust.

He remained silent.

The expression on his face eventually settled into a complete, unfathomable calm.