Became the Patron of Villains Novel MTL - Chapter 123

Chapter 123

The earth trembles, and the defenders on the ramparts focus their attention on one location.

Their vision is filled with a deity descending onto a landscape of ash and desolation.

This is no construct of human artifice, but a god born from the very dust, a being of pure and unadulterated existence—authentic and absolute.

The fearsome roar of Basiliora accompanies this god, a sound that fills the soldiers with awe, but plants sheer terror in the artificial Outer gods.

The booming cry reverberates, sending clouds of dust billowing outward.

When the soldiers on the walls raise their eyes once more, they behold the form of a deity—one that forces them to look upward even from their heightened position.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The colossal shape of Basiliora lurches into motion.

Just moments before, an artificial Outer god shaped like a tortoise had been barreling toward the castle wall.

Now, Basiliora swiftly wraps its powerful coils around the creature’s body.

Crack!

A shriek is torn from the artificial Outer god the instant it is ensnared.

The soldiers are rendered speechless.

Before them, a conflict unfolds that calls to mind ancient myths and legends—a colossal struggle of monsters that feels as if it has been pulled from the pages of an epic tale.

Some soldiers stare in wonder, others wear looks of pure astonishment, and a few observe with worshipful eyes.

But the moment is brief.

Roar!

It doesn’t take long for the soldiers to comprehend one undeniable reality:

The spectacle before them is not a grand, mythical war between legendary creatures.

This is simply a hunt.

Crunch!

The soldiers watch, mesmerized.

In the distance, they see the artificial Outer god, constricted by the mighty Basiliora, being ripped to pieces.

The shell that even Filian’s fierce assaults could not breach now shatters like dried-out stone.

Its limbs, which had impaled countless knights and soldiers and spread despair, are torn away one after another, unleashing a tempest of blood.

And then—without even the opportunity to cry out, this artificial Outer god, once a merciless slaughterer, meets a miserably wretched end.

Its entire form—its bones and its shell—is completely devastated.

In the quiet that follows,

Roar!

Basiliora’s roar resounds over the battlefield.

The air trembles, and a feeling of profound reverence washes through the soldiers.

A reverence that is impossible to conceal.

And then—

“…Marquis Palatio.”

Duke Komalon, who had appeared utterly detached just a short time ago, furrows his brow and lets out a soft, irritated click of his tongue.

At that signal—

Crash!

The battle of the Outer gods—no, the fight between the genuine and the fake—commences.

Basiliora’s enormous form moves erratically amidst the artificial Outer gods, tearing them apart.

“Now!”

At Alon’s direction, the snow wolves spring into action to support Basiliora, releasing golden flares as they dart between the artificial Outer gods.

All who witness this scene of mythic combat stare in a stunned trance.

All except for one person.

Filian Merkilane is looking somewhere else.

His attention is fixed on a man.

A man wrapped in a coat that seems to have a life of its own, each strand of fur undulating and radiating black mana.

A man who had the audacity to summon a god to this place, naming it his companion.

A man who once boastfully spouted foolishness, displaying his own ignorance.

***

‘…Fifteen minutes left. Or is it fourteen now?’

Alon released a soft sigh as he watched Basiliora tear through the Outer gods, then lowered his eyes to the bracelet on his right wrist.

It was the “Hand of the Wanderer,” an artifact he had received from the fairy Tovette.

Fused with the “White Hand of the Wanderer” discovered in the Hermit’s Sanctuary, these two relics had combined into the emblem of “Salvation of the Wanderer,” which now pulsed with a deep red light.

“As I thought, the time constraint is unfortunate. Still, without it, I would never have risked summoning this in the first place.”

The Kalguneas Pact ring enabled him to forcibly call forth beings he had subdued.

Its significant weakness, however, was that the more powerful the being, the greater the mana cost for the summoning.

Under ordinary circumstances, Alon’s mana reserves would have been insufficient to summon Basiliora—unless the entity lacked a physical form.

In reality, even the Tower Lords, with their immense magical power, would be unable to summon Basiliora without draining themselves completely.

This rendered the ring containing Basiliora almost useless.

But the “Salvation of the Wanderer,” which permitted any artifact to ignore mana restrictions for a full fifteen minutes, turned this impossibility into a temporary reality.

“Initially, the Pact Ring and Salvation of the Wanderer weren’t intended for use at this point. They were meant for another purpose later on. But this isn’t a game.”

Alon ceased his internal reflections and moved his attention from Basiliora, who was fighting the Outer gods, over to Duke Komalon.

He had heard the duke was very old, but he looked surprisingly youthful.

If he weren’t standing there among the Outer gods, Alon might not have identified him at all.

The duke’s young appearance was that of a common nobleman, yet Alon did not relax his caution.

Quietly making a hand seal, he stayed on alert.

At that moment—

“So, you are another incomplete one, just like me.”

The voice of Duke Komalon, who had been silent until now, cut through the air.

“…What?”

Alon replied with a confused query.

But the duke merely released a quiet breath and asked another question.

“I had my suspicions from the moment I learned you took the Dragon Egg. And now, seeing that bracelet on your wrist, it confirms it. Still, I cannot grasp why you are attempting to hinder me. What is your reason?”

Alon stayed silent—not because the duke’s words were incomprehensible, but because he was considering how to interpret and answer them.

Yet, before he could decide on a response—

“There is no need to answer.”

Duke Komalon did not wait.

“I do not know why you are interfering, knowing the catastrophe that approaches—but if you stand in my path, I will simply destroy you.”

The duke formed a seal with his hands.

“Refraction.”

“Begin.”

Alon, mirroring the duke’s motions, finished his own hand seal and uttered his trigger phrase.

Thus the duel of mages commenced.

To be frank, Alon was at a distinct disadvantage in this confrontation.

In conflicts between mages, many elements were important, but none more so than the velocity of spellcasting.

For Alon, who depended on forming seals and speaking phrases, mage duels were intrinsically unfavorable.

This time, however, he thought it might be different.

For reasons unknown, Duke Komalon also employed seals and phrases.

With both parties bound by the same limitations, Alon felt the dangers were balanced.

But he was wrong.

“Acceleration.”

“!”

The moment the duke’s voice sounded, Alon realized the duke was already upon him.

“Frostbite.”

The ground around them instantly transformed into a frozen wasteland, and icy vines started to crawl up the duke’s legs.

Snap!

But the duke shattered the ice with ease, as if it were mere glass.

Immediately, he formed a seal with his left hand and incanted:

“Expand, Scatter, Bloom, Spiral.”

“ད.”

Alon was hit by a wave of shock.

“So fast!”

In principle, incantations are used to bend the laws of magic.

Each incantation demands adequate time to alter a single law.

If another incantation is spoken before the prior one has finished twisting the law, the resulting spell can fail completely.

This was exactly why Alon inserted a brief pause between incantations, to guarantee that the magic’s formation wasn’t ruined by clashing distortions of the laws.

Yet, before him, the duke appeared to flout this principle entirely, chanting his incantations with incredible speed and finalizing his magic as if the constraints were nonexistent.

It was as if he was outright rejecting the inherent weaknesses of incantations.

As these thoughts raced through Alon’s mind, the duke thrust out his right hand, releasing five luminous orbs that spiraled toward Alon at close range.

But—

“Freeze.”

At the exact moment the spell was launched, Alon countered with his own incantation, connecting it to his frostbite spell to halt the advancing magic in place.

“Acceleration.”

In the next breath, he sent the frozen magic hurling back toward the duke.

However, Duke Komalon had already shifted out of the spell’s trajectory by then.

Understanding the duke had moved to the right, Alon quickly formed a seal and called upon another spell.

“Compression, Pinpoint, Discharge.”

“Fixation, Expansion, Scatter.”

As the two spells took shape at the same time, their incantations collided, distorting the magical laws.

And then—

Boom!

The one sent hurtling backward was Alon.

“Fixation.”

Alon, tumbling violently over the ground, just managed to enact a shield spell during his roll, jerking his body to a sudden stop.

However—

Shatter!

As if he had expected this, spiraling shards of ice shot toward him, puncturing his shield without resistance.

“Damn it.”

Alon clenched his teeth, evaluating his circumstances.

Alon pushed himself to his feet, his gaze locking onto Duke Komalon.

Unlike Alon, whose coat was now shredded, the duke was preternaturally calm, his attitude icy and detached.

Fifteen rounds of magical combat had passed, and of those, Alon had secured a victory only once.

Even that win was so insignificant it did nothing more than brush the duke’s collar.

In truth, Alon’s magic was not entirely without effect on the duke.

But—

“…His speed is unbelievably fast.”

The duke’s rate of spellcasting was far superior to anything Alon could manage.

Even thinking one or two moves ahead was insufficient to compete.

Yet it wasn’t just speed that disadvantaged Alon.

The duke’s rapid seal formation, his overwhelming magical strength, and even his apparently limitless mana reserves—all vastly exceeded Alon’s own.

Moreover, the duke possessed a knack for predicting Alon’s actions several steps in advance, granting him a decisive tactical superiority.

This was not a battle. It was a total rout.

Alon shot a look to where Basiliora and the snow wolves were engaged in combat.

Roar!

A number of artificial Outer gods had already been turned into hideous carcasses, but the fighting there continued unabated.

“It appears you are waiting for assistance, but that is a hopeless endeavor,” Duke Komalon stated coolly as he watched Basiliora.

“Because before they can reach you, you will already be dead.”

He then formed a seal and uttered his spell.

“Fixation, Expansion, Scatter.”

At the ends of his outstretched fingers, five glowing orbs materialized once again.

But this time, the duke was not done. He chanted again:

“Disperse.”

In unison with the Duke’s final word, the orbs on each of his fingers shot into the air and started to multiply.

From five to ten.

From ten to twenty.

From twenty to forty.

From forty to eighty.

The number grew without end.

What finally took shape was a breathtaking vision: a shining galaxy suspended in the ashy sky.

Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of orbs lit up the dull heavens with a dazzling radiance.

It was such an overpowering and magnificent sight that even the soldiers, who had been watching the mythic battle in a trance, found themselves turning to look.

And then—

“Release.”

The instant Duke Komalon pronounced Alon’s end with his last incantation, the galaxy began its descent.

Thousands of brilliant stars poured down toward the earth, their glow mirrored on Alon’s upturned face.

The spectacle was so absolute that any onlooker would instinctively let their weapon fall and accept their fate.

The ocean of light focused on a single point, homing in on Alon.

“No!”

Filian, seeing the scene, shouted out involuntarily, but Alon, who stood under the falling galaxy, was serene.

In fact, Alon—

had been anticipating this precise moment.

“Acceleration.”

With a thunderous blast, Alon’s body was propelled forward in a flash.

While he had only managed to mimic the Duke’s formation after a quick observation, his attempt at replication was flawed and caused a detonation.

But that was irrelevant.

It was enough to give him the momentum he needed.

Alon’s eyes fixed on Duke Komalon.

Though the duke’s face was still emotionless, his slightly widened eyes betrayed a hint of surprise.

“Refraction.”

Alon had been waiting for this moment since the fifth spell was cast.

By that time, he had already given up on beating the duke in a direct match of magical power.

The Duke’s spells had plainly exceeded Alon’s own—not only in force, but in the fundamental nature of magic itself.

“Rebound.”

And so, Alon started to execute his scheme.

He did not evade attacks he could have avoided.

He did not counter spells he could have neutralized.

“Azure Light.”

Reducing his injuries as much as possible, he waited for the ideal moment— the moment when the Duke’s concentration would slip, when his defenses would lower.

“Diffraction’s—”

The moment he could reveal his trump card.

The noise of the galaxy crashing down behind him ripped through the atmosphere, grinding into the earth with a piercing shriek.

Simultaneously, Alon formed a seal, and a brilliant azure light blazed in front of him.

Then—

“Line.”

As the final word resonated, Alon’s finger thrust toward the startled Duke Komalon.

Boom!

A spear of lightning, traveling at a monstrous velocity, shot toward the duke.

But—

Just as the lightning was about to strike the Duke’s heart—

“Acceleration.”

The Duke twisted his torso, barely dodging the blue electrical blast.

Crackle!

The magic grazed past him, vanishing into the air.

“Ah—”

Filian and the soldiers, observing the scene, let out soft exhalations of dismay.

In the Duke’s typically stoic eyes, a faint shimmer of relief and gratification appeared.

A clear division between victory and defeat.

Yet Alon, who had bet everything on this last attempt, was unshaken.

From the beginning, he had expected the Duke to avoid the spell.

“Hah.”

He was already ready for the follow-up.

Crackle!

“!”

The sound of electricity bursting behind him captured the Duke’s notice.

What he saw were two brilliant azure lights shining more intensely than anything else in the ashen world.

The Duke’s face contorted in shock, while Alon, behind his tranquil exterior, permitted a slight smile to appear.

This was Alon’s genuine final maneuver.

A unique ability available only to those who attained the fourth rank in Psychedelia: the power to cast spells in locations resonating with one’s mana signature, allowing for Multi-Casting.

“Scatter.”

Even as the Duke contorted his body again, the azure lights had already been set free.

Boom!

The ashen world was once again illuminated by an overpowering blue radiance.