Omniscient First-Person’s Viewpoint

"I was waiting—"

"Heavenly Sword Qi."

Slash.

The regressor didn’t wait for the black magician to finish speaking. Lightning coursing through his body, he severed the magician’s neck in an instant. In a blink, Mugul was decapitated—but even as his head fell, his lips kept moving.

"...from beyond the great plains. I doubt you’ll answer, but let me ask one thing."

"Thunderbird."

Crackkk.

The lightning arcing across his scars scorched the black magician’s body to ash. Flames crawled along his veins, and Mugul’s body crumbled like trash.

But the regressor didn’t let his guard down. If anything, his aura grew sharper. After all, this too was just a puppet.

"How did you know to come here? People from beyond the plains shouldn’t even care about this place."

"You tried to resurrect a demon god."

"You mean Lord Ankra? True, even those from beyond the plains would fear such a being... but it's not something you should concern yourself with."

The regressor swung a blade of wind toward the source of the voice. A towering pile of bones split cleanly in two, bone dust scattering like snow. Frowning, he stared at the shattered heap.

‘He’s hiding inside the bone altar. Tch. If I use the Jade Eyes to pierce through a human, it just shows me their bones. He probably didn’t know, but hiding in a pile of bones makes it hard to see with the Seven-Colored Eye.’

"This is a land of savagery, where killing and being killed is the norm. Even Muhu was torn apart and died here. It’s a place of curses and superstition. Your kind have come here often, but in the end, you always left with little more than pocket change."

The black magician’s voice echoed through the bones. Every bone in the altar was his mouth and hand. The regressor thought to himself:

‘There’s magic embedded in the altar, too. As long as those bones remain, it won’t be easy to find and kill him.’

"I pride myself on having grand ambitions, but even I don't dream of conquering the land beyond the plains. It’s not a matter of possibility or impossibility—it’s simply unrealistic. The steppes are vast, and what's beyond them, even more so."

The regressor extended Tianying toward the source of the voice, but it only pierced an empty pile of bones. The black magician’s voice taunted him from behind.

"And the reverse is true as well. This land is too distant for you. No matter what happens here, it shouldn't be your concern."

"Doesn’t matter whether it is or not. The problem lies in the very attempt to awaken a demon god."

"A problem? You speak as if you were ruler of this land."

Mugul remained hidden in the dark, letting only his voice carry.

"You don’t feed or care for the people of the jungle, yet you want to interfere in how they live? Do you know what it means to be one of those humans bearing the soul of a beast? Do you know the horned sages? The witches who command dark and mighty magic?"

"I do."

"Yet you seem indifferent to those who can’t survive without relying on that power."

Black magicians use humans as material. That’s why Mugul, more than anyone, excelled at # Nоvеlight # manipulating human bodies and minds. Realizing that the regressor wasn’t driven by self-interest, he tried poking at his sense of justice instead.

"This ancient land, where powerful beasts and great spirits still roam—humans here are no more than insects. To survive, there are only two paths: rely on that power, or overcome it with purely human strength."

"So your solution is to sacrifice people?"

"Lives that would die like bugs anyway. I merely harvest them to add strength to humanity. Call it a sacrifice, if you want."

"Oh, is that so?"

But the regressor wasn’t someone who’d flinch at empty words. He chuckled through his nose.

"Then it’s your turn to be a sacrifice. Your life’s no different from a bug’s to me, so I’ll be taking it."

"All talk. You can’t even sense where I am."

"My senses? You’re somewhere around here, right? That’s good enough."

The regressor reversed his grip on Jizan and slammed it into the ground. That was all. But even so, the jungle, thick with grass and dirt, began to quake with a localized tremor. Mugul felt the unsettling tremor and shouted:

"What are you doing?!"

"Jigon Style—Earthquake."

The regressor yanked Jizan as though pulling out a stake buried deep in the earth.

And the land rose with it. As if all the soil and stone in the area clung to Jizan, the terrain was uprooted. Like a volcanic eruption, the ground heaved upward.

Using the rising earth as a platform, the regressor pulled harder, and the earth continued to rip free. A miraculous defiance of action and reaction—pure mystery in motion.

When the tremors finally ceased, a stone mountain 50 meters high stood in the middle of the dark jungle. The newborn mountain trembled like a crying child.

"Kh—gahh...! What is this?! Such immense power, how—?!"

Only now did Mugul feel the difference in scale. Hiding somewhere within the bone altar, he belatedly drew on his magic, channeling spells through the bones.

"O vengeful souls, be soothed by the blood of the living!"

The bone heaps rose all at once. Human hand bones flung themselves through the air toward the regressor. Tens of thousands of the dead reached out, desperate for the life they had lost.

And then the mountain flipped.

A massive wave of earth and stone crashed down over the bone altar. Even as water, it would’ve been a catastrophe—yet now it was dirt and rock that greedily devoured the world. Where they touched, bones shattered—splintered, crushed, ground into dust and absorbed into the soil.

Bones of beasts, born of the earth, returned to it. The altar of sin built from human corpses over millennia was buried in an instant.

With the black magician entombed beneath, the regressor brushed bone-dusted dirt from his sleeves and spoke.

"Come on. If you don’t want to die, now’s the time to show yourself."

"Khak! Cough, cough!"

Mugul, who had been hiding in the bone heap, had rushed toward a hidden passage before the earthwave could sweep him away.

‘Don’t go up! That’s instant death. I need to go deeper!’

The secret passage had been twisted and collapsed by Jizan’s power, but Mugul was still one of the greatest black magicians. Chanting toward a nearby spine and ribcage, the spine slithered forward like a snake into the passage, and the ribs formed a literal framework. Mugul slid between them, descending into the tunnel.

"That...! I’ll need a live sacrifice ritual. Unless Lord Ankra appears directly, we can’t stop that thing!"

Muttering to himself, Mugul ran desperately—then suddenly froze.

‘Wait... would Lord Ankra even be able to defeat that monster...?’

In truth, Mugul didn’t know exactly who Ankra was or what kind of power he had. All he’d heard were ancient tales—that before Muhu arrived, Ankra ruled this land as a demon god, devouring a thousand people from over a hundred tribes.

Ancient humans may not have been weak, but... could they really defeat someone who cuts the wind and shakes the earth?

‘No. He has to win. Otherwise, everything I’ve done so far will be meaningless. I can't reach the pinnacle of black magic if I can’t even overcome one man from beyond the plains!’

Resolved, he reached the underground prison, flung the iron door open, and shouted:

"Sacrifices! Hear me! Offer your deaths to me! With your fleeting lives, I shall summon the demon god!"

‘I haven’t gathered a thousand yet! But the number is symbolic. Five hundred should be enough! If I use every last life left—!’

Planning to use the freshly dead for the final ritual, Mugul was met with an unexpected sight. There I was, covered in blood, waving at him from inside the prison.

"Ah, welcome."

"So this is where you were."

"Yep. And this is where it ends for you."

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

"Hmph. You think this is the end? Did you believe I enchanted them with Berserking Rites without any precautions?"

Mugul scanned the sacrifices strewn across the floor, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"I used someone else’s hand to kill them, transferring their grudge onto you. These corpses will become the body of the demon god! Thanks for doing the dirty work. I’ll repay you by ending your life painlessly!"

He slammed his open palm onto the ground. The tattoo on his arm writhed, linking with the floor, and blood streaks surged toward him. The blood of the sacrifices formed a magic circle centered on his hand, covering the prison.

"This place is both prison and altar! In the space between life and death, I summon the remnants of a god scattered across the jungle! Ankra, inhabit this death—!"

Wooooom.

A strange magic flowed from Mugul through the fallen sacrifices. As though stitching corpses together, the blood sought to seep into them.

But sadly for him, the magic never took hold.

"They’re not dead."

Because the sacrifices were still alive.

The dead cannot resist magic. But the living can. Enduring foreign interference, surviving, and protecting the self—that is the essence of life. Mugul’s magic was strong, but to take control of a body, the person had to be dead.

And I hadn’t killed them.

"What?!"

Mugul belatedly assessed the state of the sacrifices. Most were barely conscious or groaning in pain. Their bodies and minds had been ravaged by poisons, potions, and the curse of berserk madness. It wouldn’t have been surprising if they had already died.

"Uuurgh..."

"My... my head’s going to explode..."

"Help... please help me! Aaaagh!"

But they hadn’t died. Mugul, sensing the faint traces of life still lingering in them, was horrified.

"H-How? How are they still alive?!"

"Because I didn’t kill them."

"The Curse of Berserk Madness drives them insane, forcing them to attack everything around them until death! I drained their reason with poisons and drugs, turned them half into corpses and used black magic to suppress them! They shouldn't be alive!"

"You're not the only one who can use black magic."

"What?!"

"I used it too. Channeled my magic through my own blood, took control of their bodies... so they could act on their own will."

I didn’t need much magic. Mugul had already done most of the work. I merely changed the purpose.

Instead of letting them die and become sacrifices, I made sure they stayed alive—and acted by their own volition.

"Im... impossible!"

"What is?"

"Black magic is about suppressing and controlling human will! I already shattered and broke theirs. That can't be undone!"

"Why not? If you can suppress and control them, then couldn’t you also suppress and control them to regain their own will?"

"That’s a contradiction! Even if you reattach a broken branch, it’s not the same branch—it’s one you grafted on. The moment your will intervenes, their original will is already gone. Regaining their will is impossible!"

So even black magicians are still just mages. Even in a crisis like this, his need to rationalize outweighs his instinct for survival. Explaining it isn’t hard, but whether he’ll accept it... that’s another matter.

"It works. Because it’s me."

Because I’m the king of humanity.

I’m no outsider. I’m the king of humans, their chosen voice. I can read their thoughts and desires directly with my mind-reading.

And that’s why I can return their lost sanity, just as it was.

"Their desires are my desires. So the black magic I use has the exact opposite effect of normal black magic. It lets humans act according to their own will... You could call it restoring the abnormal to normal."

"That’s absurd...!"

"Nothing’s more meaningless than debating what’s possible when it’s already happened. More importantly—shouldn’t you be worried about something else right now?"

A vague shadow appeared behind Mugul. In the blink of an eye, a bone spear pierced straight through his body. Caught off guard, Mugul coughed up blood.

"Khak—!"

"Vengeance, shaman!"

While Mugul was distracted by me, the tribal warriors who had been captured as sacrifices took the chance to fulfill their desires. Their eyes bloodshot with rage, they tore into Mugul, screaming.

"You said if I became a sacrifice, you’d spare my family!"

"You defiled the spirits by using my body as your puppet! I curse you—may you rot like leopard dung!"

"Keeheehee! You’re a doll now—this is vengeance!"

Their burning hatred shredded Mugul’s body to pieces. No longer a puppet, Mugul had appeared in person—and now, grievously wounded, he collapsed onto the cold stone floor.

I walked toward him, stepping through the trails of blood he’d left behind, and said,

"Now it’s your turn to fulfill your desire, Mugul."

I didn’t recall him introducing himself, but I spoke his name like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mugul trembled, looking up at me with a dying glare.

"A wretched body, meager strength. You were far weaker than others and craved power so much you wanted to become a demon god. But even if you summon one through sacrifices, it doesn’t become yours."

Using sacrifices is just a coward’s way to shift the price of black magic. There's no way a gamble without risk gives a meaningful return.

"The essence of black magic is using your own body. Real black magic means paying the price yourself to trigger a miracle. And now? The stage is set. An altar, a sacrifice, and death."

This place was the altar.

The sacrifice—was Mugul himself.

And if he didn’t summon the demon god now, it was over. Maybe not the end of the world—but certainly the end of his.

"I’m curious about the demon god too, you see."

I really did want to know what it was.

Inspired by my words, Mugul desperately clenched his fists. He gathered the blood pouring from his body and smeared it across the stone floor, chanting.

"De ssula alhanan tham. Ankra, Ankra. The cold vessel is emptied—enter the vacant one!"

The final stage of black magic is offering oneself as the sacrifice. Far stronger and deeper than using others. Using his own blood, life, and imminent death, Mugul summoned the shadow of the demon god spread across the jungle.

"Ugh?!"

"Something... something ominous!"

As the powerful magic burst forth and the people around backed away, I watched Mugul carefully. I didn’t know what the demon god was—but was resurrection truly possible? Was it really a being akin to a god?

I watched closely for any change in Mugul, and tilted my head at the strange sensation I felt.

"Kha... ha ha ha!"

Life returned to Mugul’s dying body. The ritual of self-sacrifice—called the offering rite—was infamous for its failure rate. If it really worked, black magic wouldn’t be considered fringe.

But somehow, Mugul had succeeded.

"I did it...! Thank you, whoever you are. You were right! True power can only be gained by giving oneself up!"

Though blood still poured from him, his body showed no signs of damage. It moved by some entirely different principle now.

Mugul grabbed the bone spear lodged in him and crushed it. The power that erupted from his frail arms was unbelievable. Surging with vitality, he threw back his head and laughed maniacally.

"Thank you! You were my lucky omen! At last—I’ve obtained the power to become a god!"

"Are you satisfied now?"

"Of course I am! With this power, I’ll slaughter those lofty druids and filthy beasts and reign as the unquestioned god of this land!"

Strange. Can one really gain power just by believing? Is this thing really on par with the celestials?

But if that were true, then every nation would be overrun by monsters from sheer belief. There has to be a better example. I should observe a bit longer.

"First, I’ll kill you—human from beyond the plains!"

Roaring with power, Mugul snapped the iron bars and rushed toward me. The sacrifices backed away in terror, and Mugul, satisfied with their fear, shouted:

"Become a sacrifice for the demon god—!"

"Ah, there you are."

Just then, the regressor crashed through the ceiling.

Jizan came down straight onto Mugul’s head.

If you crush a bug between two stones, there’s nothing left. It vanishes, like it was never there.

Something similar happened to Mugul. Caught between Jizan and the stone floor, his back exploded and his body was flattened mercilessly. The power of the so-called demon god was useless against the unyielding weight of the earth. Without even a chance to flaunt it, Mugul was reduced to a smear of blood.

A rather anticlimactic end. But then again, if the demon god had really been so powerful, it wouldn’t have disappeared from the world.

Blood splattered everywhere. Flesh scattered like dust. Even in the midst of such a horrific death, the regressor used his qi to deflect the blood and walked over spotless.

"Didn’t think he’d try burrowing underground in all that chaos. Anyway, something felt off down here—what happened?"

"Nothing particularly special."

"Really? Well, good then. Wait—huh? They’re all alive? Weren’t they in a berserk state?"

"I did some work."

"You calmed down people driven to madness?"

"Black magic’s a human technique, after all."

"Still... calming down berserkers is—well, whatever. Let’s just be glad it worked."

The regressor shrugged it off and gave the area a long once-over before tilting his head.

"Is that it?"

‘That was the ancient evil? Even if it was blessed, that was way too easy. None of the trials so far have ever been this easy...’

Beats me. I’m not sure if this was the ancient evil the saintess mentioned either. But there’s still something left to do.

"Shei. It’s not over yet."

"Didn’t think so. What’s left?"

I pointed to the many tribal people still lying throughout the prison.

"We have to get these people home."

"Ah."

Facing a cleanup much bigger than the fight itself, the regressor let out a long, deep sigh.