TBR CH202

Under the flickering torchlight, the newcomer’s face was extremely grim.

The black cat stood in the vessel, stained with messy blood, appearing completely innocent. But it shouldn’t be like this; the little princess, like a lily, should be screaming in terror here, the mist ought to have guided her to this very spot.

This ritual had to be more successful than decades ago.

At this moment, the crowd around him stirred. The vessel’s cover prevented them from seeing what was inside, but they naturally sensed that something was wrong.

The person who came to inspect seemed to be a priest. He quickly composed himself, tightened his lips, and said to the others, “It’s nothing serious, the princess has merely fainted. The ritual will proceed as usual.”

The black cat’s round pupils seemed to stare at him in the gloom.

It let out a sharp “meow,” and this time everyone heard it.

But the priest was determined to conceal it. He remained calm, which made people suspect they were the ones who had misheard. Perhaps a seven-year-old girl’s whimper sounded similar to a cat’s meow. He signaled to those around him with his eyes, and although people were full of doubts, their trust in their leader led them to hand over the heavy stone lid.

The external light disappeared as the stone lid was slowly pushed.

The black cat just sat motionlessly on the spot, its eyes, for some reason, sending shivers down his spine.

It’s just an animal, he told himself. How could it possibly disrupt what’s happening now?

Just as he thought this, the black cat spoke.

“Elder Myron,” the black cat said, its voice clear and distinct, “long time no see. I thought you were long dead; I didn’t expect you’d still be up to your old tricks. Given what I’ve seen, have you ever considered improving your spellcasting? “

The person called Myron’s fingers suddenly stiffened. He took a deep breath, forcefully pulling the stone lid over. His only thought was to quickly seal this absurd and dangerous black cat forever in the sacrificial vessel before him, refusing to dwell on what had just happened.

But in the very next second, countless tiny cracks appeared in the stone in his hands, and a bright light, following these cracks, shattered the vessel.

The crowd erupted in an uproar.

They all saw it: the so-called princess simply did not exist; there was only a dirty black cat in the vessel.

—And it even spoke.

Bathed in the confused gazes of the crowd, the black cat stepped out of the fragments as if strolling through a leisurely garden. The scene was one of an impending evil sacrifice: blood-red lines, intricate and magnificent, sprawled across the dark rock, adorned with human bones and skulls, and various other blasphemous objects. Centered around the shattered vessel, people knelt to the side, holding daggers, on which gruesome skulls were etched, as if thirsting for blood.

The person they called Elder Myron, if this person was the same one from decades ago, must have told them this:

At the end of the ritual, they must end their own lives with a dagger.

“The ritual cannot succeed.” Elder Myron reached out to grab the black cat, but the black cat leaped gracefully a few times, jumping to a high perch in the cave. It looked down at the seemingly mysterious and cruel sacrifice, then declared.

“…What?”

“What’s going on?”

“Today is the last chance.”

“But the Elder said…”

The people who came to participate in the ritual looked at each other. But the arrival of this black cat undoubtedly changed the originally solemn and dignified atmosphere of the ceremony, causing people’s hearts to gradually waver.

“Would you rather believe this black cat?” The Elder sternly questioned, “Look at the preparations we’ve made for today! The ritual is on the verge of beginning, everything you hope for is about to arrive! Ah, that sinister, terrifying, overwhelming power—”

“Simply does not exist.” However, the black cat’s voice drowned him out.

Perhaps because it was high up, its voice even carried a hollow echo.

“Are you questioning our god?” Hearing the black cat say this, the Elder’s expression instead softened. “The faith of the people here has been tested. An ignorant creature like you can never shake our conviction.”

“I’m talking about your preparations.” Roland, however, curved his lips slightly. The black cat overlooked the crowd, as if grinning. It pointed with its tail at each of the items. “These skulls and bones are fake, the blood everywhere was transported from a slaughterhouse, smelling foul, even vampires wouldn’t deign to taste it; as for the most crucial summoning array, its level is almost a child’s prank, it’s not even likely to summon a frog.”

Elder Myron looked utterly stunned.

He looked at the pale-faced crowd, who were already looking around following the black cat’s directions.

That’s right. The cave environment was exceptionally dim, making most flaws difficult to spot. But once they had the conscious intent to confirm, noticing something was wrong was only a matter of time.

He suddenly struck the ground heavily with his staff. Responding to the sound, several dark, hideous monsters leaped from the darkness around the crowd. Hellcats drooled long streams of saliva, their sharp teeth gleaming, as they approached the agitated crowd.

“No one move,” he said in a low voice, “The concept of doubt is blasphemy; this is for your own good. The ritual will still proceed as usual, until the evil god descends to destroy this already dark world—”

“What are you planning to summon with it?” The black cat inappropriately joked, “A frog?”

Even saying that the formation on the ground was at the level of a young apprentice would be an exaggeration. These patterns were clearly cobbled together from countless haphazard books on “demon summoning,” a large portion of which were entirely fabricated. In other words, this was merely a vivid but meaningless patchwork, absolutely incapable of having any real effect.

Elder Myron angrily raised his staff, signaling one of the Hellcats to attack the black cat first.

But that Hellcat roared and pounced high, then suddenly lay down docilely on the spot the moment it saw the black cat, its huge horns drooping, hiding its three rows of teeth, and its bulbous yellow eyes dimming submissively.

Extremely opportunistic.

Hellcats are intelligent creatures. After confirming the letter was delivered as promised, it probably concealed the setback backstage, still furry and large, going to claim credit. It certainly hadn’t expected to encounter this black cat, even more terrifying than an Abyss demon.

The other Hellcats also stopped, cautiously not daring to approach.

The dramatic shift in the situation left Elder Myron incredulous. His face turned from pale to green, and he finally asked with suppressed anger, “Who exactly are you, and what grudge do you have against me? I don’t remember provoking you. Everyone else from back then is already dead…”

He suddenly stopped speaking, murmuring in disbelief:

“Wait, are you ‘Golden Spike Flower’?”

“I’m not particularly fond of that nickname,” the black cat complained, “your naming aesthetic is terrible; you should know what everyone calls me.”

“Archmage Roland,” Elder Myron stepped back, staring in astonishment at those amber pupils, “How can you still be alive? I’ve been living anonymously all these years, until they confirmed you were dead.”

“…What a pity.”

The black cat’s tail coiled around the staff, the most precious gem on the Mirar Continent, the Essence of the Moon, glittering upon it. “I’m still alive, and your deceptions are as terrible as ever. As for magic, I think I’m the authority, so, everyone present should believe that your summoning array is a complete mess.”

A louder clamor erupted from the crowd, followed by silence.

They had all heard the story of Archmage Roland; some had even grown up with such stories.

Now, looking at those skulls again, they suddenly felt the material was like plaster, the blood on the ground smelled terrible, and the formation was very ornate, perhaps even overly so. Would a formation to summon an evil god really be so ostentatious?

“No.” Elder Myron stepped back.

It was then that Roland saw that age had indeed left its mark on him. He had once been stronger, but now his cloudy pupils spun, looking around, as if searching for something to cling to.

“You’ll regret this,” he hissed, warning Roland. The Archmage was surprised he still had such spirit, but the next words almost made the black cat stumble on the spot. “You’ve ruined my plan. Do you know who stands behind me? The master of the Demon King’s castle won’t let you off. This place is filled with true restraints; no one can leave unharmed.”

The master of the Demon King’s castle.

Doesn’t that only refer to one name?

Roland straightened up. He was, of course, clear about the real problem this ceremony needed to address at this moment. The various symbols and markings filled with pretense were useless, but the few Hellcats involved undoubtedly pointed to forces from the distant Abyss.

But Elder Myron seemed increasingly convinced.

“Even if you are the Archmage himself, you cannot withstand the power of His Majesty the Demon King. You feigned death and turned into a black cat, probably because you were disgracefully defeated. What’s the point of exposing the truth? These people were going to die anyway; you’re just making them face their death with pain and fear—”

“But,” someone in the crowd suddenly whispered, “that cat said this formation couldn’t even summon a frog.”

The feeling of being contradicted was clearly unpleasant.

“This is certainly a summoning array,” Elder Myron argued unwillingly, “I drew it according to what was written in those books, including the Archm… no, no, no, I mean, it’s not that useless.”

“But that’s the truth.” Roland said carelessly, while wondering how this could be connected to Kriesmeier, who was far away in the Demon King’s castle. “At most, it could summon a frog’s leg; you messed up the most crucial part.”

The Elder mumbled angrily, “His Majesty the Demon King will tear you apart.”

Just then, the clock struck midnight.

A strange shattering sound suddenly echoed through the cave.

While the surrounding crowd’s gazes wavered between the human and the cat, someone suddenly cried out in surprise, trembling as they pointed a finger towards the center of the summoning array. In the center of the magic circle, as if hearing their discussion, space was forcefully torn open, and a strange light birthed above the summoning array.

A black hurricane surged within it.

Elder Myron’s face shone with an air of triumph. He himself gazed at the activated formation with astonishment, feeling a fear that made him want to prostrate himself immediately. He instantly looked at the black cat.

The black cat… the black cat was motionless.

Until the pitch-black Demon King stood completely in the center of the cave, his expression cold as he surveyed his surroundings, finally stopping on the black cat. He slowly watched the black cat for a few seconds, his dark golden vertical pupils chilling.

“Your Majesty the Demon King,” Elder Myron had never thought he would actually see Kriesmeier, and he felt dizzy.

The demon lord he had been in contact with had never mentioned anything like this.

His mind was a mess, and he instinctively pointed at the black cat, “Please deal with this black cat. You may not know yet, but his true identity is the Archmage Roland, who was once defeated by you. He just brazenly said that the summoning array you preside over can only summon a frog.”

“A frog.” Kriesmeier’s voice was low, and he repeated the two words with a crushing sense of oppression.

“I’m not referring to you,” the black cat said, “just to clarify, I’m emphasizing that.”

Kriesmeier walked directly towards the black cat. The black cat raised its head and lightly wagged its tail at the Demon King—strange, where did it put the staff again? No matter what, facing the Demon King bare-handed was not the best option.

“Your Majesty the Demon King,” the black cat spoke first, friendly and cautious, “how did you get in here?”

The Demon King stopped in front of it, proudly surveying his surroundings, seemingly disdainful of answering the question.

However, the white-boned scythe in his hand clearly revealed the answer.

“Tell me, where is this?” Kriesmeier leaned down, looking at the black cat, ignoring what Elder Myron had just said. He could only see Roland: “What was the illusion I just saw?”

“What illusion?”

“The one about you.”

Roland’s heart skipped a beat.

This place was a bit eerie. Unlike the crudely made ritual, the Hellcats and the forest’s illusion were real. Presumably, the restrictions Elder Myron mentioned earlier were also undoubtedly true. As far as Roland knew, during a ritual, one could only arrive here via a teleportation array. But Kriesmeier clearly couldn’t have entered through that array. He must have forcefully destroyed something.

“About me… what?” The black cat said casually, rubbing Kriesmeier’s hand with its head. The Demon King was too close anyway. Its fur was damp and smelled of blood. Kriesmeier wondered why he didn’t pull his hand away.

But the warm body temperature, transmitted through the thin fur to the Demon King’s cold knuckles, brought a strange sense of satisfaction.

“I saw another sacrifice happening here,” the Demon King said concisely. “You were in it. Roland Xavier, was all of this orchestrated by you?”

Roland hadn’t recovered from his daze when Elder Myron shook his head violently:

“Your Majesty,” he said, “this is, of course, at your instruction, what does it have to do with him? What are you saying…”

A powerful force enveloped him, slamming him against the rock wall. Kriesmeier didn’t even glance at him, as if merely moving a thought. The moment before he was crushed against the rock, a gentle starlight enveloped him, saving his life.

He gasped violently, looking at the black cat and the Demon King in shock.

It seemed that a terrifying thought was just now emerging in his mind: “They know each other.”

“You don’t want him to die?” Kriesmeier now moved, his dark golden eyes fixed on Roland without blinking.

After a long time, Roland once again had the dangerous premonition of encountering a large wild carnivore.

“No,” Roland sighed, “I just think one shouldn’t be too hasty before killing someone, Kris. Although he certainly deserves to die, we should first clarify things. Because this matter concerns you as well.”

The black cat tilted its head, looking at the four Hellcats scattered around. They merely lay submissively when they saw Roland, but now that the Lord of the Abyss was present, they each wished they could tuck their tails between their legs and flee in disarray.

Kriesmeier’s attitude softened.

Perhaps it was because he saw the characteristic animals of the Demon King’s city, or perhaps Roland’s few words just now somehow pleased the Demon King. In any case, he didn’t even correct the Archmage’s habitual use of “Kris.”

“You shouldn’t leave my sight,” Kriesmeier said.

“You must have seen me when I was a child,” Roland paused, saying uncertainly, “It was also in a place like this. I think Myron did retain memories from back then. Regardless, the current situation is different from the past. He somehow decided to do it again, but this time, there are other forces behind him.”

“You as a child?” Kriesmeier repeated the very first sentence after hearing a whole paragraph.

“Not very different?” Roland chuckled, “But that was indeed me.”

He suddenly felt a little dizzy too. Roland in front of the screen closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the scene in front of him suddenly flickered. All the details of the cave faded, leaving only the black cat heavily sniffing, and then complete darkness.

He reached out to touch his eyes; his fingertips were damp and soft.

He composed himself and then realized the game had suddenly cut into a cutscene.

Roland first saw his younger self on the screen.

He was the one who shone like the sun among the children.

…He once was.

His father was the illustrious Duke Xavier, and his mother, though a collateral princess of the royal family, was of no small noble status. Even though the Duchess already had eight or nine children, Roland’s birth still became the talk of the kingdom.

In the same year, the kingdom’s oracle proclaimed that dark wings would descend upon the Mirar Continent.

And a hero, a golden-haired child, would become the destined savior.

Although in later years, the Archmage detested his original hair color, the color, bright as a morning star, once symbolized hope. His amber eyes, even then, gleamed with contemplation, making him seem more composed than his peers. At that time, people were already openly discussing Roland’s destined great deeds.

Though there was no Demon King back then.

Or rather, there was precisely no Demon King back then.

His annual birthday parties were extravagantly luxurious. Duke Xavier chatted happily with all the kingdom’s nobles, while the child himself was lost in the commotion. Roland stood on the dark staircase, wearing a birthday crown, a toy saber thrust into his hand.

Everyone praised him, while he wondered if the staff he had broken was already thrown into the garden trash.

No guests noticed him; the banquet had long forgotten him.

He tiptoed out the door but found nothing. He only found a black card in the trash, with some perplexing words written on it:

“Pearls crushed to powder, gravel burned to glass. Noble souls as sacrifice, flayed and ground for destruction. Radiance of the Golden Spike Flower, where do you go?”

In the mythical Golden Spike Flower, the souls of heroes rested.

The fragrant scent in the garden made Roland dizzy; he couldn’t recall more of the story.

He threw away the card and walked deeper into the garden.

Then, he read his favorite The Hundred Greatest Mages in Human History for a while on a garden bench, and then unconsciously closed his eyes due to drowsiness.

Young Roland had a bizarre dream.

In his dream, he saw a wicked monster, hideous in appearance, with fourteen eyes and six mouths, and wings like lava engulfed in flames. His eyelashes trembled uneasily in the dream.

He looked at the creature, trying to raise his sword, but his heart was filled with thoughts of escape.

He was not the hero of legend at all, but a complete impostor. He couldn’t imagine himself plunging a saber into the monster’s heart, his hands soaked in sticky blood. He subconsciously shuddered at the thought of that sensation, the heavy silver sword fell to the ground, and in the end, he could only be swallowed by the monster in despair.

Roland was startled awake from the dream, feeling cold sweat soak his back.

The next second, he found his eyes were pitch black.

This was the beginning and end of his kidnapping.

But life after the kidnapping was not so bad. From the day of the kidnapping, time passed both quickly and slowly. Roland and the other children were kept in a sunless cave, living day and night with those people.

Those desperate believers had varying attitudes towards them, the kidnapped sacrifices, but they weren’t particularly terrible; some were even exceptionally kind. Rather than being a group that worshipped an evil god, these people felt deeply played by fate, humiliated by the crowd, and believed that this filthy world was beyond redemption.

Under the leadership of their chief, everyone dedicated everything they could to the coming destruction.

Each of them tirelessly recounted the world through their eyes.

They also devoutly and rationally looked forward to the future they imagined. Everything would be destroyed, blood would eventually converge into rivers, and the defiled world would finally be consumed by fire.

For this, willing sacrifice was needed.

Sacrifice was necessary. This sentence formed thick calluses in Roland’s ears and was once etched into his bones. People disappeared from time to time, but sacrifice was glorified here; many lives dedicated themselves on this glorious journey, even including their own members.

“Your sacrifice will cleanse the sins committed by your forefathers,” one of them, a brilliant orator, would say.

And their audience were just children of six or seven.

“We are a group of like-minded individuals, willing to burn ourselves out for this goal. Our sacrifice will bring forth the fires of hell, and every sinner’s soul will burn in those flames. You should be happy for your mission.”

“Are you proud of this?” The black-robed man, speaking passionately, pointed to one of the children, who, flattered, stammered, “Yes, yes.”

At that time, only thinking this way was correct. Roland also got everything he wanted. They even generously allowed Roland to learn magic, and the textbooks were forbidden books filled with terrifying content.

But life couldn’t go on like this forever.

One day, Roland saw unconcealed excitement on the face of the black-robed person who came to him. He told the children that the final ceremony would soon be held. Soon, members of the organization arrived from all directions. A roaring bonfire was lit in the cave, casting distorted shadows.

“The world is meant to be destroyed,” they said, “We have been working towards this goal. It’s almost time, almost time.”

Under the influence of the strange atmosphere, even the children around Roland became excited.

“I’m so glad I can be useful.”

“Those adults have given so much; I want to work harder too.”

“But I still don’t know the specific details of the sacrifice.”

The children looked at Roland because he seemed to be the smartest and most respected child there. Roland shook his head, a book tucked under his arm, filled with obscure ancient characters. Roland gazed distractedly at the staff in his hand; though it was very rudimentary, at least it was his.

“I don’t think…”

The children looked at him disapprovingly. Roland paused, then continued, “I don’t think it will succeed.”

The first to boo was the oldest child, then they all looked indignantly at Roland, because he said what no one wanted to hear. Now, what wavered in the hearts of these children was the same belief as the black-robed figures. They were the ideal sacrifices, lambs willingly walking to the altar.

“You’re a coward,” they said, “You can’t even become the legendary hero, you’re not even worthy of being a sacrifice.”

But the adults dismissed the children’s words with a laugh.

Not only would they not give up Roland, but they would also use this child, who most closely resembled the hero in the prophecy, as the central sacrifice. When the altar was built, in the gloomy cave, the children entered in single file, their eyes nervously flickering in the atmosphere of an impending great event, anticipating what would happen next.

They had never seen sacrifice.

Not even Roland.

But when he walked to the center of the formation, he saw what these people called sacrifice. They used incantations cobbled together from unknown books, those pretentious sacrificial phrases were so laughably long. The incantations on the ground were like children’s scribbles.

Roland felt his blood run cold, as if it had frozen like ice.

He stumbled and jumped off the altar, exerting all his strength to approach Elder Myron, stammering to explain that such a formation would never work. But Elder Myron ignored him; he even kindly mocked Roland’s childish naiveté, how could he possibly have mastered the ability to judge a magic array? He was just a seven-year-old child.

“You flinched,” Roland was accused.

He looked desperately at the faces of the people around him, each face filled with longing and glory for their ideal about to be realized. They all believed their sacrifice was valuable.

Only Roland knew.

The ritual could not succeed; everyone had been deceived.

Dirty spring water dripped from the stalactites onto the ground. The cave was dim, and on a naturally formed boulder, a terrifying pattern was outlined in blood, like a weeping eye.

This was the pattern those people used to summon the evil god.

It was a complete mess. Roland, in front of the screen, sighed deeply. He looked at his younger self on the screen, the same thought appearing in his mind.

On the screen, the golden-haired boy awoke from his stupor. He stumbled out of the vessel. Those people probably thought he had suffocated to death, but he had secretly chipped a gap in the vessel’s rim beforehand, unnoticed by anyone.

Only corpses remained on the ground.

“Wrong,” Roland heard his screen self murmur, “I told you it shouldn’t be drawn like this.”

His calls had gone unanswered before, and of course, they wouldn’t be answered now.

Most of the faces of the people were frozen in excited smiles, save for one corpse at the very top, whose black hood had loosened, revealing an old face.

That face was etched with expressions of pain, shock, and unease.

Perhaps he lived until the end, only to find the formation merely… glowing. Nothing happened; no evil god suddenly appeared to destroy the world they deeply hated. Only the hell they had created with their own hands remained. So he, too, plunged the dagger into his own heart.

The restraints on Roland’s hands and feet loosened.

He stood on the altar, looking down at the mark at his feet, a blood-red eye.

Then he knelt down to pray, his knees pressing against the hard stone, his body covered in bloodstains. He prayed incessantly, wholeheartedly. He had no idea how much time had passed, nor what had happened.

What was he praying for then?

Roland, in front of the screen, wondered, probably praying for the evil god to truly descend and destroy everything.

The scene before him was too tragic, but even more tragically, people died one after another for a future that never came to pass.

The young boy knelt amidst the corpses, praying that if this world wasn’t destroyed, then the deaths of these people would truly be meaningless.

He stayed until he was found by the Holy Knights.

…That’s how it was in Roland’s memory.

He stared at the screen again, re-watching that horrific incident that shook the entire kingdom, and after a few seconds, slowly exhaled. Although for him it was a recollection of what happened that year, the video was actually only a few minutes long. He wondered what state the black cat in the cave was in during that time.

He placed his hand on the keyboard, ready to retake control of the game character.

But then he suddenly stopped.

What happened in the video was an unbelievable scene.

Young Roland constantly prayed for the coming of the evil god, though he had never seen the evil god’s appearance, and the prophecy stated he was destined to be the hero who would kill the evil god. He prayed again and again with his eyes closed, but everything around him remained silent and cold.

It should have been so.

If that pair of dark wings hadn’t coldly sliced through the air here, and the Demon King with dark golden eyes hadn’t suddenly descended into the illusion, his pupils swirling with a hint of confusion, finally settling on the boy.

“Archmage Roland Xavier?” Kriesmeier stared at him for a long moment, actually recognizing him.

Roland felt a little surprised.

At that time, his hair was golden and shoulder-length, and his overall demeanor was completely different. His screen self’s eyelashes fluttered. Those still-immature pupils reflected the silver-haired, golden-eyed Demon King, high above, like a cold deity.

This must be an illusion, right?

Or was it an illusion that the Demon King had just entered, now being replayed for him?

Kriesmeier frowned, staring at young Roland.

“We were just in the cave,” he whispered, looking particularly displeased at not understanding the situation. “But not this cave. Tell me why it turned out like this.”

“Are you calling me?” Little Roland asked blankly, but his eyes were empty. “No, are you the evil god we are looking for? It must be, if my prayer was heard. Please, fulfill everyone’s wishes.”

…Damn it.

The reliable adult Archmage thought, It seems this is actually happening in real-time.

Now, even he couldn’t figure out the situation.

A snippet flashed through his mind: the black cat sniffling behind the stage, having smelled a particular scent. In the last scene just now, he saw the black cat sniff again. Not only him, but had the Demon King also been thrown back into the illusion?

As he recalled, Roland on the screen looked pleadingly at Kriesmeier.

The Demon King clearly sensed that something was wrong.

Because at this moment, the golden-haired boy clutched the hem of his clothes and closed his eyes. He spoke his cruel wish:

“…Please destroy this world for us.”

Kriesmeier’s gaze lingered on the boy’s hand gripping the hem of his clothes, his expression cold. He didn’t wish to hear such pleas, for begging was something only the weak did. But he didn’t quickly remove the person he disdained from his sight. Instead, he slowly conjured the scythe in his hand.

Slaughter, or other options?

The Demon King was hesitating for reasons he didn’t even know, when the boy in front of him suddenly took a step back and opened his eyes.

Those eyes gleamed with an amber light.

At the same time.

Roland in front of the screen breathed a sigh of relief. Just a second ago, he realized he had regained control of the game character.

Although… it wasn’t the black cat, but his younger self in the illusion.