TBR CH185

Kriesmeier’s vision darkened once more.

It was like a stone cast into the lake named “world,” the ripples tearing everything within sight into countless prismatic fragments. A human with weak willpower would go mad simply by gazing upon such a sight.

The Demon King reached out to the fractured reality—

Then they vanished without a trace.

This trance lasted only a fleeting moment, though it had become incredibly frequent now.

The Demon King struggled to support himself by the edge of the table. His fingertips were cold, and his sharp nails left deep gouges on the wooden furniture.

Kriesmeier, like a bird with broken wings, huddled himself in a small space. His fallen wings lay in disarray, sweeping across the dust and ink lines on the wooden floor, habitually wrapping himself into a gloomy cocoon.

The place where the Lord of the Abyss resided was, surprisingly, a wooden hut.

The hut was small, with its tables and chairs pushed aside, leaving a cramped space for Kriesmeier.

The dim twilight, heralding evening, spread out. All furnishings were immersed in a soft, dim glow. The dry scent of wood was scattered everywhere, along with a confined, ancient smell of decay, undisturbed for a long time.

Putting everything else aside, this place was indeed overly cozy for a Demon of the Abyss.

Except for the pristine white salt, the arcane drafts scattered on the table, fresh and dried dark blood, the deeply etched, eerie magic circle on the floor, and the Lord of the Abyss, symbolizing absolute evil, coiled within the wooden hut.

Kriesmeier had carved a complete magic circle on the ground with his scythe. He bit his fingertip, and the blood seemed as if it would never dry. The elf fruit had already begun to take effect; its rich power flowed through all the blood in his body. Kriesmeier’s dark golden eyes reflected shimmering, gold-foil-like parts within the blood.

Then, the magic circle began to work.

It was like a bottomless pocket, endlessly drawing power. Kriesmeier briefly considered whether the Archmage’s research had crossed any ethical lines, then felt a metallic sweetness surge in his chest. The silver-haired Demon King knelt in the center of the magic circle. In a void, he silently watched ahead.

At least thousands of filaments clung to him.

Those were the materializations of the “game rules” of the Abyssal Continent.

Sharp strings cut the Demon King’s skin. Drops of blood, mixed with the elf fruit’s essence, were continuously absorbed by the magic circle before they could even be used to heal old wounds. The blood flowed onto the wooden floor, silently seeping in.

The Archmage probably didn’t continue this research out of humanitarianism, though it was foolish for a human to talk about humanitarianism to an Abyssal Demon. This half-finished magic circle was already greedy enough; even the Demon Race’s cold aura couldn’t stop its beast-like tearing. It would destroy all living beings within the formation, using them as fuel in a furnace.

The immortal Demon King had almost lost all his power, and there was no sign of the magic circle stopping.

He shouldn’t die here.

The Abyssal Demon Race’s tyrant, rarely seen in a millennium, whose name alone was enough to make everyone tremble.

But if he truly died here, if he hadn’t met that human, he would never have reached this point. Yet now, Kriesmeier had no intention of turning back.

In a trance, he saw the Archmage’s eyes, illuminated by starlight, the first time he stood before him. Those amber eyes smiled at him from within ten thousand fragments of the world. He understood the meaning of Roland’s words the first time they met.

The human said with admiration:

“Your bones, blood, feathers… they will be my best research materials.”

He managed to touch the hilt of his scythe with trembling fingertips, gripping the pale bone.

Until his disappearance, Roland had never told him about the dangerous research he was conducting.

The Abyssal Demon King was the most viable raw material for Archmage Roland Xavier, and this was the secret reason he actively went to the Demon King’s Castle. This research was crucial to the Archmage; he had essentially spent half his life on it. It wasn’t until after the Archmage’s death, when his scattered notes circulated to various corners of the continent, that the Demon King finally saw these writings on parchment.

—Sacrifice.

A sacrifice made with a powerful soul.

No one could kill the Demon King; Roland tried, but even he couldn’t do it.

But given the Archmage’s character, would he truly abandon the research he had pursued his entire life?

Kriesmeier didn’t believe Roland would give up so easily. Roland had showered him with sweet words like a silver-tongued human, earning all his trust and unguarded attitude.

One day, when the Archmage’s research finally reached its final stage, the Demon King couldn’t suppress his suspicion that he would become the most willing sacrifice for his great research.

…In fact, that was exactly what was happening now.

Even if the Archmage’s previous research wasn’t perfect, adding the elf fruit increased his chances.

Kriesmeier saw the world slightly distort before his eyes. An irreversible force poured down his spine, feeling like cold metal.

Death was the true name of the emotion he felt now. Destruction wasn’t particularly painful, but if he were destroyed, the bone scythe in his hand would ultimately lack a pale rib.

In this unfamiliar emotion, the Demon King suddenly curled his lips strangely, gazing greedily and cruelly at the void before him—at least to outsiders, it was a void, and his hollow golden eyes reflected nothing.

But he saw it.

Space shattered inch by inch before him, no longer just a fleeting glimpse.

The Demon King saw the young man sitting before a black machine; the other’s hair seemed to have grown much longer, still softly falling along his neck. He saw Roland placing his hand on the uneven board in front of him, and a stranger board before him reflected vibrant colors—that was what the other had told him was the “screen,” the only bridge connecting the two worlds.

He saw the image appearing on that screen: a closed wooden door. Roland rapidly typed on the board in front of him, and then Kriesmeier saw the black cat coil its tail around a staff. Under a burst of light, the wooden door collapsed with a roar.

Kriesmeier distinctly heard the sound of the wooden door shattering.

With a loud crash, the bright streetlights outside cast a small patch of light and sharper shadows through the door frame. The black cat quickly darted in, then stopped.

Roland watched everything in the room through the screen, as blood spread to the black cat’s feet.

Kriesmeier looked at him, at the real him. He saw the human’s back stiffen for a moment. In front of him, the screen’s light now seemed insignificant, reflecting the Demon King’s dark golden eyes.

His eye sockets were empty,

But at this moment, through the barrier between worlds, Demon King Kriesmeier saw his own eyes.

The magic circle finally glowed.

In the twilight of Mirar Continent, a blood-red star hung in the sky…

Roland suddenly moved his mouse.

The serene sky of Mirar Continent gently scrolled across the screen, blocking the bushy beard of the dwarf landlord Roland had been talking to. Night had not yet fallen, but behind the hazy clouds, a dark nova had already appeared in sight. An ominous premonition struck the Archmage’s heart.

This was a blood-red star.

The star didn’t twinkle; it simply—existed there with an undeniable presence, emitting a cruel radiance.

The black cat on the screen looked up. The dwarf in front of him looked at him strangely again.

Dwarves were skilled at accumulating wealth. A long string of brass keys hung at his waist, clanking as he walked. In his career, he rarely encountered guests who required him to bow; that was quite novel. He shook his head as if he had touched a taboo, steam rolling on his coarse beard:

“I don’t have the key to Skull Street, House Number Seventeen. There’s never been a house like that here.”

Roland didn’t care about that now. The young man directly said:

“I’m looking for the house that Archmage Roland Xavier lived in ten years ago. I know it can’t be found on Skull Street now, but it must be somewhere, just hidden by a secrecy barrier. Please give me the key to enter.”

“Are you insane?”

The dwarf quickly looked around in fright, lowering his voice. “It’s so close to the Demon King’s Castle, and you dare to mention that… that name.”

The black cat lightly jumped onto the bar table in front of him. Now the dwarf had to look at this animal eye-to-eye. It had a strange pair of eyes, like amber marbles, reminding the dwarf of a human he had traded with a long time ago.

This made him pause for a long time when he heard the black cat’s next words:

“Ten years ago, I rented a house from you. The monthly rent was initially seventeen gold coins, then it dropped to thirteen gold coins after I helped drive away the goblins who always came to steal. I had no complaints about the house. Although there were a few minor incidents along the way, they were all resolved, and the furniture was newer than when I arrived. Anyway, can you tell me now how I can go back?”

“You are—”

“I truly need a way back.”

The black cat shook its head in front of him. At this moment, an animal also seemed to possess profound wisdom, though it was likely due to a filter.

“…That place is no longer within my purview,”

The dwarf finally made up his mind, his voice heavy.

“It’s been vacant since you left, and you never canceled the lease, so it’s just stayed there. A few months after that, His Majesty the Demon King… Anyway, the secret pass phrase to that area is now ‘donut,’ and as for the key, I don’t actually have it on me.”

When the dwarf raised his eyes again, he only saw a dazzling array of lights in the tavern. The accordion music played humorously. At this time, the bards were telling amusing stories about the dignitaries in the kingdom—just as they told stories about the Demon King and Saint Roland in the kingdom. To save their lives, they always had the foresight to do what was appropriate for their location.

The black cat’s furry tail swept across the tavern door, then vanished without a trace.

Roland couldn’t imagine where Kriesmeier would be, but this was clearly the worst-case scenario. After breaking through the wooden hut’s stealth measures with a simple incantation like “donut,” the hut was there. The lights in the hut weren’t on; everything was silent, but for some reason, something huge seemed to be breathing silently in the darkness.

Kriesmeier was this type of large beast.

The bright streetlight sharply slanted into the hut the moment the wooden door shattered. The pure white light, however, could still only illuminate the small area near the door. Beyond it was a sticky darkness that offered no footing.

Roland didn’t increase the screen brightness, because it wasn’t a matter of brightness.

He immediately saw the Demon King in the wooden hut: a jet-black, heavily wounded bird. Roland had never seen his wings in such a state; sharp feathers were scattered all over the floor, fragile and soft. On the ground was a blood-red magic circle deeply embedded in the wood, countless lines sketching complex patterns, and through these patterns flowed the Demon King’s blood.

He smelled the scent of the elf fruit. In the bloody, cult-like sacrificial scene, this scent appeared exceptionally eerie.

“Kriesmeier…”

The black cat on the screen barely hesitated. Roland’s rationality had already been consumed by extreme anxiety.

The black cat waded through the blood, completely disregarding the risk of damaging the magic circle. Its black fur was stained with blood, almost invisible in the darkness, but the staff coiled by its long tail continued to emit a soft, steady glow.

Starlight descended into this narrow, cramped wooden hut, which seemed too confined compared to the Demon King’s palace. The starlight silently melted into the blood on the ground, leaving no trace. The Archmage still didn’t give up. The staff “Nova” trembled, even appearing somewhat overburdened. The stars in the sky were now being pulled by another star.

Roland himself knew best—

What kind of forbidden magic he had researched, and the bloody essence of the magic circle he had gathered with half his life’s learning. It was like a shark gripping its chosen prey, with no room for maneuver, no matter what, the prey’s fate of being torn apart could not be stopped.

“I can see you now,”

Kriesmeier seemed to whisper his name, “Roland.”

When the Demon King said this, a rare gentleness appeared in his eyes. He stared at the black cat in front of him with his dark golden eyes. His silver-grey long hair was stained with blood from his broken horn, falling softly along his shoulders, and his tone of voice at this moment was even light.

“I think I still lost. Doesn’t this… count as your wish fulfilled?”

The moment Kriesmeier saw Roland, an imperceptible gap had already been torn between the two worlds, but the gap was too small, and the magic circle still endlessly seized, like a shark that had tasted blood.

Roland used every spell he could. His fingers pressed hard on the keyboard, the sounds echoing incessantly for a moment. Essentially, with the Archmage’s power, he could save anyone who wasn’t dead—but now there was an added condition: he was helpless against the magic he himself had created.

He took a deep breath, but his fingers seemed to have frozen, unable to move at all.

I need to think of a way…

He told himself, I need to think of a way. There must be some oversight, there must be a way to stop the magic, there must be a way, because he is a so-called genius—someone had called him that from very early on, so early that he didn’t want to recall it.

He couldn’t just watch his lover die through a screen.

Roland said softly:

“No.”

He added: “Are you satisfied with this?”

Kriesmeier seemed a little confused. The Demon King slowly raised his fingertip; his strength was about to be exhausted by the magic circle. He reached out to touch the mirage-like illusion he saw. He saw Roland slowly resting his forehead on the screen; those amber eyes reflected on the screen looked very sad.

“If I don’t do this,”

The Demon King tilted his head, supporting himself with a chair leg,

“I’ll forever have to wait for you to change your mind. I said I would come for you. This decision wasn’t difficult for me. Roland, you are the only human who deceived me. Your desire to kill me is no less than mine. Just before I made this decision, I suddenly realized that if all this was a trap set by you, then I would eventually willingly walk into the magic circle, and my blood would run dry for you—”

“I won’t deceive you.”

Roland closed his eyes. He felt something hot and burning surging up from his heart, caught in his throat, preventing him from even a sigh. He pinched his palm, feeling no pain.

“Compared to you, the magic circle means nothing to me.”

Kriesmeier did not refute.

His life was continuously and irreversibly draining away. The broken horn on the Demon King’s head rested on the table’s edge, paining him like a sharp thorn. He had always believed that seeing Roland again would make hatred burn within him, but when his eyes truly reflected the other, the cold heart of the Abyssal Demon suddenly slowly beat once more.

“I am not satisfied,”

Kriesmeier suddenly said, his voice grim. “I haven’t truly done anything to you yet. I said I would watch you, I would lock you up, cut your throat, pull out your ribs. None of this has come to pass. Especially when you say this to me, I haven’t touched you yet, and you haven’t announced to Mirar Continent that everyone should know you belong to me—”

He didn’t plan to pretend to be at peace due to irreversible damage.

He disdained feigning regret for his actions and would not change what he intended to do. But with Roland reflected in his gaze, looking at him with such pain, he suddenly felt that he might indeed willingly walk into this human’s trap countless times.

Roland whispered: “We’ll have a wedding witnessed by the entire continent. I can invite the students from the Mage Tower and my friends from other places, but your lords will have to be seated separately. The wedding must be very grand, heavens knows—I never expected such a thing before. We’ll use the flower sea in the Demon King’s Castle, and fine wine brewed by dwarves and goblins.”

“…Roland.”

“So you’re not allowed to die.”

The mage said stubbornly, as if his words could act as a forbidden spell, “You promised to kill me yourself.”

Both of them realized that these words were merely a futile attempt to avoid the fact that Kriesmeier’s life was gradually fading with the incessant operation of the magic circle. The Demon King was indeed very clever; the Black Book had never thought that the Archmage had left a possible channel. This was basically Roland’s only chance to return.

But it was also a bloody and extremely ominous opportunity.

The tyrant from the Abyss seemed to finally retreat, whispering, “I truly don’t understand you.” Roland watched him through the screen. He looked through the world’s rift at the real Roland, watching the young man’s trembling fingertips and his slowly leaning forehead on the screen, those moist eyes. The Demon King paused for a moment; he guessed he had one last bit of strength.

But he still felt unwilling if everything were to be in vain at this very moment.

“—What is the meaning of the white rose?”

Kriesmeier suddenly asked, as if he truly needed to understand this right now.

The black cat, with the tip of its tail curled around the staff “Nova,” lightly walked through the chaotic room. It approached the Demon King, a colossal presence to it, then stopped. Roland slowly released the mouse. The most illustrious staff on Mirar Continent fell with a thud, right beside the Demon King’s hand.

“Destroy it, stop the magic circle.”

The Archmage’s voice sounded like a ghost.

To stop one star from operating, it was only possible by destroying another. The Moon Spirit on his staff was incredibly powerful, capable of sensing the tides of Mirar Continent.

Then he seemed to smile, looking at the Demon King confined by countless crimson lines in the center of the magic circle. Besides his scattered black wings, scarred body, and blood-stained silver-grey long hair, the white rose pinned to the Demon King’s chest was mostly withered but miraculously clean, without a single stain of other colors.

“I originally thought it would be better to leave a suspense here,”

He looked down at his fingertips. “Like, ‘I’ll tell you later.’ But I worry that might be a bad omen, and I don’t want you to have more regrets to consider, so…”

Kriesmeier awaited his answer.

“I am worthy of you,”

Roland whispered, “That’s the meaning of the flower you wear on your chest. Oh, by the way, should the Demon Palace be replanted with white roses afterward?”

Even a genius like the Archmage was oblivious to what would happen in the future. The path ahead seemed shrouded in a thick mist. If the last road were cut off, it was uncertain whether a long search would truly be necessary, and moreover, the two worlds seemed unlikely to remain connected forever. But at this moment, looking at Kriesmeier, he still wore a relatively relaxed expression.

—How terrible. It seems it was better when Kries couldn’t see him.

The Demon King’s fingers touched the staff “Nova,” stirring a soft ripple.

Kriesmeier stared at the staff for a moment. His naturally black wings and power meant that gentle starlight was not meant for him. Roland guessed he didn’t have much strength left, but mages generally hid carefully in the back due to their inherent fragility.

“Nova” held a completely different meaning for Roland compared to other staves, just as the scythe “Demon Eye” was Kriesmeier’s symbol.

Three, two, one.

Say goodbye.

Kriesmeier’s fingers suddenly tightened. At that moment, Roland tried his best to smile at him. Now they could both see each other. The next time they met, who knew how long it would be.

The Demon King suddenly revealed his typical grim and violent expression. His dark golden eyes stared intensely at Roland, like a fierce beast in the jungle eyeing its prey. The Abyssal Demon’s coldness, the terrifying tyrant’s killing intent, once again burned and stung the Archmage’s skin.

“Roland,”

Kriesmeier, despite being in a desperate situation, still lifted his eyes arrogantly. “I realize I still hate you very much. Having to make this decision will only deepen that hatred. I cannot bear your prolonged escape. I still overwhelmingly want to kill you myself. Your life can only be mine, so—”

The Demon King released the Moon Spirit in his hand. The staff fell to the ground, precisely in the very center of the magic circle.

In that instant, the magic circle ignited with greedy, pale blue flames, licking at this delicious offering, while Kriesmeier calmly gripped his scythe once more and shakily stood up. He looked at Roland again. Being able to briefly escape the magic circle’s oppression, to prevent himself from falling, was an incredible miracle in itself.

“Is that enough?”

He muttered softly to himself, “No, if it’s still not enough…”

The pale blue flames of the magic circle spread over the Demon King’s body. He raised his scythe once more, the bone-handled scythe gleaming chillingly. Kriesmeier swung the scythe as he had countless times before, its sharp light extending to the very end of the screen.

Roland lunged at the screen. He couldn’t maintain his sanity for a single second. His fingers blindly swiped across the screen.

—As if he heard the sound of glass shattering.

The next second, Roland’s pupils trembled violently.

At that moment, he remembered how Kriesmeier had spoken to him of obstacles, all potential obstacles, all obstacles not yet realized, all real and false obstacles—”I swear one day I shall tear them all apart.”

He lowered his gaze,

He saw the giant scythe pressed against his neck, and a pale, bony finger joint.