Rebirth of the 8th-Circle Mage

Henry's consciousness was slipping away as the throbbing pain overwhelmed him. As his vision blurred, he saw Hector lunging at Arthus with his blade to stop him from pressuring the Saint.

‘Hector…!’

He couldn’t talk because of the blood that filled up his lungs. All he could do was watch Hector launch himself toward Arthus.

Hector—he was the secret weapon Henry had prepared for this war. He had outperformed the other knights, but that had merely been against the apostles.

Arthus was a completely different beast, leagues above the apostles. Even Henry, who could use 8th-Circle magic and had the swordsmanship of a Sword Master, which he didn’t have in his past life, stood no chance against Arthus.

As for Hector, even though Hoosler, a top Warlock, had joined hands with Vulcanus, the best blacksmith of Monsieur, to transform him into a Death Knight, he stood no chance either.

Lastly, not even Herarion, La’s Sword, could lay a finger on Arthus.

No one was a match for him.

Finding the blade protruding from his chest amusing, Arthus burst into laughter. “Hahaha!”

Arthus kept looking at the blade up and down, laughing as though he was playing with an ant that had just bit him. There was a mixture of ridicule and irritation in his voice.

Of course, he knew that he wouldn’t die just from the bite of an ant. He also knew the consequences the ant was about to face. Indeed, Hector was no more than an insect in Arthus’ eyes.

Soon, Arthus grabbed the blade Hector was holding onto for dear life, not getting a single cut on his palm. The sharpness and the energy of the blade, although both great, were meaningless against him.

As Arthus held the blade, it began to vibrate. And then…

Crack-!

It shattered with the sound of china breaking.

‘Just as I expected…’

There were no dramatic changes or surprises. Old man Hoosler was already on the verge of death because of the Dark Spears, and Hector, despite being a skilled swordsman, couldn’t do much to Arthus without Hoosler’s help.

Henry was overcome by despair as he saw how helpless his allies were.

‘What… What more can I possibly do…?’

There were many reasons why Henry had managed to become the Great Archmage, but the most important one was his ability to always find solutions to problems that others considered impossible to solve.

However, he was now seriously struggling for the first time because of this damned divine power.

He had never considered divine power as something important, neither in his past nor in his present life. This kind of power had always been just a mystery to him.

However, he became interested in divine power when he learned that it could help him defeat Arthus and put an end to all of this. He had gone far and beyond, seeking out deities and obscure churches in an attempt to understand divine power and acquire it for him and his allies.

Indeed, his pursuit of divine power had astonished everyone around him.

But unfortunately, effort and determination didn’t always yield results. If they did, no hard worker would ever fail. Despite pouring all his efforts into finding a solution, Henry had ultimately failed to bring about change.

To make matters worse, time had been against him, so he had been forced to prepare for this final confrontation with what little he had. Even so, he had made the best out of the situation, even helping the apprentices of the Magical Spire advance by one or two Circles.

That, too, had been for nothing…

Clank! Shrrrr!

The sound of iron being crushed filled the air. Arthus was crushing Hector’s armor, squashing the ant that had bit him. After tearing open his armor, Arthus could see inscriptions of black magic etched all across its interior. He then waved his hand a few more times, scraping off the glowing symbols.

“I acknowledge your bravery, Death Knight.”

After crushing everything except for the helmet, Arthus turned his head back to the Saint to find more entertainment for himself. Irenae was still trembling in fear, and Arthus clicked his tongue as he laid eyes on her. He figured that punishing her wouldn’t be interesting, given that she was already terrified. Moreover, she was just another ant to him, no different than the Death Knight.

In other words, it didn’t matter if he killed her.

After reaching that conclusion, Arthus turned his head once again to look for some ants that could entertain him. He started walking around and eventually stopped in front of Herarion, all covered up in blood, slumped against a tree and barely breathing.

Arthus kneeled and looked Herarion in the eye. His eyes were lifeless, two flickering lights that were about to go out at any moment. His breathing was very shallow, most likely because of the tremendous blood loss.

“It’s a pity to see you like this,” said Arthus. “Why did the Khan Dynasty hide Janus, sir?”

Arthus pretended to show respect, since Herarion was technically still the king of a nation. At this, Herarion mustered the last remaining bit of strength to look Arthus in the eye.

With his final breath, and an ember of rage in his eyes, Herarion whispered, “What you’re doing… right now… is… the reason… why…”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

Arthus wasn’t impressed by his response. In fact, he thought Herarion had given an empty, useless response. He couldn’t help but think that Herarion could’ve been the ruler of the continent instead of Golden Jackson or himself if he had worshiped Janus instead of La, who was limited to the desert.

“How pathetic, sir. That must be the limit of your dynasty,” continued Arthus.

Herarion had entertained him more than the Saint, but it still wasn’t as amusing and exciting as Arthus had hoped. He quickly lost interest and decided that it wasn’t worth listening to Herarion anymore.

The last thing Arthus wanted to do was to waste time with this meaningless discussion. Without further hesitation, he raised his arm and summoned Dark Spears, which flickered like flames, at his fingertips.

“But I believe I owe you a farewell. I’m really thankful for your foolish dynasty.”

“...!”

“Goodbye.”

Herarion’s eyes widened, and then his head sagged toward the ground, maintaining the same expression.

Herarion Khan III had died as the last king of the Shahatra kingdom, and just like that, the prosperous desert kingdom, the one with a richer history than the Eurasian empire, came to an end.

“Hmm…”

Unsatisfied, Arthus summoned another spear and aimed it at Hoosler, who was barely clinging to his life.

“GHAAA!”

After the spear pierced Hoosler, he let out a death cry and went limp, falling on his face. Just like that, Hoosler had joined Herarion in a matter of seconds.

Arthus then talked to himself as if he was trying to explain why he had just killed Hoosler.

“A servant shouldn’t let a king go by himself, surely?”

Three out of the five warriors on Lizark Hill were dead. Arthus prepared another spear and aimed it at Henry. However, after looking at him for a bit, Arthus undid his spears and explained, “No… I want things to be different for you, Henry.”

Arthus walked past the Saint and looked down at Henry as he lay in a pool of his own blood.

“Henry,” Arthus called out.

However, Henry barely heard Arthus’ voice. It was a muffled echo, as though he were underwater. Through his blurry vision, he could see Arthus smirking at him, his eyes full of anticipation.

‘Arthus…’

Hector, Herarion, and Hoosler were dead. Henry had seen all three of them die with his very own eyes. The worst part was that he hadn’t been able to do anything to save them. He had only been able to watch the life fade from their eyes because Arthus had severed his Achilles and wrist tendons, rendering him unable to move.

The helplessness he felt from witnessing his comrades die spiraled into harrowing despair, soon engulfing his consciousness, and eventually trapping him in a prison of desolation he made for himself.

Seeing Henry’s defeated expression, Arthus finally spoke up.

“Seeing your face, it looks like you’re going to disappoint me too after all. But I won’t let that happen. You see, you’re my last toy, my last piece of entertainment.”

With that, he flicked his fingers. Then the Saint, who had been sobbing at a distance, suddenly flew toward them and landed in front of Henry.

“Sob, sob…!”

Henry wasn’t the only one trapped in desolation. Irenae, who had always been a ray of hope, now looked like she had lost her mind, choking up in tears and staring blankly.

Arthus couldn’t care less about their despair. He ordered the Saint without hesitation.

“Saint, heal Henry. If you do, I’ll stop my followers that are going toward Monsieur.”

“...!”

Irenae was well aware why Arthus wanted her to treat Henry. He wanted to keep torturing him until he broke him, which was why she didn’t want to heal Henry. She knew how much guilt and pain he had endured already, but if she were to adhere to her goddess, she had to heal him.

The lives of everyone in Monsieur, including the people of the Holy City and the numerous priests and holy warriors, depended on her decision. There were also the people who hadn’t been turned into Arthus’ blind believers, who were still normal, human.

Caught in this horrible dilemma, Irenae broke down.

“God-Goddess… Sob… Why… Why are you… Sob… putting me through this… harsh test… Sob!”

Irenae muttered to herself as though she had lost her mind and grabbed onto her chest, the pain suffocating her. Seeing her despair, Arthus wore a devilish smile. Every time he saw Irenae break down, he felt like he was being compensated for how Goddess Irene had humiliated him.

The Saint was at a complete loss. Instead of making a decision, she kept on crying inconsolably.

Just as Arthus was about to lose his patience, Henry barely managed to lift his hand, with its tendon slit, and place it on her shoulder.

“Saint…”

“A-Archmage!”

Irenae held his hand in response and cried even harder. Then, Henry spoke up, his voice croaky as though he had swallowed sand.

“Please... heal me…”

“But...!”

“Please…”

With his last ounce of energy, Henry asked Irenae to heal him. He knew why the Saint was unable to make a decision, and he also knew what he would go through if she healed him…

“But…! But…!”

Henry’s pitiful plea caused her to cry even harder. She was overcome by tremendous guilt, knowing what her actions would cause.

Understanding her pain, Henry tried his best to convince her, forcing a pitiful smile.

“I beg… you…”

With that, his arm fell helplessly on the ground. He was still breathing, but he no longer had the strength to keep his arm up.

“I'm so sorry... I’m so sorry!” Irenae cried out, her voice riddled with remorse. With that, she channeled her divine power into Henry, continuing to apologize profusely.

“I’m sorry! Please forgive me!”

She radiated a bright light, and soon, Henry was hugged by a pleasant warmth as though he were in his mother’s womb, his consciousness slowly fading.

But at that moment…

- Henry Morris.

Henry saw nothing but a golden light shimmering in front of him, an unfamiliar voice echoing in his ears.

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