A Villain's Will to Survive-Chapter 246: From The Ashes (3)

I was in the basement, sketching the structure of a magic circle.

However, the grand magic I was trying to construct was beyond my Comprehension, and I hit wall after wall, tangled in too many ideas and far too few answers, each chasing its own tail.

Maybe it’s because I was never meant to complete the very thing I began, although this is my work, it is not mine to complete, or maybe I cannot even escape the death that was already written for me from the start, I thought.

“... It's gone,” Arlos said, her ear pressed to the ceiling.

“Then come and take a seat,” I replied, meeting her eyes and tilting my chin toward the empty seat.

“Why.”

“There’s something in you that brings inspiration for magic to my mind.”

“And what exactly are you trying to do with that slip of paper?” Arlos asked, glancing at the paper with a look as if it couldn’t possibly be useful.

“It’s a small part of a magic circle. To complete a grand magic, it requires over a hundred thousand of these pieces.”

It could be considered a jigsaw puzzle. Magic paper would’ve done the trick in less than a tenth of the size, but I had exchanged plain paper for a coin, which meant thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands—of pieces of paper.

“A magic circle may appear crowded with spells when viewed closely, but from afar, it reveals itself as a single work of art. Lines and curves form circuits, mana flows through them, and all of it moves in perfect harmony—no different from the stroke of a brush across a canvas.”

"... I know what magic is, too."

“Of course—you must have had a magic mentor of your own,” I said.

“I’m self-taught,” Arlos said, stiffening for a moment before brushing it off, clearing her throat and giving a small shake of her head.

"Puppetry is not something that blossoms in solitude—least of all in Ashes."

“And yet, I did,”

I already knew who Arlos's mentor was, with no need to ask and even less reason to pretend I didn't.

According to the setting, her mentor was Adrienne, and more than likely, she really was in this world. But if that truth were ever brought to light, it would be Adrienne who would bear its weight, and that’s probably why Arlos is holding her silence, I thought.

“Take this,” I said, pulling a single sheet of paper from the inner pocket of my coat.

“What now... a contract?” Arlos asked, her eyes narrowing as she gave the page a light shake between two fingers, as if she were expecting an explanation.

“If I die, then pass it on to me that comes after, and I’ll come to understand what comes next.”

The hiring contract, with all the expected terms and signed by both Sylvia and me, was a mark—a reminder, a milestone for the self that would come after me.

“Clause three—what exactly does this mean? It says you’re teaching Sylvia with her magic?” Arlos asked, the rhythm of her nod slowing as her expression tightened while she read through the page.

"It is as written in the clause. I will be assisting Sylvia in bringing the Voice into full manifestation."

At my words, Arlos crossed her arms without saying a word and watched me, her eyes seeming to say she was trying to figure out what I was really after.

"It is a wager between her and I," I said.

“A wager?”

“It’s between her magic and mine—whose will reach completion first, and the one who loses will step away without hesitation.”

“... Wouldn’t that be too dangerous? If her magic completes first, that means we’re fucked.”

"There’s a method, not entirely proper, I’ll admit, that I’m not proud of," I replied, shaking my head.

Snap—

My pencil snapped in my grip as I was sketching the magic circle, and Arlos’s eyes moved—first to the broken lead, then to the tension curled in my fingertips.

"This wager was never meant to be mine to lose."

“... And what makes you so certain?” Arlos asked.

"Because as Sylvia’s magic grows, I, in turn, become more of myself."

Arlos looked completely lost, and it made perfect sense, as Deculein was someone magic could not reproduce, nor could he be imitated by anyone in this world, for no one had the mental strength to even attempt to be like him.

And yet, the fact that Sylvia could manifest and give form to even this fragment of me perhaps meant that myself from beyond the sea had, in some way, allowed it.

"And if I do become more of myself, then it won’t matter if Sylvia finishes first or not, as I will dismantle it all," I added.

“You’d dismantle it? Then what of the contract?”

"A contract made with a devil holds no weight."

The original Deculein broke contracts and betrayed people as easily as breathing. Even though Kim Woo-Jin inside him might have softened the edges, he wouldn’t hesitate to end it without blinking—especially if the name on the contract was Sylvia’s, corrupted by a demon’s hand.

"As you are already aware, I remain incomplete. Though I move and think as Deculein would, there is something absent within me that falls short, and, little by little, I am dying," I continued.

Perhaps who I was now, although it was only an outcome of his personality traits—being so taken by Arlos’s beauty and feeling an aching sympathy for Sylvia—didn’t feel like Deculein at all. If I’m being honest, who I really was right now leaned a lot more toward Kim Woo-Jin.

"Be cautious, Arlos—if you were to meet the original me."

My reflection shimmered in Arlos’s gleaming eyes, and once again, the light behind them struck me as quietly mysterious—clear and calm, like a hidden lake deep in the forest, a beauty that even Deculein couldn’t overlook.

“Though I am satisfied to find inspiration merely by observing you...” I added, raising a hand to her face and touching it as one might touch a precious treasure.

Arlos flinched slightly under my touch, but she didn’t resist and allowed it to happen.

“... He might try to preserve you through taxidermy.”

From an artistic standpoint, there was nothing missing from Arlos, as she was perfect, possessing an attribute that was singular and unrepeatable by others. Perhaps that was why, to Deculein, she might be the ideal item worth acquiring for himself.

"However rare it may be, there exists art that breathes inspiration with nothing more than its mere existence.”

“Stop it already. You’re going to make my ears fall off,” Arlos said.

“You are such a creation, and I hope that your light is not extinguished by death or tragedy,” I continued, brushing a strand of Arlos’s hair behind her ear.

Arlos flinched, then turned her face away, shrinking her head back like a turtle hiding in its shell.

"Although there is a different value in tragic art, of course, once it withers and is gone, it can no longer be appreciated," I added, letting my hand slip away without a sound.

Arlos's breath slipped out from her lips, barely audible, as if she’d been holding it too long.

"Until then, prepare a puppet to meet my original self when the hour arrives, and let the original form remain well hidden," I said, in a voice not meant to advise, but to issue a directive.

In the game, Arlos had been little more than a villain, a character written as another antagonist cooperating with the Altar, and Deculein, built from that same world, knew exactly who she was.

Should Arlos outlive her usefulness, or should betrayal begin to flicker in her eyes, she will be discarded without hesitation. Furthermore, if the Voice conceals demonic energy that provokes Deculein to brutality, the threat will increase exponentially, I thought.

"You may pass me by or glance my way once in passing, but do not stand near me for long—and never too close."

Arlos couldn’t quite understand why, but the warning didn’t feel distant to her, and she listened attentively, as if it were already meant for her.

"Though I find it deeply unfortunate that my original self will never come to meet the art you are, such distance is necessary—if you are to be maintained," I said.

"To be maintained? I’m human, not some kind of art," Arlos replied, a pout touching her lips in annoyance.

"Indeed, you are human. Then tell me—why did you hide behind a puppet just to escape the one you couldn't bear to face?"

As if my words had struck deeper than she expected, Arlos drew a breath, as if to speak, but no words came.

However, there was something quietly breathtaking in every movement of Arlos’s face, each flicker of emotion as precise and deliberate as brushstrokes by Leonardo da Vinci, and even that made her feel all the more mysterious.

"You may not see it, but perhaps you have already turned yourself into something preserved in taxidermy, sealed in self-hatred by your own hands. And until you tear yourself free from that seal, I will stand as the variable of your death," I said.

“... Death variable?” Arlos repeated.

A woman without self-worth would be worth less than a broken sculpture, and if that’s all Arlos was, Deculein might as well have preserved her in unmoving taxidermy without mercy, keeping her away from it like a framed masterpiece behind its coat.

However, if Arlos had come to see her own worth—if she held herself with pride—then perhaps Deculein would no longer think to preserve her, but would keep her close as an individual—no, as an artistic individual worth standing beside, not as a figure in a frame.

"Now, that’s enough talking."

“Huh? But you’re the one who started talking to me, Professor.”

Once more, I turned my attention back to designing the magic circle.

Snap—!

However, not long after I returned to the design, the pencil snapped in my fingers—fragile proof that my hands had lost control and were betraying my mind.

"Is that proof that you're dying?" Arlos asked.

I nodded without saying a word.

With every breath I took, and with every ounce of mana I used, the more I fractured.

Even without a hand to end me, I doubt I have more than a week left.

“I see.”

Arlos gave the slightest nod, more to herself than to me, and then fell silent.

“... Professor, you're a strange one, even one I wouldn't expect to see, even in the Ashes,” Arlos said after a long pause, her eyes moving from me to the magic circle I was recording under my hand.

"Silence your tongue. Even you should know better than to place me beside the vermin that writhe in the Ashes."

"Unbelievable," Arlos muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.

***

The next day, I visited Sylvia at the same hour—three in the afternoon, just as I had the day before.

"Today, we’ll begin by reviewing the circuit of your magic theory, and then move on to your Etynel lesson," I said.

Sylvia just nodded without a word—arms crossed, lips pouted, her whole posture steeped in a way that seemed to own the silence with arrogance, to which I responded by flicking the center of her forehead.

Thwack—!

Sylvia blinked up at me with wide eyes, as if trying to piece together what had just happened.

“... Ow,” Sylvia murmured, rubbing her forehead a beat too late.

"Though I consider corporal punishment beneath my methods, given your behavior, I’ll make an exception. Take a seat," I said as I laid the lesson materials down on her desk.

“You almost cracked my skull,” Sylvia replied, her cheeks puffed as she flopped into her seat, one hand still rubbing her forehead.

"I hadn’t taken you for the dramatic type."

“I’m not making this up. My head hurts. Were you trying to kill me.”

I looked at her forehead and paused for a moment as a perfect bump was already forming—puffed up right in the center, as if it could’ve belonged to a unicorn.

It must be because of my lack of control again, I thought.

"... If you wish to avoid punishment, compose yourself with the refinement befitting your house, for nobility is not granted—it is maintained."

“Why are you—”

"To begin with, the third act of your theory, for the most part, is incorrect," I interrupted, indicating the core circuit of her spell—thirteen lines entangled like a failed braid of logic.

“No, it’s different,” Sylvia argued.

“No, it’s incorrect,” I replied, countering her argument.

"In magic, nothing is ever right or wrong."

“That’s incorrect.”

“... You’re not critiquing the spell, but trying to keep me behind—just so you can win the wager.”

At her words, I pretended to raise my fingers for another flick, and Sylvia flinched, then scrambled up like a startled animal and flattened herself against the nearest wall, as if I’d pulled a dagger.

“I don’t indulge in dishonor. But remember this: in the world of magic, there may be no absolute right, but there is wrong, and inefficiency means incorrect,” I said, glancing at Sylvia, who had been glaring at my middle and thumb, raised just enough to make her lips tighten.

Was it that painful?

“Speak,” I commanded.

“... Okay.”

Then, I dropped the gesture, and she returned to the space beside me like a cat that had forgiven nothing but came back anyway.

“Let’s begin. Though, by the looks of it, you’ll need to relearn humility before anything else...”

***

The next day, I visited Sylvia at her house at exactly three, as her tutor. This time, however, Sylvia was dressed differently than she had been the day before.

“You are here,” Sylvia said.

The day before, Sylvia had worn the usual muted tones favored by noble daughters, without any embellishment. But today, she was wearing a dress with a single line of lace added, a hint of brightness in the color, and a softness in the fabric that moved like wind over water.

“Today, we’ll begin with your magic circuit, then move on to Etynel composition. I assume you’ve completed your review,” I said.

“... I did,” Sylvia replied, more out of fear of another punishment than confidence in her review.

Though she still intentionally omits using a proper title when speaking to me, habits are best corrected with patience—one at a time, I thought.

“Sit.”

“Okay,” Sylvia replied, coming over to sit down and placing her revised magic circuit in front of me for review.

I meticulously examined Sylvia's magic circuit, inspecting each segment for any inefficiencies or weaknesses, reading it with the precision of a scanner, like a beam of light revealing every imperfection.

“... Good,” I said, nodding with satisfaction as I reviewed the structure of her circuit.

Every adjustment she had made was to my satisfaction, as her magical talent flowed through every line of the circuit like breath through a living thing.

Sylvia said nothing, but beneath the desk, I noticed her hands balled into small fists—as if holding in the rush of emotion. It was unexpectedly endearing, and it brought a slight curl to my lips.

“Oh, you smiled,” Sylvia said, her eyes widening as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just seen.

“... But don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said, schooling my features back into place. “Any mage can understand the basics of circuit efficiency—that part is simple. But when it comes to compatibility between circuits, that’s where the most magical accidents begin, when a mage tries to force incompatible circuits to connect...”

I resumed the lesson without delay, but Sylvia's expression had melted into something warm, with a roundness in her smile that needed no explanation.

***

Day after day, always at the same hour, I visited Sylvia, and each time, she was never quite the same—each day dressed in something different that was impossible not to notice.

On the first day, she wore nothing but muted tones. But with each visit, a detail was added—an accessory here, a ribbon there—until, before I realized it, her style had bloomed into something fresh and full of life, the kind that would suit any girl her age in the social circle.

Of course, her progress in magic was accelerating. Sylvia absorbed everything I taught her like breath itself, applying it almost as quickly as she learned, as expected from someone who carried the promise of a future Archmage.

However, even so, perfection remained out of reach—even for her.

“It seems Etynel’s reputation for its difficulty is well earned,” I said, setting the paper down. “Even you managed only fifty.”

Sylvia lowered her head in silence, her confidence visibly dimmed. The magic pop quiz had gone impeccably, but the Etynel dictation had humbled her more than she cared to admit, and the disappointment spoke for itself.

“It’s difficult, Professor,” Sylvia replied.

“You’ve no reason to hurry. You carry more time ahead than I have left behind.”

Then, Sylvia looked up at me, her expression once again unreadable, carrying the silence of a question she hadn’t asked.

“Have you any questions?”

Without a word, Sylvia nodded in response to my words.

“Ask,” I replied, organizing the lesson materials.

“It’s not a class related question.”

“Go ahead.”

"Are you not afraid."

Sylvia spoke in that same monotone, making it always hard to tell if she was asking me something or delivering a monologue. But by now, I didn’t need punctuation to understand her anymore.

“And what is there to be afraid of?” I inquired.

“About dying.”

As Sylvia said, my life was nearing its end. I was a being painted into existence, and upon death, I would dissolve into the very pigments that formed me, blending back into the colors from which I came. That was how I would face my death.

“... Well,” I said, finally looking her way.

Sylvia met my eyes with those same expressionless eyes, holding no reflection but her own.

"Even if I die, and the next iteration of me dies, and the one after that, and the one after that as well, the purpose remains unchanged, meaning there is nothing to be afraid of."

I have no reason to be afraid. Yes, that’s all it is—there’s no need to be afraid.

“But, Sylvia.”

“Yes, Professor,” Sylvia answered without hesitation.

Sylvia looked at me with worry in her eyes, yet she remained blind to the fact that mattered most. Perhaps that was why I felt an aching sort of pity for her that I couldn’t shake.

“This question is for you.”

Sylvia tilted her head with that innocent curiosity of hers—so different from the girl I had first met on the island—almost enough to make me forget who she used to be.

“Although I have no reason to be afraid of my own death.”

Then, suddenly, the light faded from her eyes in an instant, and her features stiffened as if she already knew what I was about to say.

"Will you be able to accept it when that time comes?”

Sylvia remained silent.

“When this body of mine dies, it only ends there,” I said as I placed the pencil down. "And the self you bring next in its place will open my eyes without these memories."

Tick, tock—

Tick, tock—

The clock ticked on; fifty-three seconds had passed—just a flicker of the two hours we had agreed on.

“Even if it’s not me but the next iteration who continues these lessons."

The ticking of the clock faded into the background as Sylvia looked into my eyes.

"Sylvia... will you be able to accept parting, knowing I’m no longer the same person without those memories?” I inquired, looking her in the eye.