“So that’s it. You were the man from back then!”
Verom roared, swinging his sword in a wide arc.
From the path of that swing burst dense, crimson-black energy that swept across the area like a blizzard.
The range was so wide that the abandoned houses nearby collapsed all at once as though hit by a typhoon.
Fortunately, Gariel’s hideout was located in a remote area—otherwise, the casualties would have been catastrophic.
Ludger charged straight into the storm-like force and emerged before Verom without a single scratch.
Verom’s eyes, hidden beneath his helm, trembled slightly.
‘What kind of movement was that?’
The unbelievable speed Ludger had just shown shocked him deeply.
First Order “John Doe.”
A man specialized in infiltration, disguise, assassination, and covert operations—a favorite of the Zero Order himself.
He never sought to befriend other First Orders, his personality was abrasive, and Verom had never felt any particular fondness for him.
He was simply a man highly valued by the Zero Order—useful, nothing more.
But what he saw now defied everything he knew.
This was no ordinary mage.
Verom understood that perfectly.
‘And yet that movement just now—it wasn’t like a mage at all. Even a war mage couldn’t move like that.’
No knight could dodge his attack so easily either.
Every single one of Ludger’s movements contained the weight of countless battles.
Then, Verom’s armor began to vibrate faintly.
“Hm.”
He steadied his breath and swung his sword again at the approaching Ludger.
If the man insisted on fighting up close, then he would meet him in kind.
Clang!
The black sword and the swordstick collided, sending sparks flying.
The shockwave rippled outward, stirring the air violently.
In the darkness where the gas lamps had all been blown out, a man in a crow mask and the black knight exchanged sword dances.
Ka-ka-ka-kak!
Every time their blades met, light flashed through the dark, their figures flickering into view for an instant before scattering like afterimages.
At first glance, the fight looked evenly matched.
But anyone with real perception could tell—Verom was at a disadvantage.
Even though his body and weapon far outclassed Ludger’s frail swordstick, they were fighting on equal ground.
That alone was absurd for a mage.
Verom knew it too, and he analyzed the situation calmly.
‘He’s blocking my greatsword so easily with that thin blade. Even if it’s no ordinary weapon, his body should never withstand this—mana reinforcement has limits.’
And his swordsmanship...
No matter how talented a mage might be, this level of swordsmanship wasn’t something one could simply learn by observation.
Only someone who had held a sword for over thirty years could move like that.
And Ludger had already shown him more than five entirely different sword styles.
By the sixth, Verom couldn’t help but curse inwardly.
‘It feels like I’m fighting a different person every time.’
The moment Verom began adapting to one pattern, Ludger’s movements changed again—swiftly, mockingly.
Ludger had lived through countless dreams under Nirva’s influence, experiencing thousands of different lives.
Though most of those experiences had faded, the most intense memories and skills remained within him.
And those strong memories belonged to people who had lived extraordinary lives—warriors, soldiers, survivors of endless battle.
Ludger had absorbed all of their techniques and made them his own.
There was no need to learn—he simply could do it.
The only reason Verom could hold out was because of his black sword and the cursed armor he wore.
Then, deciding this stalemate couldn’t continue, Verom twisted his torso and spun like a top, swinging his sword.
Fwoooosh!
Crimson-black slashes exploded outward in a whirling storm.
Ludger slipped beneath a shadow and reappeared at a distance.
The ground where they’d just fought was now a cratered ruin, as though bombarded by artillery.
“You are strong, as expected.”
Verom readjusted his grip on his sword.
Then he felt a sting on his shoulder.
When he looked down, the armor on his left shoulder had split open.
‘When—?’
Had Ludger struck him in that brief instant while he was preparing his attack?
Verom stared at him intently.
Ludger stood still, his swordstick tilted loosely to the side.
Rather than anger, the knight felt a cold chill down his spine.
That calm, almost arrogant posture—it wasn’t bluster. It was confidence.
And the truth was, Verom had been on the defensive the entire time.
‘And he’s a mage. Once he starts using real magic...’
Verom exhaled a quiet sigh, as if resigned to the storm gathering in his mind.
“I didn’t come here half-heartedly, but it seems I have no choice but to go all out.”
As soon as he spoke, his armor began to change.
Crrrkk—
From the broken edge of his pauldron wriggled something red, like a thin worm.
It squirmed quickly to the opposite side of the fracture and pulled the two pieces together, stitching them closed.
Ludger’s eyes narrowed.
‘The armor’s regenerating?’
It wasn’t rewinding time—it was moving, alive, as if it were a living organism.
“I figured it wasn’t ordinary armor, but this is far more grotesque than I imagined.”
“Indeed. A truly dreadful thing,” Verom replied, a low, bitter laugh escaping him.
There was self-mockery in that sound.
“It’s called a cursed relic for a reason. This isn’t something I can control.”
“A living armor... a Living Armor.”
Ludger immediately recognized the artifact that granted Verom his power.
It bestowed tremendous strength—but in return, the wearer was forever bound to it, unable to remove it for life.
Judging by Verom’s reaction, he clearly despised his own condition.
“The deal you made with Nicolai—was it to have that armor removed?”
“......”
Verom said nothing.
But silence spoke louder than words. Ludger’s guess was essentially correct.
“Is it so wrong for a man to struggle against his shackles?”
“No, not at all. I’d have made the same choice.”
A Living Armor wasn’t something you “wore.” It was something that wore you.
Once donned, it could never be taken off—not while sleeping, eating, or even tending to other bodily needs.
Yes, it granted immense power. But what good was that?
You couldn’t live a normal life, not even in the smallest ways.
And worse, the armor often warped the wearer’s speech and behavior, forcing traits alien to their true selves.
But the most maddening curse of all—was being trapped in that metal prison until death.
“I doubt Nicolai actually knows how to remove a Living Armor.”
“Perhaps not. But I have to try. That uncertain hope is all I have left.”
Why does a drowning man clutch at straws?
Because he knows it won’t save him—but he can’t bear to do nothing.
Verom was the same.
Nicolai was deceitful, untrustworthy, repulsive—but that faint thread of hope silenced every doubt.
“So if I raise my sword against you, I ask that you not resent me too much.”
It was the only choice he had.
If it meant freedom from this hellish armor, he would cut down anyone—friend or foe.
Not as the First Order Verom—
But as the man trapped inside the cursed relic known as the Living Armor.
Rumble—!
Crimson energy surged from Verom’s greatsword like an underground torrent.
He poured every ounce of strength into his strike.
The arc of his swing tore the air apart, threatening to slice the world itself.
But—
‘It doesn’t reach him.’
His blade didn’t touch Ludger.
Was John Doe truly this strong?
The question vanished with his next strike.
Slash after slash, thrust after thrust, each carried the fury of a curse.
Yet even within that maelstrom, Ludger remained unharmed—dodging, deflecting, and parrying effortlessly.
Unlike Verom’s desperate struggle, Ludger carried the calm poise of a superior fighter.
“Khhhaaaah!”
Verom clenched his teeth and forced out every drop of power.
The Living Armor responded, trembling in resonance.
Red veins spread across its surface, infusing the sword with blinding energy.
The aura around the black blade intensified—shrinking, condensing, until it became a narrow, blazing edge.
It looked as if he were holding pure light and heat.
Tssssss—
As Verom angled the blade, nearby metal structures glowed red and melted, despite the sword not even touching them.
“That looks a bit dangerous,” Ludger muttered softly.
He channeled mana into his swordstick.
Wind howled, his shadowy cloak flared, and he began weaving a spell.
That was when Verom moved.
He kicked off the ground, his form blurring into an afterimage.
A heartbeat later, the spot he’d stood on exploded under the pressure of his acceleration.
He vanished from sight.
Too fast for the naked eye—only the heat radiating from his sword marked his trajectory.
A streak of red carved through the air, melting every piece of metal it passed.
He charged in a straight line toward Ludger, a ray of annihilation.
Just as the blade was about to reach him, Ludger’s sword flared with blue mana—
Claaang!
Their bodies brushed past one another.
Ludger calmly drew back his weapon and turned around.
Verom tried to do the same—but stumbled, dropping to one knee.
The energy condensed in his sword dispersed, fading back into an ordinary black blade.
“H... how...?”
A knight—defeated by a mage?
As disbelief filled him, a sharp cracking sound echoed.
The helm of his armor fractured, spreading like spiderwebs before shattering completely.
The pieces clattered to the ground, revealing a man in his mid-thirties with a rough, weathered face—more mercenary than knight.
With trembling hands, Verom touched his own face.
A flicker of joy—quickly replaced by despair.
The Living Armor twitched, then began to crawl up his neck, reforming the helmet.
Even if shattered, it would regenerate and imprison him once more.
“So it still doesn’t work, huh,” he sighed.
As his words faded, Ludger stepped forward.
It was clear now—unless the host himself died, the armor would never stop.
There was no choice but to end it.
With sword in hand, Ludger approached like an executioner.
Resignation filled Verom’s eyes.
“Wait.”
It was Cravat who spoke.
Having finished off the last of the experimental creatures, he had been watching the duel from afar—and now approached while the battle had quieted.
“Hm. Ho? Hm-hmm.”
Cravat crouched down and ran his hands over Verom’s armor like a curious child examining an insect.
“What are you doing...?”
“Shh.”
When Verom tried to protest, Cravat pressed a finger to his lips.
The knight fell silent, /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ overwhelmed by the black mage’s presence.
After a while, Cravat straightened up.
“I think I can break this curse.”
For Cravat—the head of the black magic school that specialized in ancient curses—
A parasitic relic like the Living Armor was, quite literally, his area of expertise.