Chapter 242: Chaos (8)
From the very beginning, the Man without a Head had no name.
The reason was, in a way, simple and cruel.
There had been no parents—or anyone at all—to tell him his name.
No, to explain it more precisely, his parents had wrung out every last drop of themselves to bring him into this world. And so, when he finally opened his eyes, there was no one left at his side.
Popolotuass.
That was the name of his father and mother, and furthermore, his creator.
At the same time, that name had once been known as one of the Eight Demon Lords, a name that had plunged the entire Continent into terror, and a name that had ultimately lost its light forever at the hands of the Wolpen Knights.
The Man without a Head had inherited everything of that Eight Demon Lord.
Of course, what he inherited was nothing more than scraps and fragments so pitiful that it would have been embarrassing to even call it a legacy.
From the very beginning, the circumstances of his birth had been just that.
Popolotuass, who had refused to give up and had continued turning back time, had eventually exhausted even what he could offer as a price.
And as he met his death, what he spat out in his final struggle was none other than this very existence.
Perhaps even Popolotuass himself, who had been his parent, had never expected that he would be born at all.
The Man without a Head often found himself thinking that.
He had considered giving himself a name, only to stop. He had even considered claiming the name Popolotuass for himself, only to stop again.
There were things far more important occupying his mind than giving a name that no one would ever call.
Was it because the final will left behind by the colossal being known as the Eight Demon Lords had been deeply engraved into his mind?
From the moment he was born, only two thoughts had filled his head.
That he did not want to die.
And the other was an overwhelming fear toward the Heroes who had killed his parent.
……Thus, clutching only fragments of power too insignificant to even be called the remnants of the Eight Demon Lords, and dragging along an incomplete body that had been born without a head, he wandered aimlessly.
As he spent long years alone like that, the thoughts that had once filled his mind gradually began to grow in a strange direction.
Was it because he had been born already mature, without properly passing through childhood and adolescence?
Or was it because his very birth had been against reason and profoundly unstable?
The fear he had rooted within him toward the Heroes had, before he knew it, changed into reverence and worship.
……People often said there were two ways to overcome what one feared.
To run away, or to burn with hostility.
But what he chose was neither the first nor the second.
They had become, within his heart, not objects of fear and hatred, but of reverence and worship.
Yes. They were not monsters, but objects of faith.
Thinking so, he comforted and convinced himself.
Then, the encounter came suddenly.
As he continued wandering without knowing when it would end, when he met Arpentia—one of the Wolpen Knights who had killed his parent……
For the first time, he came to believe in the word fate.
His own wish not to die.
And Arpentia’s wish to revive her dead comrades.
In a way, the two of them shared similar wishes.
Right there, the Man without a Head lowered his posture before her and swore loyalty.
He felt fate. He came to believe it was his destiny. And the feeling he had the moment he saw her, he became firmly convinced, was love.
He began to immerse himself deeply in Arpentia’s will, as if intoxicated by it.
Before long, he came to believe that fulfilling Arpentia’s will was the very method by which he could achieve his own wish, his faith, and his love all at once.
Thus, for Arpentia, he began to do literally everything he could.
Using the ability he had inherited from his parent—the power to give birth to monsters—he tried to shake the Academy from within, and cleverly made use of the Cultists of the Evil God.
He approached a werewolf who had lost his child and his arm, tempting him with sweet words that he would revive the child, and urged him to become his subordinate.
When she said she needed Dragon’s Blood and a heart, he stepped forward himself, killed a Wyrmling, and instead formed a contract with an Ancient Dragon.
To aid her research, he willingly offered up his own body and volunteered to become a test subject, and as a result, he even succeeded in creating Iron Needles that could move the dead.
Moreover, using those Iron Needles, he exerted influence over the Holy Sun Church, the Empire, the Cultists of the Evil God, and even the Dragons, manipulating them and moving them as he desired.
……And now, there was little time left.
The moment when her wish and his own would bear fruit—the moment of the end—had drawn right before his eyes.
He only hoped that his wish, his faith, and his love would be fulfilled.
“…….”
At last, the Man without a Head gave a small nod.
He decided to end the tedious recollection there.
Reality was already before him.
“Haah!”
Avoiding the sword swung by Lancia Jintia, he took several steps back.
Of course, her attack could not deal any damage to him.
But had he not once paid a heavy price for dealing carelessly under that very assumption?
Unlike his parent, who had turned back time countless times, he did not have much left that he could offer as a price.
‘……My power is gradually recovering.’
Fortunately, it seemed that his Magical Power had not been taken permanently as a price.
However, despite this hopeful news, the flow of battle had not been favorable.
His objective was to keep them pinned here.
More precisely, until Arpentia achieved her goal, he had to fulfill the role of gatekeeper perfectly—ensuring that no one interfered with her.
“…….”
The man once again stared blankly at Lancia Jintia.
Only now did fragments of memory begin to return to him.
A young girl he had deliberately spared when he burned down a remote village in the past.
…No, was the girl in his memory truly the same woman standing before him now?
‘Hmm.’
He swallowed a low groan.
‘It would have been simpler if it had happened only once or twice.’
…He let out a small sigh of belated self-reproach.
It was a bad habit Arpentia had pointed out to him countless times.
Was it because of his grotesquely twisted reverence and admiration toward heroes?
He often committed incomprehensible and bizarre acts.
Even knowing full well that it would cause him trouble, he would deliberately spare those who showed the qualities of a hero.
As he put it, he wished to become their trial, their archrival, and the beginning of their journey as heroes.
That was why he had let go of the young Imperial Prince who had fled with the Wyrmling in the past.
After hearing that excuse, Arpentia had replied with only a single word: insane.
If even she had reacted that way, then surely no one besides himself would ever understand his thinking.
“Haah!!!”
A blade tore through his thoughts.
Lancia Jintia, quite literally drenched head to toe in blood, swung her sword without rest.
Her Divine Power had long since been completely exhausted.
Thus, her prayers and blessings could no longer heal her body.
They merely deceived it—forcing it to move just a little longer.
‘But that alone should be enough.’
The man slowly traced the fierce hatred directed at him in her eyes, as though savoring it.
His memory was hazy, but he was likely her enemy.
‘If that is the case, then the woman before me will not turn her eyes elsewhere….’
His gaze shifted to Lian Gwendil, who had suddenly intervened and swung his Segmented Cursed Sword at him.
Yes. This man.
This man was the most troublesome opponent before him.
‘……What should I do?’
Ordinarily, he would have been nothing more than a human unworthy of consideration.
But now—after losing nearly all of his power and most of his left arm as the price—he was far too burdensome to face head-on.
‘More than anything… that power.’
The very power used by the Half-Dragon of Garusol—the power that had dealt him a fatal wound.
The problem was that this man could use that same power.
And like him, he could turn back time.
At first, he had assumed the man merely returned by riding along another’s reversed time.
But…
Replaying the battle from moments ago—and sensing the peculiar scent emanating from his body—he realized that was not the case.
The fragment of Popolotuass informed him that this human had also turned back time himself.
‘……How utterly absurd.’
Even more absurd was the fact that, unlike himself or his parents, the man had paid almost no price.
“…….”
If ranked by priority, there was no need to deliberate.
He was the one who had to be killed first.
But here lay another problem.
The Masked Woman Wearing a Fox Mask.
Unlike himself—who had merely inherited remnants—she was a true Eight Demon Lord, the last remaining one in this world.
And she was openly protecting him.
If he killed the man, she would surely attempt to take his life, just as she had warned.
No—perhaps she would appear before he even managed to kill him and crush him instead.
In the current situation, adding an enemy of her caliber would be the worst possible move.
‘And he seems rather sharp as well.’
Fortunately, his focus was entirely on him at the moment.
But if he recalled the words he had let slip when they first met—“I will block your path.”
If he shifted his thinking just slightly and ignored him, turning his attention elsewhere.
If he interfered with Arpentia’s ritual—her long-cherished desire—
“……That cannot be allowed.”
A frigid voice flowed from the man’s lips.
It was so cold that even he was startled by it.
“What do you mean, that cannot be allowed!!!”
Lancia Jintia coughed up blood and swung her sword at him once more.
What an endlessly troublesome woman.
Thinking to deflect it casually, the man suddenly twisted his body in haste.
The Segmented Cursed Sword sliced viciously through the space he had just occupied.
Barely evading by the width of a sheet of paper, he felt the tingling, body-shaking force imbued in the blade.
‘There is no more time to hesitate.’
Having reached that conclusion, he abruptly charged at Lancia Jintia.
If so, then surely—
“Lancia, Senior!”
Lian Gwendil cried out urgently as he stepped in front of her.
Just as expected.
The man quietly rejoiced and swiftly retreated, as if his previous charge had been a lie.
There was no longer any room to step back.
He drew a glass bottle from his robes.
It was the very glass bottle he had taken from the woman who had disappeared moments ago—the one called Artemia Russelant.
“That is…?”
Seeing the face inside the glass bottle, Lian Gwendil flinched.
Lancia Jintia did the same.
“It seems to be quite a familiar face to the two of you?”
With those words, the man shattered the bottle.
And he seized the head that burst forth—one resembling Archbishop Rahma.
…No.
He raised high the head of the one he had first brought into existence and set into motion.