From the moment he arrived in that desolate place, he felt the dissonance between the time he perceived and the actual flow of time. In that void, moments stretched into eternity, and eternities shrank to moments.
It was a world empty yet chaotic in its laws. It was a world whose mere existence was sufficient to drive one completely crazy. And in such a world, the Great Vermouth sat alone.
There was no conversation between them.
But they saw each other.
At first, he attempted to speak numerous times. He poured every conceivable emotion into his cries and pleas. It was necessary because, up until that point, the specter believed himself to be ‘Hamel.’
He asked why Vermouth was there. What was he doing in such a place? Asking such questions was also very characteristic of Hamel. According to the manipulated memories, Vermouth had betrayed Hamel. He had been the first among their comrades to stab Hamel in the back.
Yet, the specter couldn’t unleash his hatred and resentment for the betrayal. The reality of Vermouth sitting alone in an incomprehensible void took precedence before his own sense of betrayal.
Vermouth appeared worn and decayed in the void. His characteristic gray hair resembled clumps of burnt ash, and his once brilliant, gem-like golden eyes were now dull and faded.
The specter asked why Vermouth was there, but he received no answers. As such, he had to ask other questions.
He questioned why Vermouth had betrayed him, why he had cut him off in such a manner.
Even if Vermouth thought of him as an obstacle, abandoning him there had not been the right choice…. There surely would have been another method. They should have chosen a different option.
They had roamed the Devildom together for over ten years, toppled three Demon Kings, and always fought back-to-back while supporting each other on the same battlefield. If he had become a hindrance due to injuries, unable to fight, then they should have granted him an honorable death.
Even if he had been alone in his belief that they were his comrades and friends… they at least owed him pity and compassion. It had been completely unjustified to brutally abandon him as they did.
What they did to him had been worse than the atrocities committed by the demons and black wizards they had slaughtered.
The specter cried out like this multiple times. However, he did not receive a response. Vermouth simply remained silent with a cold gaze while chained to a chair. The specter felt a strong hostility in his gaze, which only added to his misery.
Why did Vermouth still regard him as an enemy after such a reunion? Shouldn’t there be at least some guilt upon reuniting with a comrade he had betrayed and killed? If he was truly the Great Vermouth, the Hero, shouldn’t he at least feel remorse for the betrayal of a comrade?
Slowly, very slowly, the emotions contained in Vermouth’s gaze transformed.
Was it because of his pathetic wailing? He had no choice but to long for even a scrap of remorse from Vermouth, even if it was obtained through begging.
He had been betrayed, killed, resurrected as an undead, turned into a puppet of a black wizard, and defeated by Vermouth’s descendant in this era. He had lost his body. He was left with only his soul mixed with the power of Destruction. It was truly a pitiful and pathetic state, but if Vermouth showed even a semblance of guilt and regret for his choices….
Then, he might feel a sense of salvation, however small.
He didn’t harbor such a feeling only for Vermouth. When he heard that Sienna and Molon were still alive, he thought the same of them. If they ever met again, he wanted to talk to them first rather than seek revenge. He wanted to hear their apologies.
But Vermouth didn’t show the emotions he expected. The hostility in his eyes faded, but the new emotion was not remorse but rather pity.
The specter couldn’t, or more correctly, wouldn’t allow himself to understand it at first. He didn’t want to accept that he was pitied in such a state, even when he was begging for simple understanding.
He couldn’t recall how long he wailed. In the void, where eternity and a moment were only a second apart, he sat down and wept. Vermouth was there, but there was still no conversation between them. The pity in Vermouth’s eyes did not change or fade either.
In the void, there was no sound other than the specter’s cries. When he fell silent, the world truly had no sound. In this world, he wasn’t bound by any magical restraints or bindings, either.
That was how he started to think and contemplate.
Why did Vermouth pity him? That thought led to questions he had long harbored.
There was a discrepancy in his memories and dissonance about his comrades. He thought again about the comrades with whom he had traversed the Devildom for over ten years.
The boisterous yet warm-hearted Molon never hesitated to be the first one to charge into battles, even when they were facing off against Demon Kings.
Anise was spiteful and violent, yet she was called the Saint. She bled from her Stigmata in her quest to save and lead everyone to paradise.
Sienna was annoying. She always cried and laughed like a fool, yet she always supported him in battle with her magic.
Then there was Vermouth.
Even though his comrades each had their own flaws, Vermouth bound the foolish, headstrong individuals into a unit.
He had been someone that everyone could genuinely trust.
So why had the four of them betrayed him?
They chatted around the campfire every night. Their eyes sparkled even in the desolate Devildom when they talked about the future after the war.
My comrades.
My friends.
Betrayed me?
Vermouth stabbed me in the back?
Sienna’s magic blew me away?
Molon’s axe cut me down?
Anise cursed me?
It was impossible.
Why had he believed in such stupid lies? Why had he not doubted them more strongly?
He chose to distrust the friends he suffered with and instead believed in the words of black wizards and demons. Why had he obediently followed the orders of a black wizard? Why had he participated in the creation of a Demon King and wreaked havoc on the world?
Why had he drawn his sword against Vermouth’s descendant? .
He knew why. He couldn’t resist. He was bound by chains that made him follow orders without question.
Even so, the specter couldn’t help but despise himself.
There had always been a seed of doubt. The meticulously crafted soul, the elaborately created sense of self, harbored questions about the discrepancies in his memory.
However, he ignored them.
He didn’t want to think or doubt. It was the specter himself who chose to tread the easier path of anger and hatred.
Such a choice was uncharacteristic of Hamel.
‘I couldn’t accept that I was a fake.’ The specter stood still, lost in thought. Even now, the specter… didn’t want to accept that he was a counterfeit.
However, Vermouth’s hostility, pity, and discordance in his memories led the specter to the truth. Amelia Merwin and the other scoundrels called him ‘Hamel.’ He, too, believed he was Hamel.
But the memories given to him were false.
Yet, this alone was insufficient for him to define himself as a fake. Even then, Vermouth remained silent.
The void was quiet, and there was more than abundant time.
He recalled the fabricated memories repeatedly and delved deep into his memories and his sense of self.
He thought of someone.
In his memories, there was someone perfectly aligned with ‘him’ and ‘Hamel.’
He was a man of this era.
He wielded the Holy Sword and the Moonlight Sword, among other weapons of Vermouth.
He was called the reincarnation of Vermouth. He was a descendant of Vermouth.
He knew ‘my’ techniques.
He had met Molon in the north.
He had conquered a Demon King with Sienna and the Saint of this era, who was reminiscent of Anise.
He used ‘my’ techniques.
…
‘Am I really me?’
—The first thought I had upon being revived, do you know what it was?
He had spoken such words.
—I’ve decided to exterminate all the offspring of that bastard Vermouth. And that stupid Molon who established a kingdom, his royal line, too.
Was I.
—It’s a bit regrettable. Anise and Sienna didn’t leave any offspring. I thought at least Sienna would have left something behind.
Really.
—By the way, you claim to be Sienna’s successor, don’t you? Do you know anything? That damned woman secretly…
Me?
“Don’t speak any further,” The specter muttered while collapsing in place.
Eugene Lionheart did not swear at that moment. But the specter had felt a massive emotion welling up inside of Eugene Lionheart, an emotion too vast to be expressed in mere curses.
Now, he could empathize with that emotion. If the specter — if I were to hear such words spoken before me….
His breath would catch, and speaking would become a struggle. It would feel like a blade stuck in his throat. His head would burn as if filled with hellfire. A piercing sound would echo in his ears. His heart would begin to race, then, he would no longer be able to bear it. He would inevitably throw a punch…
…Just like what Eugene Lionheart had done.
“It seemed odd to me,” the specter chuckled ruefully. “No matter how good Vermouth was at stealing skills, no matter how well they were passed down… it didn’t make sense.”
Eugene’s techniques surpassed his own. To be precise, they were more advanced than his techniques, as if he, Hamel, had personally refined them.
Moreover, it also explained Eugene’s fundamental loathing of himself. Eugene had shown absolute abhorrence towards him. Now, he could understand it.
It was only natural for Eugene to find him abhorrent. From his perspective, his corpse from three hundred years ago had been desecrated and used without permission. An unknown fool’s soul had taken residence in his body and claimed himself to be Hamel. And this fool, this idiot, this bastard, had spouted nonsensical drivel and dishonored Eugene’s comrades.
He couldn’t help but feel disgusted. Even if ‘he’ was Hamel, ‘he’ felt repulsion. The disgust he felt was both Hamel’s emotion as well as his own.
What….
“What am I?” the specter murmured while gazing blankly at the ceiling.
Above him wasn’t actually the sky but the ceiling of an underground city. The dark expanse was teeming with monstrous creatures from three hundred years ago, including those from the Centipede Mountains.
“……”
He remembered most of those monsters.
Three hundred years ago, they were monsters from the battlefield that he had failed to slay. But these memories belonged to Hamel as well. Most of the specter’s memories, and even the self that stemmed from them, belonged to Hamel. Only after realizing he was fake did the specter’s memories and sense of self begin to emerge.
It was hard to accept, even though he understood it logically. In truth, the specter wanted to be Hamel. He thought he could claim to be Hamel with the memories he possessed and his sense of self. He realized the discrepancies in his memories and broke Amelia’s shackles. He forgot his revenge and hatred towards his comrades.
The specter examined his face with a shard of broken glass.
There were no scars on his newly formed face. Scars didn’t prove his identity as Hamel. So, wasn’t he Hamel since he had this face and this body? And if it were necessary, he was ready to carve the scars himself.
Eugene Lionheart. Did he really need to be Hamel? Didn’t the reincarnated man have a life and name suited to his current state? Then, why couldn’t he be Hamel instead?
“……Haha.” He laughed unwittingly at the ensuing thoughts. He felt nauseous with disgust for himself.
Yes, he knew. ‘Hamel’ wouldn’t have such thoughts. If Hamel knew he was fake, that his existence was useless to this world, to others, to Sienna, to Molon, and to his comrades….
He would end his own life.
‘So, is that why you didn’t kill me?’ he pondered. ‘Vermouth, I don’t know why you’re there. But I know you’re involved with the Demon King of Destruction.’
You showed hostility towards me, a fake.
You showed pity towards me, a fake.
You gave power to me, a fake.
You gave freedom to me, a fake.
‘If you wanted me to end my life, giving me freedom would have been enough. There was no need to give me power,’ he thought. ‘Am I, a fake, supposed to help the real Hamel? You must know that’s impossible. I’m still a fake, and I can’t assist Hamel’s… Eugene’s journey.’
Could he confront the Demon King of Incarceration with the newfound power? He wasn’t sure.
The specter dissipated the glass shard he held with his power. He was able to summon dark power without any effort, and it was incomparably greater than before. He tried to define what he was now.
‘Right now, I’m closer to the Demon King of Destruction than any other being, any other vessel. I’m not a Demon King, but I’m stronger than Carnage, Cruelty, and Fury.’
He was the Incarnation of Destruction.
‘But even with this power, saving the world is impossible. I doubt it would work on the Demon King of Incarceration. I won’t be able to save you, Vermouth… or stand against the Demon King of Destruction,’ he thought. ‘You must know this. Then why didn’t you kill me? Why did you give me freedom and power? What do you want me to do?’
He wanted to return to that void to ask what Vermouth expected. But it was impossible. The trial was finished. The Temple of Destruction and the void were closed, and the specter couldn’t return anymore. He guessed that… turning him into an incarnation had been a heavy burden for Vermouth.
‘…The void.’
Upon coming to self-realization and discovering that he was a fake, receiving the power, and being expelled from that world, the specter saw Vermouth’s world more clearly.
Scars.
Vermouth was sitting on a giant scar etched into the void itself.
“What was that?” the specter muttered quietly, resting his chin on his hand.
Amelia Merwin wished to ask the same question.
She couldn’t even breathe as she lay huddled on the ground. The weight on her back was humiliating, but she dared not complain.
Currently, Amelia lay naked, prostrate, with the specter sitting on her back. It was a humiliation like none she had ever felt, but compared to the surrounding devastation, it was relatively better. Around her, the ground was littered with blood-soaked demons, including Alphiero.
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