A Villain's Will to Survive novel Chapter 248

Chapter 248: Loss (2)

Deculein was gone, but his legacy remained—Etynel words inked on parchment, theories of magic crystallizing in diagrams, math problems solved in the margins, and, above all, the indelible lessons lasting within Sylvia's mind.

However, not a single trace of Deculein remained. Not a fragment of cloth, not a single hair—nothing remained, as if it had all burned away. But even fire leaves ash, and he had dissolved like ink diffusing into the sea.

Alone, Sylvia lightly tapped her finger on her lips, and the sensation brought back an unforgettable memory as the scene replayed in her mind.

“... Fool,” Sylvia muttered.

The courage that drove Sylvia to press her lips to Deculein's was impulsive—more desire than decision. Though regret welled up in the moments that followed, the idea that she had left a memory in the fabric of their story for herself brought a sense of peace.

Tick, tock— Tick, tock—

Sylvia watched the clock tick its rhythm into the room before pushing herself up and opening the window.

“Deculein is dead,” Sylvia said to the scarecrow hidden in the forest's underbelly below the lighthouse.

Then, without a word, the scarecrow stared up at the lighthouse, turned its back, and walked into the fading light.

Sylvia closed the window and pressed her back against the wall.

Swish...

Sylvia's back slid down the wall until her hips landed hard on the floor, her legs falling open without thought, like petals wilting after rain.

“This isn’t very dignified,” Sylvia muttered.

Sylvia tried to push herself up, but her body refused as the room spun, a sensation reminiscent of mana exhaustion, a throbbing ache pulsing in her temples, her eyelids drooping, and sleep pulling her under.

As Sylvia closed her eyes, Deculein's image bloomed in the darkness—he, who had met the betrayal of the woman he loved with acceptance, offering only the assurance that it was of no consequence, that it would not undo him; he stood his ground, never running away—and died.

Sylvia touched her lips once more, and what had once seemed indelible had already faded. A trace of moisture brushed the corner of her lips as a tear slipped down her cheek, leaving its mark without her realizing.

“... Idnik,” Sylvia muttered, calling for her.

Now there’s work to be done. The fake is dead, so it’s time to create a new one once more. ... No.

Creeeak—

“... Hey, why didn’t you tell me?” Idnik asked, quietly stepping through the door, almost lost in the wind that slipped in behind her.

“It’s not fair to listen in on someone’s pain from outside.”

“Says the one who created a new spell just to spy on Deculein?"

“... I deserve to—because he was the one who killed my mom,” Sylvia replied, trying to avoid the topic as she reached her hand toward Idnik. “Give me the crystal orb.”

"Are you going to create it again already?"

“... No,” Sylvia said, shaking her head. “I’m going to destroy it.”

Perhaps Deculein had been right all along, Sylvia thought—that every death of the fake was still a death, and even this kind of parting was, in its own way, a real farewell. Therefore...

“Are you planning to break your contract with him?”

At Idnik's words, a crease formed between Sylvia's brows, and a frown appeared on her face.

“Only the Professor can bring you to completion as you are now,” Idnik added, placing the crystal orb into Sylvia's waiting hands.

“... And that Professor is the only one who could break me as well.”

“What is the difference?”

At that moment, Sylvia's face hardened.

"Sylvia, eventually, what you are trying to complete is the very shell of an egg that seals you in, and the one you are trying to break is the same. Whether you perfect it or break it, in the end, you will become who you are meant to be—the you that you choose," Idnik said with a soft smile.

Sylvia could remain sealed within the pure prism of the egg of Primary Colors or break its shell and fight her way into the world. The shape of Sylvia's loss—and what it had left behind—was hers alone to decide.

***

Within the guild room, Jukaken listened to Arlos's words.

“... I see,” Jukaken said with a pop of his lips, nodding. “Sounds like the Professor’s life expectancy is about two weeks, then.”

Arlos remained silent.

Then, Arlos’s eyes wandered over what the previous iteration of Deculein had left behind as she remained seated in the chair—pages thick with magic theory, the hiring contract for Sylvia's tutoring, and a sketch of Arlos that he had drawn to pass the time.

“... Hehehe. What’s wrong? Feeling a bit lonely?” Jukaken asked, watching Arlos with a sneer curling at the corners of his mouth.

Arlos offered Jukaken no reply, as she would to a passing breeze, considering it unworthy of notice.

“Did you finish your task?” Arlos said.

“I finished the frame—right up to the largest ring of the magic circle. But, you know, now that Deculein is dead...”

With Jukaken's words hanging with unfinished implications, Arlos, without turning her head, glanced toward him.

"Does that mean I’m not getting paid today?”

Of course, Jukaken only cares for his coins above anything else, Arlos thought.

Jukaken shrugged.

"You’re seriously fucking unbelievable," Arlos said, her shoulders slumped like someone who had lost the will to argue anymore.

“Come on, with that, we could finally tidy up this entire guild room. If we do that, the next Deculein would thank us for it too. Or maybe it doesn’t matter to him—he’d probably say even a landfill looks lovely with you in it. But don’t you think some furniture wouldn’t hurt?”

"Have you ever heard of inflation? Just one wooden plank costs three coins these days," Arlos replied.

“So what.”

Arlos held the coin in her hand. It was a complete currency, though she didn't know where it had come from, but she was certain it belonged neither to the Voice nor to Sylvia.

Therefore, the coin was not the currency of the Voice. More precisely, the Voice had only borrowed this complete currency to use as its own. That was why anything purchased with it on the island was real. Even within the Voice, it could be spent without causing anyone to lose their memories.

"Well then, I guess we’re the ones left behind," Arlos said, tucking the coin into her pocket.

"What are you talking about? It’s not us who were left behind—it’s just you."

Arlos looked around Jukaken and he had paid five coins for a purchase of a piece of lumber.

"I mean, was there ever anyone besides you that the Professor ever treated like an actual human being? Well, to be fair, it makes sense that Deculein and Gerek never treated each other as human," Jukaken said, his hands already preparing the lumber.

“... Jukaken, you motherfucker,” Arlos called.

“What the fuck do you want, bitch.”

"Who do you trust?"

“Who?”

“Between the Altar and the Professor.”

With a tight crease between his brows, Jukaken shelled out hundreds of coins for a toolbox—an exchange that seemed more of a significant acquisition than a simple purchase.

“You fucker,” Arlos said, her eyes wide. “That could’ve fed us for a month—”

“I trust myself,” Jukaken said.

Arlos remained silent.

"Besides, who could we possibly trust? Are we supposed to pick between the two lunatics based on their campaign promises? To people like us, the Altar and the Professor are both the same breed of lunacy from where we stand. But I suppose Deculein gets extra points for his looks."

"Ugh..." Arlos murmured with a long sigh, slumping into the chair.

Then, all of a sudden, a sketch caught Arlos's eye—one drawn by Deculein and left behind.

"But again, there's something about the Professor—he has a strange pull to him. Addictive, almost. I didn’t notice it back when we met in the underworld, but maybe because he’s changed a lot, actually. Back then, he was really a fucking bastard."

Under the sketch of Arlos—no, Cynthia—was Deculein's rare signature, an uncharacteristic touch that said more than words could.

To Arlos, forsake not your own faith, for true trust cometh from within, not from the hand of another. (Sepern, chapter 5, verse 15)

"Deculein quote a Bible verse."

From someone who has no faith in God, Arlos thought.

“But, Jukaken.”

... However, the sentence written on the sketch pulled Arlos into a particular thought.

If I were to betray Deculein, bringing his death to the Altar as my offering... or if I stand by Deculein and follow his will by raising a force to stand against them... what would the result be between the two, and what will I become in the end?

"What will you do when the God of the Altar descends to the world?"

"Well, first off, I'd better find out whether this God is real or just another fake."

“And what if He’s real?”

“Then I suppose I’ll need to make my excuses.”

“Like what?”

What the hell is he talking about? Arlos thought, tucking the sketch under her arm.

... Creak, creak.

... Tsssshh.

Thud—!

Creak, creak— Creak, creak—

Thump, thump— Thump, thump—

Bang, bang—! Bang, bang—!

“Ow! What the fuck is your problem, bitch?!” Jukaken yelled.

“... Already? That was quick. Yawwwwn~” Jukaken muttered as he dragged his feet across the room and opened the door.

Creeeeeak—

As Deculein accepted the papers from Arlos, he fell silent, and then, with the faintest twist of his lips, his usual cynicism returned. _{freewёbnoνel.com}