Not every hero's tale is truly filled with heroes. There are always… other things.
Ian, however, was perfectly content with the way he had won. He remembered a saying, 'History is written by the victors'. As long as future generations knew that even Merlin could not defeat him, then that was all that truly mattered.
And wasn't that the truth?
Merlin himself had admitted that he couldn't do anything against Ian. Yet Ian had shattered the archmage's mental defenses. Who was stronger, who was weaker? It was no longer up for debate. Any clear-eyed observer could see the answer for themselves.
"Wisdom is humanity's greatest treasure," Ian recalled the teachings Rowena Ravenclaw had left behind. In this battle, what allowed him to outmatch Merlin was precisely that, wisdom, a guiding edge sharper than any wand.
Ian allowed himself a quiet sigh of triumph.
Meanwhile…
"×&%￥#@,§№☆2113^&%!$#&%￥..." Merlin's curses still rang out, ceaseless and bitter. He had plunged himself into the waters of an oasis lake, stuffing antidotes into his mouth one after another, and pouring vial after vial of dubious potions into the waters, perhaps to cleanse them of the "viruses" Ian had conjured.
"Looks like the only one who remains undefeated… is me." Ian landed lightly by the lakeside before speaking. Plucking a piece of fruit from a nearby tree, he bit into it. His face twisted almost immediately at the sourness.
"Want one? It's delicious." He offered it to Merlin with mock earnestness.
But of course, a trick that couldn't fool even Aurora was never going to fool Merlin. The archmage, soaked and furious, responded only with another string of vulgarities.
"…Can't even accept defeat with grace, can you?" Ian tossed aside the sour fruit.
"If you really can't, I don't mind making it best two out of three." His eyes gleamed with restless energy. Enlightenment still coursed through his mind, filling it with a hundred mischievous ideas waiting to be tested.
Ian's eagerness was plain. Forget three rounds, he was ready for three days and nights of battle if need be. Because between legendary wizards and ordinary ones, the difference was not only in quantity of magic power…
But in quality.
For common wizards, there was no such thing as running out of "mana" outright, but their casting was always limited by how much magical vitality they could control at once. Legendary wizards, however… their magic was almost inexhaustible.
Yes, the vitality of magic still existed, but its rate of natural recovery was so much faster than its rate of expenditure. Whether this was true of all legendary wizards or whether Ian was a special case, he did not yet know.
Still, even with his limited understanding of this tier, Ian could glimpse hints of what set a legend apart, shown to him by the mysterious "status panel" only he could see.
Name: Ian Prince
Class: Bloodline Sorcerer
Magic Power: Level 11
Rank: Celestial Legend
Skill: [Wisdom Enlightenment {Skill cannot be leveled}]
Patronus Charm (Level 4) – 741/800
His Patronus Charm was nearly at the point of unlocking its Extraordinary Trait. That was the nature of white magic, slow to advance, steady in growth. Had it been black magic, he would have already rocketed to level seven or eight.
But even that wasn't the most important discovery.
What mattered most was that, ever since he ascended into legend, a new line of information had appeared on his status: Rank.
Celestial Legend.
If there was such a title, then surely there must be other classifications among legends.
And perhaps, just perhaps… it was tied to the very method by which one became a legend in the first place.
He had originally planned to seek Merlin's guidance, but judging from Merlin's current state, even if the archmage explained anything, Ian doubted he could believe a word of it. He would have to endure for a few more days, return to the Twilight Zone, and seek answers from his own teacher.
Yes.
Taught first by himself, and now turning to enlighten his teacher… Ian was beginning to understand. Perhaps when Morgan sought him out in the Twilight Zone, it wasn't merely because he was a living mortal wandering in the realm of the dead.
As for the truth of it all, he would have to wait until he could confront Morgan directly.
"If you can't stand losing, then let's continue." Ian wondered if Merlin's mastery over magic was itself his legendary trait. He was curious; he wanted to witness more of that strange sorcery for himself.
To see it was to study it.
To study it was to learn it.
And once learned… it would be knowledge worthy of the most prestigious magical journals of the future.
If only he could force Merlin to unleash some true black magic, Ian was confident he could steal the technique in the very moment it was cast.
Ian's schemes crackled like fire in his mind.
But Merlin would not take the bait.
"Fight whoever you want, but don't drag me into it! I'll never touch your damned underworld magic again! That filth shouldn't even be called black magic!"
Ian could see it: Merlin had already scoured himself with cleansing spells dozens of times. Yet he still swore he could smell the stench clinging to him. The great mage sat half-submerged in the lake, scrubbing himself raw as though he could peel the corruption off his very skin.
And truly, it wasn't Merlin's fault.
The stench of human rot wasn't immediately lethal, but its persistence was enough to break anyone. Ian had, of course, enhanced it, just a little touch. Once one mastered Transfiguration at the eighth tier, such tricks came effortlessly.
"Then how about I show you some other black magic of mine?" Ian's eyes gleamed as he blinked, coaxing him further.
Merlin only glared back, fury simmering in his gaze. "Who taught you such spells? What kind of deranged monster would use plague as a field of Transfiguration research!?"
He knew full well how terrifying Ian's sorcery had been. Even now he wasn't certain whether he had truly escaped infection from whatever "virus a thousand years into the future" the boy claimed to wield.
Perhaps as a potions master, he could render poisons and toxins meaningless, but only those of his own era. Who in all creation knew what horrors a thousand years of time might birth?
"I was taught by Salazar Slytherin," Ian answered without hesitation. He knew better than to implicate his true mentors. Out in the world, it was safer to name someone for whom he had little fondness.
And it wasn't a lie.
After all, he had trained at Hogwarts. And Salazar Slytherin was one of Hogwarts' founders.
"A thousand years later, you say?"
Merlin's eyes narrowed. He seemed to have a way of sensing the truth in a man's words. He nodded slightly, unaware that the boy before him was a genius who only spoke truths that didn't always mean what they seemed.
"Yes." Ian gave a solemn nod.
"…Very well. I'll remember this."
Merlin repeated the name, 'Salazar Slytherin', again and again, as though carving it into his very soul. He couldn't bring himself to be too harsh with this child of ten-odd years.
After all, he was still just a boy.
He had already vented his anger with a torrent of curses. Now, what truly weighed on him was a single question:
'What kind of teacher could raise such a gifted wizard into something so dark, so utterly without the pride or dignity that a true prodigy, one who could transcend eras, should possess?'
"Your tricks are certainly impressive. Fine, I'll admit it. You've won." Merlin, it seemed, was afraid Ian might press him into a second round. And he had no desire to witness any more of the boy's eerie, underworld-born sorceries.
As for victory and defeat… Merlin was never the type to chase after victory at all costs, nor the sort who shuddered at the taste of loss. Winning or losing had never truly mattered to him. What unsettled him was simply the fact that someone could defeat him in such a way.
(To Be Continued…)
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