The clash between Belamus and Lazalit had become a rhythmic, devastating dance of spells colliding midair, bursts of magic lighting up the battlefield with heat and force. Fire, wind, stone, light; every school of magic came to bear, neither combatant holding back. As the duel dragged on, both men began to sense it: their power was nearly equal. Every attack answered, every defense countered. They weren’t just testing each other; they were measuring legacies.
Amid the fierce exchanges, something far more unsettling stirred in Belamus’s mind. The way Lazalit fought… it wasn’t just powerful; it was familiar. The casting patterns, the magic power flow, the nuanced control of spell structure… It wasn’t merely competent. It was specific, and eerily reminiscent.
Yet Belamus knew of no dwarf in this era, or any other, who wielded magic in such a style. Lazalit’s techniques didn’t match anything taught in modern schools. In fact, the only time Belamus had seen anything like it… was in another life.
No. It can’t be. That time is long gone.
Centuries had passed since the age of his previous incarnation. Entire civilizations had risen and fallen in the span of his absence. And yet, here he stood, reincarnated through forbidden arts, his memories intact, proof that time itself could be breached. He had done the impossible. And others had tried as well. He remembered Hereldyne, the sorcerer who had refused death and reshaped himself into something beyond human to cling to life.
It wasn’t unthinkable. With enough power, enough desperation, someone like Lazalit might have done the same. If he truly is from that era, if he has carried his consciousness across time as I did, then who was he?
Belamus combed through his memories, peeling back the layers of his former life. Dozens of disciples had studied under him, but one stood out—Aled Lord. He had been ambitious, brilliant, and dangerously driven. Among the most talented of his students, Aled had craved strength above all and had always seemed willing to pay any price to achieve it. The resemblance now felt impossible to ignore.
His voice dropped, heavy with disbelief. “… Aled?”
For the first time, Lazalit’s expression wavered. His eyes sharpened not with hostility, but with recognition.
“Master Mercles,” he said quietly. “So, you, too, refused death.”
The truth settled over Belamus like a storm cloud. Lazalit—Aled—had survived. Somehow, he had found a way to cross the ages just as Belamus had, abandoning his name but not his ambition. It was no longer a battle between strangers. This was student versus master. Past versus present. And whatever came next, neither of them would walk away unchanged.
Belamus had once believed Aled would mellow with age, that by the time death came for him, he’d have shed that dangerous hunger for power and found peace. It seemed, in hindsight, to have been a comforting delusion.
“Are you really Aled?” Belamus asked quietly, though the answer had already rooted itself in his chest.
“Yes,” Lazalit replied without hesitation. “Though I admit, facing someone I once admired, and as an enemy no less, is… oddly bittersweet.” His tone remained flat, dispassionate, as if speaking about the weather. “Tell me, Master. How did you cross into this era?”
“Reincarnation,” Belamus answered. “A soul-binding ritual. I passed through time in a new body, memories intact.”
“Ah, reincarnation.” Lazalit nodded, almost thoughtfully. “So, you took the noble route. I chose something… more efficient.”
His eyes glinted faintly as he continued. “I’ve survived by possessing others. Over and over, I’ve transferred my consciousness, abandoning one shell for another. I’ve forgotten how many centuries it’s been… hundreds, easily. But I’ve remained myself through them all.”
Belamus stiffened. “You… possessed people?”
Lazalit offered no defense, no shame. “Yes.”
It was clear now. The truth of his survival wasn’t elegant or redemptive—it was brutal. Aled had preserved his soul by devouring the lives of others. Each step forward meant the erasure of another human being, their mind overwritten, their story ended. This was no natural longevity, no clean extension of life. It was parasitic. And it was forbidden.
The technique Aled had used was one of the vilest spells in the ancient tomes, outlawed not for its danger, but for its utter cruelty. Belamus had studied it once, long ago, only to bury it again. To use it would be to forfeit one’s soul, he had believed. And now here stood his former disciple, hollow-eyed proof of what that path became.
In that moment, the last remnants of hope, of the man Aled might have become, vanished.
“I was wrong about you,” Belamus muttered. “I thought, with time, you’d change. That you’d grow beyond your obsession.”
“Why did I use forbidden magic?” Lazalit echoed, as if answering a rhetorical question. “Because I had to. I wasn’t the strongest among your disciples. I tried. Gods, how I tried. But I hit a ceiling. And when I did, I chose not to stop there.”
His face remained utterly composed. Aled had never been one to wear his emotions openly, and that, too, had not changed. No shame. No guilt. Just logic.
“I continued using forbidden magic, again and again,” Lazalit said, his voice calm, disturbingly measured. “And yes, I did become stronger. But not enough. Not invincible. I needed more power. Something overwhelming. That was when I turned my attention to the dwarves.”
Belamus narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You already know, don’t you?” Lazareth continued, as if giving a lecture. “When dwarves die, their bodies crystallize into magic stones. And the higher the quality of the stone, the more magical power it holds. You taught us that yourself. But here’s what I’ve discovered: under the right conditions, those stones can be… refined. Enhanced. I experimented, and after several trials, I found two reliable methods to produce high-grade magic stones from dwarves.”
The words struck Belamus like a knife. “You experimented?” The implication was clear: This wasn’t theory. It meant dwarves had already died for it.
Rage began to coil in his chest.
“The first method is obvious: kill a powerful dwarf. The stronger they are, the purer the magic stone becomes. But this has limits. Truly powerful dwarves are rare. And I needed more. I needed a way to mass-produce high-grade stones.”
Belamus’s thoughts flashed to Kuusha, Mimi’s dwarven attendant. Her magic stone had been unusually potent. It had struck him as odd at the time, but now the pieces clicked into place. Lazalit—no, Aled—was telling the truth.
“So, I kept testing,” Lazareth continued. “And I discovered a second method. Far more effective. Suffering.”
His voice did not change. He didn’t flinch. He simply recited the atrocity as if it were nothing more than a scientific observation.
“The more pain a dwarf feels before death, the greater the quality of the stone. Especially starvation. Prolonged, hopeless starvation refines the soul into a perfect crystalline vessel. And so, the plan took shape: starve a large number of dwarves to death, extract their stones, and absorb the mana. With enough high-quality stones… I will become unstoppable.”
The words hung in the air like poison.
In that instant, everything made sense. Every unanswered question, every shadow cast over the recent chaos. Belamus saw the pattern. The movement to erase the Blessed One’s history in the Kingdom of Crystia… it hadn’t been political noise. It had been part of this plan. The story of a dwarf who had manipulated the king into erasing sacred records… it had to be Aled. And when that body failed, he had taken another. The man now known as Chancellor Lazalit had installed himself at the heart of the kingdom, holding its reins from the shadows.
It was a plan rooted in nothing but selfishness and cruelty. No grand ideal, no twisted logic, just pure, calculated evil in the pursuit of power. And Belamus realized, with a sharp and bitter ache, that he had made a terrible mistake.
I taught him magic. I gave this monster the tools he needed to do this.
Regret surged through him, not just as a teacher, but as the one who had once believed in Aled’s potential. That belief had festered into something monstrous. And now, no one else could stop it.
This is my burden. My responsibility.
“I can continue this cycle as many times as I need to,” Lazalit said calmly. “If I fail now, I’ll simply move on. I’ll find another body. Another name. Another plan. What was interrupted today can be resumed tomorrow. And next time, I’ll make sure no one gets in my way.”
He paused, then added with what almost sounded like sincerity, “Master… this has nothing to do with you. The dwarves are irrelevant to your legacy. If you walk away now, I won’t stop you. I don’t want to kill you.”
Belamus didn’t hesitate.
“It’s the master’s duty to stop a disciple who’s lost his way. Or have you forgotten that?” Belamus said, his voice steady. The words hit with quiet finality, sharp as any blade.
For the first time, Aled’s expression shifted. His face, usually so composed, flickered with something close to sorrow, just for a moment.
“That’s a shame,” he whispered.
With that, the time-worn bond between them was severed.
Across centuries, across lives, the master and his fallen student collided, magic against magic, conviction against corruption. There would be no turning back.