A Talentless Mage Devours a Disaster-Class Future - Chapter 61

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 61

Syndicate Acheron.
A massive criminal organization and paramilitary force.

Within the vast shadows of Acheron, which operated from the Barcanell Kingdom as its base, there existed an assassination unit that silently eliminated those who stood against the organization.

That assassination unit’s name was Venator.
An organization composed of executors—specialists in murder—whose individual combat prowess varied wildly.

Among Venator’s countless executors, Xenon stood as the greatest.

He had reached the pinnacle of Sword Expert Advanced.
Under his blade, honed by enlightenment in swordsmanship and countless real-world encounters, even skilled mages fell helplessly, their lives snuffed out.

Xenon was not bound by the archaic codes of chivalry.
His unrestrained nature had elevated him to the apex of executors, but it also presented him with a new destiny.

One day, a contract descended upon him: eliminate Wolfe, the Demolisher, whose vicious reputation already eclipsed even his own in the underworld.

Xenon and Wolfe engaged in a brutal, desperate struggle for two days and nights without rest, chasing and fleeing in turn.
And in that moment when both stood gasping for breath, drenched in blood, Wolfe let out a bestial laugh and extended his hand toward Xenon.

— You’re interesting, aren’t you? Follow me! I’ll show you a future that won’t bore you!!

As an attack dog of the organization, Xenon should have refused—and he must refuse.

If he betrayed his allegiance and followed Wolfe, countless executors of Venator would surely make Xenon himself their target.

Yet Xenon took Wolfe’s hand. The reason was simple.

It sounded fun.

The price of that choice was steep. They continued their struggle across three long years of combat.

But at the end of that blood-soaked battle, it was Xenon’s side that claimed victory.

Xenon and Wolfe completely annihilated Venator under Acheron’s command, and ultimately secured a ceasefire agreement from the vast organization itself.

Such was the path Xenon had walked.
A life stained with freedom and crimson blood.

Clang—!

Before the Erebos Archive, in pitch-black darkness beneath torrential rain, sparks erupted and the sharp ring of steel cut through the air.

“Hah!”

Xenon extended his sword without a word.
Speech was unnecessary.
Only the terrible shriek of blades clashing with murderous intent pierced the sound of rain and filled the battlefield.

Screech—!

…Clang!

Xenon’s gaze fixed upon the movements of Aion, the man drenched in crimson blood within the darkness.

‘His movements are rough.’

Xenon muttered to himself.
Aion’s swordplay was neither complicated nor ornate. Instead, it was brutally raw and merciless.

Crude rather than refined, unyielding rather than supple.

Not immature, though.
Perhaps it was, instead, ruthlessly faithful to the very purpose of the blade.

Xenon’s mind raced through the countless schools of swordplay he had encountered, cross-referencing them at lightning speed.

‘The Swift Blade of Kranis Kingdom? No. The mercenary swordplay of Kairam? That’s not it either. Nor does it match the techniques of Ispera….’

To confirm the origin of this swordplay, Xenon deliberately hollowed his lower body and pushed his right shoulder deep inward, adopting an unusual stance.

A perfect bait—any ordinary swordsman would instinctively widen the distance or exploit the exposed lower line.

Clang!

“Huah!”

But Aion answered with a movement that was utterly aberrant.
He didn’t retreat, didn’t strike at the opening below. Instead, with that same raw motion, he plunged forward like a beast into Xenon’s guard, driving his longsword upward toward the jaw.

‘…That was close!’

Xenon twisted his blade to parry by a hair’s breadth and slid backward in retreat.

His wrist burned.
His scarred eyes narrowed.

Now he was certain.

‘…He’s from the Northern Region.’

All the schools of swordplay Xenon had just catalogued in his mind were designed for combat against men—techniques of person-to-person warfare.

But what Aion wielded now was different.
A compressed, battle-hardened art of slaughter—yielding flesh to claim bone, designed to sever the throat of beasts and monsters many times his size.

And yet there was order within it.
As though it had been forged to face a man possessing the soul of a beast.

It was the swordplay of the Northern Region, that land of bitter cold.

Xenon could be certain of this because the reason was unmistakable.
Years ago, during his time as an enforcer for Venator, a certain northerner had fallen to his blade with equal technique—a death that had seemed almost too easy at the time.

Even that battle back then had not been so simple….

‘…Now I understand.’

The corners of Xenon’s mouth twisted upward in a thin smile.

Know the origin of your opponent’s style, and victory tips eight to two in your favor.

For Xenon, losing to an opponent like this was something he couldn’t even imagine.

He was the kind of man who actually savored pure combat without Mana in this absolute darkness.
The guardian knights of Erebos fell far too easily to hold his interest even for a moment.

A soft chuckle.

“Would you prove different?”

A sharp whistle of displaced air.

Xenon cut through the downpour like water finding its course, his blade’s tip boring relentlessly toward Aion’s lower stance.

Any swordsman who wanted to deliver true power had to draw it first from the legs, from the ground beneath them.
Xenon’s keen Swift Blade work targeted that very threshold—the precise moment when Aion began to gather his strength.

Cut off at that junction, what remained would be swordplay stripped of all its advantages, hollow and mechanical.

A metallic crash.

Steel shrieked against steel.

‘…Just a student, yet he handles this with such ease?’

But contrary to Xenon’s expectation, Aion deflected those lethal thrusts at his legs with a proficiency that bordered on instinctive.

The mark of someone who had endured the same tricks countless times and overcome them each.

More than that—Aion’s blade seemed magnetized, drawing in Xenon’s steel like molten iron, twisting its trajectory before it could land.

‘This bastard….’

In that instant.

A sharp upward thrust.

Aion’s fist came rocketing up from beneath Xenon’s line of sight.

“Tch—!”

A gust of wind.

Xenon twisted his head away just in time, but the follow-up kick came without mercy, slamming into his abdomen.

A sickening thud.

“Gaugh—!”

Xenon’s body flew backward under the force of the blow.
Blinking hard to clear his vision, he instinctively widened the distance and regained control of the exchange.

‘The longer this goes….’

Xenon’s scarred eyes narrowed. There was no excess in Aion’s swordplay. None whatsoever.

Literally.

Like chewing venison stripped of all fat—tough, stringy, and frozen through. No matter how hard you bit, your teeth found no purchase.

‘I need to change tactics…… I need variation.’

The reason Xenon had been the finest executor among Venator’s ranks.

He understood the essence of countless sword techniques—not merely their forms, but their very nature, down to the bone.

Against swordsmen with defenses hard as stone, one cannot hope to shatter them head-on.
Instead, one must drown them in technique fluid as a swamp.

Clang! Clang-clang-clang!

Xenon shifted the arc of his blade into a defensive posture, parrying Aion’s strikes with mechanical precision.

First, he would drag his opponent completely into the suffocating morass of their exchange—then, spotting the opening, deliver a killing blow in a single stroke.

Xenon could not remember ever savoring a moment more: rain and blood spraying through the air.

‘My instinct was right!’

The red-haired man before him was his perfect mirror. The same breed entirely.
The aura of one who had driven Intent to Kill deep into his blade countless times, whose body wore the blood of nameless men.

Xenon sank deeper into the swamp of their exchange, anticipating the exquisite moment of victory that would follow this savage dance of wit and steel.

Thud.

It took Aion only a handful of exchanges to recognize that Xenon had shifted into a defensive stance—and he began to lean forward aggressively.

Clang! Clang!

The sharp ring of steel never ceased, each note bleeding into the next.
One step forward. Then two. Aion closed the distance with deliberate momentum.

‘Come closer. Deeper. Deeper still.’

The way one’s feet moved determined the force and momentum that would flow through the blade.
But every space where Aion’s foot might land, Xenon had already laid with meticulous care—the swamp awaited.

With each step taken, his opponent’s range of movement would shrink. The invisible weight of confinement would press down, suffocating.

Crash! Crash!

It unfolded exactly as Xenon had foreseen.
Feeling the pressure mount, Aion poured more force into his strikes, and his pace accelerated.

Now, to deflect these heavy blows with fluid grace….

‘Draw him completely into my embrace, then sever his breath.’

Crash! Crash-crash-crash!

Zzzzzt—

Xenon’s eyes widened in shock.
The hand gripping his blade screamed in agony, trembling violently.

‘What kind of strength is this…!’

Contrary to his expectations, he could not fully redirect the force flowing through the blade.
It felt as though he were colliding not with a man, but with a giant twice his size—or some colossal beast itself.

Crack—

Grinding his teeth through the tearing pain in his grip, Xenon wrenched Aion’s longsword aside by sheer will.

‘Even so… an opening will come soon.’

There it was.

A perfect blind spot opened up in Xenon’s field of vision.
Aion’s foot had ventured into the deepest point of the marsh that Xenon had dug.

‘Now!!’

This moment—his center of balance shattered.
Xenon unleashed the intent to kill he’d been holding back, scattering his blade forward.

Screeeech—!

Xenon’s sword grazed Aion’s shoulder with perfect precision.

…Something was wrong.

It should have been a fatal wound.
Yes, it had to be fatal.

‘……What?’

In the instant blood scattered mingled with rain, Xenon understood.
It was a trap.

Not that he’d dragged that monster into the marsh—rather, that monster had been swallowing his entire trap whole.

‘It was intentional……!’

Aion’s longsword cut through the air like lightning toward Xenon’s heart.

‘Don’t be absurd. I won’t fall to some student of Excion.’

Xenon twisted his waist desperately, slipping the lethal thrust by inches.

At the same moment, he hurled a stiletto from his sleeve directly forward; Aion was forced to respond to it, sacrificing any chance for a follow-up strike.

Clang!

‘Then I’ll overwhelm you! With movements you could never hope to match!!’

Xenon poured forth his specialty—the Swift Blade pushed to its absolute limit.
In the pitch darkness, a trajectory so fast the eye could barely follow it tore through the rain and attacked Aion’s entire body.

Clang-clang-clang—!
Crack!

Clang-clang-clang—!

Why was it.

That Aion was parrying every single strike across dozens of exchanges with such casual, crude simplicity.

‘Something’s… wrong here.’

It wasn’t just raw power.
His weapon…

‘…Too fast. Impossibly fast.’

The man moved with more than mere speed—his very judgment contained not a moment’s hesitation.

He moved as if peering one second into the future.

For any swordsman, unorthodox attacks inevitably created a gap in the transition between defense and offense—a split second of vulnerability.

That gap, which appeared even in Xenon after a lifetime of battle, did not exist in Aion at all.

‘Why? Why? Why? Why…?’

Through the relentless exchange, Xenon grasped the truth of that alien feeling.

‘This bastard… moves as if he has no Mana at all.’

Swordsmen possessed an instinct burned into bone by training—they habitually attempted to manipulate Mana even when cut off from it entirely.

That unconscious calculation of distribution, efficiency, timing.

Yet Aion before him moved like a beast that had never known Mana’s existence in his entire life.

And that grotesque void created a chasm as wide as heaven and earth in a moment like this, when Mana had vanished completely.

Xenon tried to erase that unconscious habit from his mind, but trying to shake it off wouldn’t make it disappear.

He was merely human, bound by his own unconsciousness.

‘This can’t be real…? How does such a monster even…?’

Incomprehensible.

‘How the hell is such a monster trapped in some magic academy like this!!’

With each passing moment, Xenon made the best judgment he could, yet his opponent coldly suppressed even that best effort.

Xenon’s eyes met Aion’s.

In that instant, time seemed to slow infinitely. He could see with crystalline clarity how raindrops split in half against Aion’s Longsword.

Whisper…

Xenon knew it instinctively.

‘This is….’

His Perception leaping beyond the limits it had built over a lifetime, ascending to another plane.

Finally breaking through the wall at death’s threshold.

But,

at the end of that ascension, in that new dimension, someone had already arrived first—looking down at him.

Misfortune of misfortunes, right before his eyes.

“…….”

In Aion’s pupils, cold and still, Xenon saw his own face reflected—etched with shock.

The blade filled his entire vision, passing through Xenon’s throat with perfect clarity.

‘Ah….’

His first defeat—he who had always boasted an overwhelming win rate.

‘…Boring.’

Perhaps all he had ever enjoyed was simply winning.

Screeeech—!

The sickening sound of severance tore through the rain and wind.
Another man’s hot blood drenched Aion’s face afresh.

Thud—!

Xenon’s headless body crashed to the ground, sword still clutched in its grip.

Thump…

“Haa… haa….”

Aion held his longsword at an angle, blood dripping from its blade, and slowly raised his head through ragged breaths.

“…….”
“……?”

Before the Erebos Archive, an eerie silence fell.

Pooooouuuuur—

Only the sound of heavy rain filled the battlefield. The surviving invaders at the archive entrance stood frozen, not even breathing.

“X-Xenon….”

Someone’s trembling voice broke the silence.

“It can’t be… Xenon lost?”

Xenon, who had cut through Excion’s elite guard knights with nothing but swordplay alone, had been defeated.

The eyes of those gathered before the archive wavered violently.

“That bastard… no matter how I look at it, he’s just a student here, isn’t he? What in the world….”

A mere student from some magic academy had cut down Xenon with nothing but pure swordsmanship.

In the face of this absurd reality, everyone found themselves at a loss for words, though each muttered something,

“All of you, shut your mouths!”

The oldest-looking man among the survivors gnashed his teeth and shouted.

“The commander is still in there! We hold that bastard here!”

At his command, the mercenaries’ eyes, which had been clouded with confusion, blazed with venom once more.

Like veterans who had crawled through the bloody underworld, they suppressed their fear, gripped their weapons tighter, and positioned themselves desperately at the narrow archive entrance to block the way.

“…….”

Aion shifted his grip on the blood-stained longsword, adjusting it in his palm.

His Vitality had plummeted to dangerous levels after the relentless combat, yet he had to clear these obstacles and breach the interior of the Archive.

It was precisely as he prepared to move forward with heavy steps, his gaze sharp and cold, that something shifted.

‘……?’

Beyond the darkness of the downpour, he felt something black tearing through the rain at tremendous speed, racing toward him from the distance.

“……!”

Aion’s lips parted faintly as he kept his gaze locked forward, his vigilance unwavering.

“……Bark?”

A massive black dog tore through the rain, charging forward like a creature possessed.

It was Bark, Inspector Raven’s partner.

And clamped firmly between the soaking-wet hound’s jaws, gasping for breath, was something meant to be delivered to him.

The Talentless Mage Devours a Catastrophic Future — Episode 61

Author
Wang Mozhi
Publisher
Daon Creative
Planning / Editing / Production
Yeon
Cover Design
Dali

UCI
G720:N+A036-20260706063.0061

ⓒ2026, Wang Mozhi

This e-book is protected under the copyright laws of the Republic of Korea.
No part or all of this work may be modified or reproduced in any form without the permission of the author and publisher.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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