The Mage Who Devours Disasters - Chapter 77

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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 77.
My vision brightened.
Aritolte, having completed the login, slowly examined his body.
He stood firmly on two legs, rooted to the ground.
He clenched his fists, then opened them.
Intact.
There were no severely damaged areas.
Though this was merely a fragile human shell unable to fully synchronize with his true body’s divine power, there was no discomfort in movement.
Beneath his feet.
Only hundreds of shattered blades lay scattered about in tragic disarray.
Then it came.
Ding!
[You have failed your 327th attempt.]
[Do you wish to challenge the ‘Path of the Sword’ again?]
“….”
Aritolte clenched his teeth hard.
The metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth.
Before him now loomed an enormous altar.
‘The Sword Altar.’
A special dungeon that only those who wielded the blade could enter.
And.
A place of cruel trials for the advancement of the hidden class he had obtained—the Sword Legion.
Yet he continued to fail.
A staggering 327 times.
What could be the reason?
A shortage of Nectar?
No.
He was the master of all things.
If he wished, he could pour his true body’s divine power without limit and reduce this pitiful dungeon to dust in a single breath.
But this trial was not the sort that could be overcome in such a manner.
‘Pure swordsmanship.’
Only that could be considered.
All magical power, divinity, and authority were excluded.
The system demanded that he defeat the Guardian through nothing but the technique of his body and the trajectory of his blade alone before the door would open.
‘Unacceptable.’
Crunch!
Aritolte ground his teeth.
He kicked aside a broken sword hilt with his foot.
No matter that this avatar was merely a shell, 327 failures cut deep.
It was humiliation that shredded his pride.
He too had honed his swordsmanship across countless worlds, indulging in their trials.
He had crossed blades with the most renowned swordmasters of those worlds and absorbed their techniques without exception.
How could it be that his martial prowess, refined through such trials, was now halted by a mere dungeon trial?
In an instant.
-You cannot ascend any further.
A single voice pierced through his mind.
An auditory phantom from somewhere clawed at his consciousness.
-That is your limit, Heimdall.
-Give up.
-Abandon all thoughts of climbing the Tower.
“…Silence.”
Aritolte shook his head violently.
Terrible whispers crawling up from the Abyss.
He was the master of all things.
The apex of the Natural Faction, the Deity of Storms—Heimdall.
He could not falter before such a trial.
Especially when this Earth itself was a ‘Field of Opportunity’ harboring a treasure so immense that all Twelve Chief Deities coveted it.
To surrender here would be tantamount to a lifetime spent crawling beneath the feet of the Twelve Chief Deities.
‘I must transcend this.’
I had no intention of settling at merely Layer 387.
I would climb higher.
To the seat of the Twelve Chief Deities.
And beyond.
I drew a deep breath.
Among the scattered fragments around me, I seized an unblemished longsword whose edge remained sharp.
The ultimate pinnacle of pure martial art.
The realm of severing all things with a single blade, devoid of divine power.
As I turned the question over in my mind seeking its answer.
A single image flashed through my consciousness.
‘…Rag.’
My Apostle Deity.
That arrogant and ferocious one’s swordsmanship displayed at the Banquet of Gods.
That mad blade dance that had brought the upper-tier Apostle Deity Akan to his knees while bound by divine power restraints.
It was certainly crude.
Rough and unrefined, like the trajectory of a beast.
And yet.
Its essence clearly resonated with the very nature of martial art I had pursued all this time.
Stripped of all excess, honed for a single purpose alone—to cut.
‘The ultimate pinnacle of purity.’
Yes.
It was a desperate extreme—carved out through struggle and desperation to survive.
The afterimage burned vividly in Aritolte’s mind.
“…Kkhk.”
A peculiar smile spread across Aritolte’s lips.
It was absurd.
The Apostle Deity I myself had chosen.
From the swordplay of a mere low-tier Deity on Floor 55, I—the Master of All Things—was finding answers.
But this was no time to uphold pride.
If I could win, if I could break through the wall.
I would steal even demonic techniques.
Aritolte gripped his sword tightly.
His gaze grew cold and sharp.
“Again.”
He declared, staring at the System window floating in the void.
Ding!
[Retrying the 328th ‘Path of the Sword’.]
[The Guardian of Trials descends.]
[All stats are adjusted.]
[All skills are sealed.]
[All equipment except the sword is deactivated.]
Kuguguguuu!
Light cascaded down from the Altar.
From within that blinding radiance, a colossal swordsman clad entirely in silver armor materialized.
The Guardian who had shattered my blade 327 times before.
It stared down at Aritolte with vacant eyes and raised its greatsword.
But Aritolte did not retreat.
He adjusted his stance.
Drawing his right foot back, he aimed his blade at the Guardian’s heart.
Rag’s trajectory.
I projected the afterimage of that crude yet lethal slash onto my own body.
“Come.”
Fighting spirit leaked from between Aritolte’s lips.
Whoosh!
The Guardian tore through space first, charging forward.
The massive greatsword fell toward Aritolte’s head.
Clang! Kaaaaang!
The silver-armored swordsman’s blade and Aritolte’s longsword collided ferociously.
Sparks erupted.
The ring of metal filled the Altar.
But.
‘Insufficient.’
Aritolte’s brow furrowed.
It was certainly a step better than the previous 327 failures.
Thanks to mimicking Rag’s trajectory, I had managed to deflect the Guardian’s greatsword once, twice more.
But that was all.
Still, I couldn’t reach him.
That decisive blow to exploit the Guardian’s opening never came.
‘What am I missing?’
Aritolte stumbled backward, gasping for breath.
What more could I possibly add to shatter that impenetrable silver armor?
My mind grew turbulent.
Then, once more, an image of Rag flickered through my consciousness.
The Banquet Hall.
Those harrowing scenes of him locked in brutal combat with dozens of Apostle Deities, his divine power sealed away.
He was clearly outmatched.
His opponents were Superior Deities who had trained for millennia, even bound in chains.
Rag was pushed back, slashed, and coughed blood.
Yet he never surrendered.
That bestial tenacity and ferocity surpassed any deity in all of Asgard.
‘But I am no different.’
Aritolte was arrogant, yes, but not one to yield.
Had I not climbed back to this Altar 327 times?
I lacked neither persistence nor venom.
Then, what I do not possess.
What Rag does.
What is that singular, decisive difference?
Clang! Kaaaaang!
There was no time to think—the Guardian’s greatsword came slashing horizontally.
Aritolte barely managed to raise his longsword and deflect the blow, but the impact left his wrist numb and tingling.
I was merely defending.
Right now, I was only blocking this onslaught to survive.
A flash.
Aritolte’s eyes widened.
Ah.
‘…I understand now.’
That single truth I had overlooked in Rag’s harrowing battle.
‘He… was smiling.’
Even in the face of overwhelming odds.
Even as blades carved through flesh and bone was shaved away in agony.
Rag’s lips always bore a blood-stained smile.
He hadn’t merely endured.
He had reveled in it.
The battle against deities overwhelmingly stronger than himself.
In that terrible moment of being driven to the precipice, he was truly savoring the struggle itself.
A hollow sigh escaped between Aritolte’s lips.
“Is that so.”
It was absurd.
He turned his gaze inward.
He who boasted of being the master of all things, who swept through Asgard like a tempest.
Somewhere along the way, he had come to view struggle merely as a “task” or a “wall to overcome”.
Even standing at this Altar, he had been consumed only by the compulsion to clear the advancement Quest quickly and grow stronger.
“…Was that truly the case.”
He had never truly savored this pure clash of blades against blades.
His mind grew cold and clear.
His breathing settled like a lie, and his anxious heartbeat became serene.
And then.
Slowly.
A loose smile bloomed at the corners of Aritolte’s rigid mouth.
“Yes, let me truly savor this.”
He lowered his sword.
He released his defensive stance and shed the tension from his entire body.
Whoosh!
The Guardian seized the opening and surged forward.
The greatsword thrust toward Aritolte’s heart.
But Aritolte did not evade.
Instead, he stepped forward to meet that attack.
Rip!
The greatsword tore through Aritolte’s flank and passed.
Blood sprayed.
But Aritolte’s longsword had already pierced through the Guardian’s defense.
A smile.
The grin of a beast savoring the struggle.
That was the pinnacle of purity that Rag had displayed.
Crash!
Aritolte’s longsword drove through the gaps in the silver armor, piercing the Guardian’s core with perfect precision.
“…!”
The colossal swordsman froze.
Shatter!
It crumbled like glass, scattering into fragments of light.
Ding!
[You have defeated the Guardian!]
[You have overcome the trial.]
[You have entered the ‘Path of the Sword’.]
[You have completed your advancement to the hidden class, ‘Sword Legion’!]
Golden messages of advancement bloomed across the empty air.
All stat seals and skill restrictions dissolved, and a torrent of rewards cascaded down upon me.
But.
Aritolte’s eyes never registered those radiant message windows.
His gaze remained fixed upon the scattered silver fragments drifting through the void.
“….”
My hands were trembling.
A subtle vibration refused to cease in the wrist that gripped the blade.
‘What is this feeling?’
The sense of accomplishment that came after 327 grueling failures, finally achieving the goal?
No.
The texture of it was somehow different.
Rather than mere accomplishment, one corner of my chest felt peculiarly heavy, while simultaneously burning with an unfamiliar heat.
I closed my eyes slowly.
And then.
Whoosh. Clang!
I began to swing the blade through the air once more.
Even though the trial had already ended and the goal had been achieved.
I did not stop.
Slashing, thrusting, parrying—I traced phantom arcs ceaselessly through empty space.
As if etching into bone and muscle the sensation of that moment when I had cleaved through the Guardian.
No—as if fully absorbing into myself the crude yet fierce swordplay that Rag had demonstrated.
Yes.
This was ‘enlightenment’.
Not merely the elevation of skills and stats granted by the System’s mechanics.
But true enlightenment of the martial way that shakes the very foundation of the soul.
I had lived through eons.
Dominated countless worlds, mimicked and absorbed the techniques of countless masters.
Yet I had never truly accepted any of them.
I had acknowledged no one but myself.
I believed only in my own righteousness.
I had walked a solitary, dogmatic path, carving out only my own trajectory.
And yet.
‘This is the first time.’
I finally understood.
That I had come to respect my Apostle Deity—a mere lower-tier Deity.
…fully accepting Rag.
Rag’s methods, Rag’s fighting spirit, even Rag’s smile.
“Ha ha.”
A quiet laugh escaped from Aritolte’s lips as he swung his sword through the void.
Yes. There was no denying it.
That arrogant, presumptuous creature.
The small monster who had achieved what I deemed impossible countless times.
Somewhere along the way, he had transformed me—a Highest Realm Deity, this stubborn ruler of all things—into something else.
He continued to prove it relentlessly.
So then.
‘I too shall prove myself.’
I must ascend.
Higher still.
Further yet.
Otherwise, Rag will overtake me.
* * *
The next day.
The Tower erupted into chaos.
“…Heimdall has declared war.”
“He’s challenging the 388th Floor?”
“Against the Deity of Suffocation, his natural nemesis?”
“Has he lost his mind?”
The Deities’ reactions were uniformly skeptical.
Beyond shock, they whispered that Heimdall had finally gone mad.
There was no other way to interpret it.
He had declared a war he could never win.

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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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