SPELLCRAFT: Reincarnation Of A Magic Scholar

~FSHUUUU~

The battlefield stretched as far as the eye could see, a wasteland of shattered earth and crimson-stained soil.

The air hung heavy with the stench of blood and ash, the silence of death deafening in its finality.

Corpses of demons, humans, elves, and countless other races littered the ground, their lifeless bodies serving as grim markers of a war that had consumed the world for months.

Above it all, the sky was an angry shade of gray, as if mourning the lives lost in the senseless conflict.

At the center of this desolation stood Neron, his body drenched in blood and soot.

His once-pristine clothes were torn, his hands trembling as he gripped the hilt of his sword, its blade dull with the blood of those he had slain.

"Huu… haaa…"

His chest heaved with exhaustion, his breaths shallow and labored.

Yet, despite the physical toll, it was the weight on his soul that threatened to crush him entirely.

The Demons were gone.

Not just defeated, but eradicated.

Every last one of them wiped out from existence, their strongholds reduced to rubble, their people burned to ash.

They had been the instigators of the World War, but now, there was no one left to answer for their crimes.

Neron had made sure of that.

His gaze swept over the battlefield, lingering on the faces of the fallen.

A young demon girl clutched a broken doll in her lifeless arms, her wide eyes frozen in terror.

Nearby, a human soldier lay sprawled beside his slain enemy, their hands inadvertently touching in death.

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Neron's stomach churned at the sight.

These weren't just soldiers. They were people. Fathers, mothers, children—each with lives and dreams extinguished in a conflict they had no control over.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, his sword clattering beside him. He buried his face in his bloodied hands, his shoulders shaking as silent tears streamed down his cheeks.

'This isn't victory,' he thought bitterly. 'This is annihilation.'

Memories of the war flashed before his eyes like a cruel montage.

He remembered the desperate cries of his comrades in the Eastern Empire, their pleas for him to save them.

He remembered the faces of his friends—those he fought to protect—cheering him on, believing in him, depending on him.

And then, he remembered the Demons.

The fear in their eyes when they realized the extent of his power.

The mothers shielding their children.

The desperate, futile attempts to surrender, to reason with him.

He had ignored it all.

Blinded by his desire to end the war, to protect those he cared about, he had unleashed the full might of his Magic and the Arcanas.

His power, the very thing that had once filled him with awe and purpose, had become a weapon of genocide.

"I had to do it," he whispered to himself, his voice cracking. "If I didn't… they would've destroyed us. They would've killed everyone I cared about."

But even as the words left his mouth, they felt hollow. No justification could erase the blood on his hands.

The weight of the Arcanas in his pouch felt heavier than ever.

These artifacts, symbols of unimaginable power, had been his greatest tools in the war. The Tower, The Hermit, The Sun, and The Hanged Man—all had played a role in the destruction he wrought.

They had made him unstoppable, untouchable, a force of nature.

But now, they felt like curses rather than blessings.

He pulled out The Tower Arcana and stared at its intricate design, the depiction of a tall spire surrounded by chaos.

It was fitting, he thought grimly.

That was all he brought—chaos and ruin.

"Did you envision this too, Lilith?" he muttered under his breath.

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The memory of her face, her knowing smile, surfaced unbidden. She had entrusted him with these Arcanas, had trained him, prepared him.

But for what? For this?

He clenched his fist around the card, his knuckles turning white.

"You said I'd find my path, that I'd understand my purpose. Well, here I am, standing amidst the ashes of an entire race. Is this what you wanted me to become?"

The card didn't answer, of course.

But he could feel the power within it hum softly, as if mocking him.

Hours passed, though it felt like an eternity.

Neron remained on his knees, lost in his thoughts. The battlefield had grown colder, the wind carrying the faint whispers of the dead.

He stared blankly ahead, his mind replaying the final moments of the war.

He had stood at the gates of the Demons' last stronghold, their King kneeling before him, battered and defeated.

The King had begged for mercy—not for himself, but for his people. His voice, hoarse and broken, had echoed in Neron's ears even as he raised his hand to deliver the final blow.

"Please…" the King had whispered. "We have children too…"

Neron had hesitated, just for a moment. But then he had thought of his friends, his comrades, the countless lives lost to the Demons' initial onslaught. He had steeled himself and unleashed a surge of power that obliterated the stronghold and everyone within it.

Now, as he sat amidst the aftermath, he couldn't stop hearing that broken whisper.

The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.

A lone survivor—a young soldier from the Eastern Empire—approached cautiously, his armor dented and smeared with blood.

He stopped a few feet away, his face pale and his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear.

"Sir Neron," the soldier stammered. "The war… it's over. You've… you've saved us."

Saved us.

The words hit Neron like a punch to the gut. He didn't respond, didn't even look up. The soldier, after a moment of hesitation, saluted and walked away, leaving Neron alone once more.

"Saved you?" he muttered bitterly. "At what cost?"

He stared at his bloodied hands, flexing his fingers as if trying to scrub away the stains.

The power coursing through him felt like a curse, a burden he never wanted. He thought of the people he had fought to protect, the friends he had fought alongside, and the innocent lives he had taken.

"What's the point of this power if all it brings is pain?" he murmured. His voice trembled, barely audible over the howling wind. "What kind of monster have I become?"

A surge of anger bubbled within him, directed not at anyone else but at himself. He slammed his fist into the ground, cracking the earth beneath him.

"Why does Magic even exist? Why do I exist?"

The wind picked up, swirling ash and debris around him. He looked up at the bleak, lifeless sky, his heart heavy with despair.

"I wish…" he began, his voice raw with emotion.

"I wish Magic had never existed."

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[Welcome To The Final Spell Arc]

~This will conclude the story of Spellcraft, so be prepared!~

Enjoy these last moments.

Cheers!