Episode 749. Imitation

Those submerged in the abyssal sea needed a host to parasitize in order to crawl back into the world. Their very essence was shadow, and shadows, by nature, could only exist because of something else.

Swish.

Kumasha pressed firmly against his own shadow, turning his back to the light. Blood kept trickling down his chin, and the court physicians gasped, rushing over with cloths to press against the boy’s nose and mouth. After bamboo needles had been driven through the city walls, the internal injuries seemed severe—bleeding wouldn’t stop.

“Prime Minister.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The boy lifted his pale, glassy eyes to look at the prime minister. The courtiers bowed their heads as if they had seen something they shouldn’t have. Dirty? Me?

“Aren’t you the talented ones from the Masantar Temple? In a national crisis like this, surely there’s something you can do. Why are you just standing there watching?”

Huh? He seemed to wonder why he alone was bleeding so much.

The king’s voice was tinged with a dull irritation. The ministers exchanged uneasy glances but offered no reply. The prime minister fell silent, gathering his thoughts.

“Your Majesty, are you feeling weak?”

“Can you not see my blood?”

“…The god Toorun would surely be saddened.”

“You’re a child chosen by the gods, yet you complain so,” the prime minister chided indirectly.

At that, Kumasha snatched up a bamboo needle lying on the ground and hurled it at him.

“‘Saddened’!? You say you pity me? It’s not the gods—it’s you all who should feel that way!”

His father was dead, and he had no idea what had become of his half-sibling. Now, thinking about his own existence, he was confused about what he was even standing for. What was Toorun? What did that name mean to him?

The prime minister lifted his head, eyes sharp.

“Your Majesty, please regain your composure.”

“Prime Minister—!”

“If that is your wish, very well. We will offer our very breath to support you. But remember this.”

Their breath?

The courtiers crouched behind, listening in confusion. None of them were willing to sacrifice their lives for the kingdom. If things went south, they’d flee to the northern mountains, escaping the capital. Their lives? Who gave him the right to speak for them?

‘What is the prime minister saying now?’

‘Seriously. Whose breath does he think he can offer?’

‘This situation is getting strange.’

The ministers exchanged looks, silently agreeing it might be best to slip away while they could.

Whether aware of the subtle shift in the air or not, the prime minister took a breath and continued.

“Your Majesty’s existence is the will of the gods. Engrave that truth in your heart. Do you understand?”

Swish.

Then, the prime minister and his followers drew daggers from their robes. Kumasha frowned, confused by the sudden turn of events, while the physicians and attendants froze in place.

“Prime Minister.”

“The spirit of the Masantar Temple is not yet dead.”

Slash!

They began to slit their own throats.

Blood splattered, screams echoed, but Kumasha didn’t flinch. He simply watched as the dark red blood pooled together. The shape gradually took form, becoming more defined until it resembled a human figure—like a shadow.

‘A doll and a shadow. And…’

The faces of the prime minister and his followers appeared, then blurred, half-formed and fading repeatedly, as if splitting apart. Things that could only exist in relation to another. The last of them…

“Like looking into a mirror.”

The blood mass transformed into Kumasha’s own image—his clothes, the dried bloodstains, even the contemptuous gaze were perfectly replicated.

“It’s not a mirror. We are you.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s true. I—and we—see your innermost self.”

Kumasha’s double stepped closer, tilting its head so their noses nearly touched. The boy smiled faintly, then leaned back and glanced at the pale attendants.

“Your Majesty, you fulfill your duty here. ‘We’ will go and deal with Ian and his group.”

They were the same as the Rajju Envoys of the Masantar Temple—beings who wore human masks but resonated with monsters. In other words, they were even closer to the underground gods than Kumasha, the king.

They tore into the attendants, making strange noises—whether satisfied laughter or battle cries, it was impossible to tell.

“Ahhh!”

“Save me! Please!”

The more humans they consumed, the more they could erase the monster’s scent. They pierced the hearts of every visible human and tore out the flesh to eat.

Kumasha watched the horrific scene silently. Though disgusted, he had to deny that feeling. To hate them was to hate himself, for they were not fundamentally different.

Tap tap tap!

“That Vanusa fellow, you said he’s with the mages?”

“They’ve already entered the capital. It’s only a matter of time before they reach the palace.”

“Let’s finish this quickly. There’s no time to set traps.”

“We just need to slip in once among them.”

Contact. Once that was made, copying the enemy would be as easy as breathing. First, transform into a commoner and ask for help, then split their group in two.

Those who had come to the surface felt sharp, precise threads strung throughout the palace.

“…Has the king regained his senses?”

Kumasha was threading those strings inside the palace, preparing a trap.

They thought him a child. They clicked their tongues and vanished into the darkness. Soon, guests would storm the palace.

---

Snap!

The monster disguised as Beric hid behind a corner, waiting for Ian to approach.

Just a moment. By merely touching him, he could copy everything about Ian. That’s what mirrors do—standing before one, you become two. This much was nothing!

“…!”

Swish!

Suddenly, everything about Ian flowed into him. Though he had no heart, he felt as if his chest would burst, and his blood surged wildly.

Is this a shard of god? And someday, the emperor of Bariel? His whole body burned hot, like swallowing a molten iron shard.

But it was only a quiet turmoil inside; outwardly, he perfectly mimicked Ian’s appearance.

“Ian!”

“Gah!”

Two Ians exchanged awkward smiles and turned around. The mages trailing behind froze, staring at both.

The monster knew this form wouldn’t last long. Other humans might hold out for a couple of hours at most, but Ian was no ordinary target.

“Th-there are two Ians.”

“Tw-two…”

So his top priority was to shake things up quickly.

Without a word, he looked back at the stunned mages. Ian Hielora would never panic or act rashly in a moment like this.

“Beric.”

“Huh? Uh, yeah?”

“Seize him.”

Ziiing! Zing!

He gave the brief order and immediately unleashed his magic.

Because they were close, the real Ian stepped back, instinctively raising a protective shield.

Boom! Bang!

The wind howled, dust slowly settling, revealing the scene.

The monster posing as Ian noticed something aimed at his neck.

“…!”

Zing!

Beric’s sword. Without hesitation, he pointed it at the monster’s throat, baring his fangs in a grin.

Then, one after another—

Slash!

“Where the hell did this bastard come from—!”

“Pretending to be Ian, huh?”

“You’re dead meat.”

The mages surrounded the monster, ready to strike. Their murderous intent was clear—this was no mere warning.

He was baffled. He looked exactly like Ian, even used magic first—so how did they know he was a fake?

“What are you doing?”

“Who the hell are you? Seriously, with that face, you make my heart race—doesn’t it?”

“…Everyone’s making a mistake.”

It felt like a part of the world he trusted was crumbling. The monster couldn’t even guess how they could tell him apart.

Hail lit a cigarette and chuckled softly.

“A mistake… yeah. Changing into Ian was your mistake.”

The invisible sixth sense—the one connecting the mages—was sharpest for Ian himself. His very body was divine.

Those born of gods, who wager their fate and return to the gods—how could they not sense this?

“Sorry, but your senses are different. Different.”

“Yeah. And the smell, too.”

Beric finally understood. How had he sensed Ian’s scent all this time?

Just as the mages perceived Ian through their sixth sense, Beric, a magic swordsman, sensed Ian through his most developed sense.

Though he called it a smell, it was ultimately Beric’s own sixth sense.

“Ah, what to do now? Ian, we can’t just lay a hand on your face.”

“Could you do it yourself, then?”

“Hey! Change back to another face quickly. It hurts my heart to try to kill you.”

“Yeah, go back to Beric’s face like before.”

Surrounded completely by mages, Ian bit his lower lip hard.

“Hey, look at that! The way his brows are furrowed, and those sharp, piercing eyes!” The wizards all held their breath at once.

“Whoa!”

“…So cool.”

It was a face they’d never seen on Ian before.

Their nostrils flared without them realizing it. Their hearts raced, sweat beaded on their skin—this guy was dangerous in more ways than one.

“It’s fine. Just kill him.”

“No, but Ian, that’s a bit—”

The monster panted heavily, then raised a hand to its face. Slowly, it began to shift its form again.

Who would it become this time? The wizards watched with bored expressions. They had the area completely surrounded, each in position, so no matter who it changed into, there’d be no confusion.

“Enough already—”

“…Huh.”

The wizards’ mouths fell open.

Golden hair flowed like silk, vivid green eyes, radiant skin. They immediately recognized who the monster had taken after.

“Ian.”

Philida. Though there were subtle oddities—after all, this was a construct based on Ian’s memories—there was no mistaking it: it was Philida.

Ian, who had been standing with his arms crossed, straightened up and looked at Philida.

“Is this not right?”

The face began to shift again, slowly melting away. The golden hair darkened to brown, the slender frame morphed into a masculine build.

Except for Hale, Tommy, Nakina, and Beric, the other wizards frowned, unsure who this was supposed to be.

“Ian, are you really going to kill me even like this?”

The voice was Philida’s, but the appearance was Naum’s.

“…!”

Hale instinctively pressed a hand to his forehead, while Tommy and Nakina sighed softly, exchanging glances. This was it—the monster had copied Ian, even pulling in the pain buried in his memories.

“Ian—”

“Don’t mind it. Just look away for a moment.” Hale was about to say this when—

Thwack!

Ian suddenly darted past him. With a fierce gaze he’d never shown before, he reached out toward Naum.

A rage so fierce, so pure, that no one dared to intervene, swallowed the space around them.