There Is No World For ■■

Yeomyeong went all out from the very first move.

He layered every martial art he knew into one, and the condensed sword aura shone brightly as it rained down toward the Commander.

A sword strike sharp enough to split even a dragon’s ribcage.

Rather than meet it head-on, the Commander slammed his mace into the ground.

An explosion burst forth from the point of impact. The ground beneath them convulsed and trembled violently. Yeomyeong was forced to fall back, quickly scanning below.

Cracks ran through the upturned asphalt, and clouds of dust and dirt burst into the air.

And just as his vision was obscured—sparks scattered from the Commander’s soles.

No way—

Yeomyeong belatedly tried to ready himself, but the Commander’s feet were already exploding.

Literal explosive acceleration.

The Commander shot forward in an instant, like his entire body had stretched out. The mace in his hand trailed a fiery tail as it scattered sparks.

This crazy bastard—

All Yeomyeong could do was swing his sword in response. The paths of the mace and the blade intersected—both erupted with simultaneous explosions.

KWA-AAANG—!

Flashes of light and heat swallowed the space around them, followed by a crushing shockwave.

Yeomyeong swung his layered sword aura like a shield to protect himself. It was a blatant waste of mana—but he had no other choice.

To think he’d rupture the ground to reshape the battlefield and use the blast itself to accelerate...

If this had been back when he thought Pyroclastic Devastation was just an “explosion technique,” he might’ve just been impressed. But now that he had learned it himself, his reaction was different.

Relentless.

The meticulous control of mana to calculate the direction and angle of every blast. The obsessive manipulation of aftershocks to open gaps.

That kind of skill wasn’t built in a day—or even a few years.

Of course, realizing that didn’t change how Yeomyeong fought.

The Commander didn’t give him a chance to change tactics or prep spells. He kept closing the gap—shield forward, mace raised.

CLANG!!

Sword and mace collided, and their burning gazes tangled in the aftermath.

The clouded eyes of the demented old man read Yeomyeong’s footwork. The janitor’s golden eyes read the twitching of muscle.

Hup!

A synchronized inhale—their duel playing out on a subconscious level.

And in the real world, the riposte and counters that followed.

With each exchange, the Commander’s mace moved faster. Yeomyeong gritted his teeth and poured more strength into his sword to keep up.

Clashing weapons ignited his fighting spirit, and the taut nerves in his body screamed.

But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t retreat.

Yeomyeong used his aerial footwork, elven swordsmanship, Payang Cut, and every technique he knew to block and strike back.

His arm moved faster than his breath. Instinct overtook thought.

Mana surged hot through his veins.

And in the next moment—embers of Pyroclastic Devastation pooled into their weapons. But unlike the last time, there was more than one source.

The Commander with mace and shield. Yeomyeong with sword—and a grenade he had somehow produced.

!!!!!

The explosion that erupted at point-blank range didn’t make a sound.

Or rather, the shockwave ruptured his eardrums so violently, no sound remained.

Yeomyeong was blasted away and rolled across the ground. The only reason his body hadn’t been obliterated was because he’d used an explosion to counter an explosion.

Hack.

After tumbling for what felt like forever, Yeomyeong couldn’t even stop the blood welling up in his throat. But still, he stood again and gripped his weapon.

He prepared for the follow-up attack—but the Commander didn’t charge him.

Instead, he cocked his head in confusion, glancing between Yeomyeong and his own mace.

“How can you be so familiar with it... so quickly?”

The demented old man’s question.

Yeomyeong swallowed the blood in his mouth and replied.

“...Familiar with what?”

“The blast from Pyroclastic Devastation. I was trying to burn you to ash, to stop regeneration entirely... How did your explosion match mine in power?”

The Commander seemed genuinely baffled.

Was it just more senile babbling? Whatever it was, Yeomyeong didn’t interrupt. He needed any sliver of time he could get to recover.

And after that brief moment passed—

The Commander, as if to test something, abruptly swung his mace charged with Pyroclastic Devastation at Yeomyeong. Yeomyeong responded in kind, unleashing the same technique with his blade.

KWAANG—!

Another deep, earth-shaking boom. But the results hadn’t changed much.

Yeomyeong was once again blasted back, rolling across the ground...

But that was all.

In fact, this time, he looked better off. Brushing off his sword, he spoke:

“...It’s not that I’ve gotten stronger. Commander—you’ve gotten weaker.”

“I have?”

The Commander hadn’t realized it yet, but Yeomyeong had.

The true intent.

Maybe others wouldn’t know. But Yeomyeong, who’d fought without understanding true intent or even forced in false ones, could tell.

The way the Commander was fighting—this was textbook misuse of true intent.

Why?

The answer wasn’t hard to find.

That question he’d asked before the fight: “What remains in the end?”

And his answer—“Vengeance.”

That wasn’t the real true intent. It was wrong. Probably a result of his dementia.

Still, Yeomyeong didn’t say anything. Was it to gain an edge in the fight?

No. The Commander had likely already realized it himself.

But knowing and accepting were entirely different things.

Yeomyeong smirked and raised his sword.

“So I’m not the only one using counterfeits, huh, Commander?”

The Commander didn’t laugh. Like a man whose wound had been exposed, he flew into a rage.

“You dare—”

That was the signal. Both of them charged at each other again.

****

Yeomyeong expected the same kind of clash as before.

A brutal exchange of weapons that would ultimately lead to another Pyroclastic Devastation.

But the Commander abruptly changed styles.

The way he swung his weapon, his footwork, even his mana manipulation.

The mace no longer accelerated. Instead, it was loaded with brute strength—enough that a single hit might crush both sword and body.

Thump!

Caught off guard, Yeomyeong tried to block it head-on and was hit with a shock that rattled his bones and nearly crushed his grip.

He immediately switched tactics, dodging and redirecting the blows—but now the shield came after him like a snake.

Blunt edges coated in mana, used as blades. Shield techniques that turned weight into blunt-force destruction.

You can use a shield like that?

Yeomyeong rolled to dodge a strike aimed at his chest. But the mace followed instantly.

Boom—!

The blow caved in the ground beneath him. Yeomyeong’s body sank deep into the earth.

It felt like being stomped by a dragon. His spine ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) screamed.

If that hit had landed on his head, he wouldn’t have even had time to scream before dying.

As the Commander raised his mace again, Yeomyeong reflexively used telekinesis to throw his body out of the crater.

He had no idea how many times he’d rolled across the battlefield now—but the Commander had clearly gotten used to it.

Otherwise, there was no way he’d be swinging again before Yeomyeong could even get his footing.

CLAAANG!

The strike rattled his skull and jaw. A jarring, heavy impact.

And from the precise arc of that mace, Yeomyeong finally realized what martial art the Commander was using.

Pure Imperial knight technique.

Of course. He was the Commander of the Imperial Knights.

Even if the Emperor had disbanded the order, even if history had forgotten it, even if his mind was now addled with dementia—still.

Still.

Still—

The janitor from Incheon swallowed down a surge of emotion. And with everything he had, he charged in once more.

If martial arts fell short, he’d use magic. If magic fell short, he’d pull modern weapons from his inventory. And if that still wasn’t enough—he’d return to martial arts.

His sword trembled with ragged breaths. The mace glowed with mana as sweat dripped down.

Dozens of grenades. Hundreds of ice spikes. And Pyroclastic Devastation.

KWA-AANG!!

An explosion pushed back the Commander’s shield, opening distance between them.

Yeomyeong panted, glaring. The Commander raised his shield, catching his breath as well.

Heavy silence.

Gemini City’s once-beautiful outskirts had long since become a wasteland.

The neatly paved asphalt was gone without a trace. The wreckage of collapsed buildings rolled in the wind.

And just then—from between twisted steel beams, the sound of falling glass echoed.

Yeomyeong charged in—

—couldn’t.

“This doesn’t make any damn sense.”

The Commander suddenly blurted it out. Yeomyeong froze mid-stride, still in a fighting stance.

“Pyroclastic Devastation was created by me, Sancho, and the Marcher Lord—we put our heads together for it. How the hell could I be using the wrong true intent?”

It was classic demented rambling. His clouded eyes, filled with doubt and disbelief, made it seem like that savage battle just moments ago had been a lie.

The Commander turned to face the battered Yeomyeong.

“Tell me—what do you think?”

“...”

“No, just answer me. What do you think remains in the end?”

Yeomyeong didn’t answer right away. He caught his breath. Then, glancing toward the direction of the city, he spoke.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“My answer was vengeance. But you proved yourself that it was wrong, didn’t you?”

“...”

Maybe the answer didn’t please him. The Commander furrowed his brow slightly.

“Vengeance? At your age?”

“...Misery and malice don’t care about age.”

“Well, that may be true... but don’t you have a lover?”

Dementia is a goddamn terrifying disease. Yeomyeong thought again, sighing quietly. The Commander spoke on, as calm as ever.

“I didn’t have one either.”

“...”

“But I had comrades like family. So... I was able to think of something greater than vengeance.”

His tone was like an adult consoling a child. Yeomyeong gave a bitter smile as he touched the ribs that had been fractured by the Commander’s mace.

“What was it?”

“A vow.”

“...”

“A knight’s vow... to protect the weak, serve the Emperor, and never act out of selfish desire.”

Before Yeomyeong could reply, the Commander’s eyes wandered—not to the present, but to the past.

“I lived my life to keep that vow. And I did. I protected my people suffering under Earth’s capitalism, and brought peace to this land. Yes, what remains in the end is...”

A vow?

A fitting true intent for a knight’s martial art, made by and for knights.

Yeomyeong took that intent to heart—half worried, half in awe.

And then, just as he sensed something incoming from the far side and raised his sword—

The Commander gave a different answer.

“...Regret.”

“...?”

“A vow I failed to keep. That’s what remains at the end of a knight’s life.”

His voice trembled, as if something had dawned on him.

“Because the current Emperor knelt to Stalin...”

Following that voice, the mace blazed red.

“I failed to keep my vow to protect the Saint and the Marcher Lord.”

The air began to burn.

“I failed to keep the vow that I’d become a godfather to their children.”

Sparks soared into the sky.

“A vow I can no longer keep... my regret...”

Beneath a sky dyed red, Yeomyeong faced the howling of a demented old man.

“What remains in the end? At life’s edge, all that’s left is regret over a vow you couldn’t keep. That is my answer.”

It’s wrong.

Yeomyeong knew it wasn’t the real true intent. But he also realized—it was just as powerful as the correct answer.

Otherwise, there’d be no way to explain the firestorm of Pyroclastic Devastation covering the sky.

“It’s... still not too late to take it back. Isn’t it?”

“You know better than me that it is.”

“No—no. The war’s not over yet. Can’t you see the battlefield I’m looking at? It’s not too late. If I kill de Gaulle now, if I stop that fucking degenerate Emperor—!”

Yeomyeong didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a bone staff from his inventory.

The very one he’d taken from the psychic realm.

He poured mana into it and unleashed as many ice spells as possible—ice spikes, spears, swords, whatever he could.

And he didn’t stop there. Over the sword in his right hand, he layered aura upon aura. Thanks to the true intent-infused Pyroclastic Devastation, brilliant multi-colored sparks rose from the blade.

The Commander narrowed his eyes.

“Even after seeing the sky, you still intend to stop me? Earthling?”

“...Yes. I swore I would.”

“You swore? To whom?”

“To an old man who liked ice cream.”

“To ask such a vow of a young man... what a shameless old bastard.”

Yeomyeong couldn’t help but laugh. A quiet, brief chuckle.

“...I’m the type who can’t refuse requests from old folks.”

“Is that so? Then die here. Dying for a vow is better than living without keeping it.”

The Commander declared it—and swung his mace.

As the heavy chunk of steel carved through the air, the red sparks that had filled the sky followed its arc.

The mana built up over decades of knighthood—his martial art, fully resonant with his true intent—descended upon Yeomyeong.

And at that moment, the Commander saw something emerge from the dense ice above.

A familiar knight, riding a giant raven.

He didn’t stop to question whether the whole conversation had been a stall tactic, or whether the ice had been a distraction.

The Commander instinctively focused on the knight falling straight at him.

He couldn’t help it. Dementia made you fixate on familiar things.

“Sancho!”

He stared—not at the enormous sparks gathered in Sancho’s sword—but at the red blessing draped around his whole body.

“So you’ve finally stopped whining and accepted the Saint’s blessing?”

The false knight didn’t reply. He simply smiled. It was a sorrowful smile. But the demented old man smiled along with him.

And so, the Commander and the Vice Commander of the Knights grinned at each other.

Right up to the moment the raven’s magic, the janitor’s sword aura, and the Vice Commander’s blade pierced the Commander’s shield.