Raising Villains The Right Way
Mikardo had returned to the Magic Tower for the first time in nearly two years. Initially, he had planned to leave the tower immediately after taking care of a few matters. The reason was simple: three years ago, he had discovered a fascinating magical structure.
It was something that appeared to date back to the forgotten era of gods—something so extraordinary that it might potentially help him break through the barrier of the eighth tier and ascend to the next level.
Thus, Mikardo, who had been tirelessly traveling across the empire’s territories (excluding the currently inaccessible Imperial zones), intended to only gather the necessary items and leave once again.
“Tower Master, I have some interesting news,” one of the professors from the Blue Tower said, approaching him.
“What kind of news?”
“It seems someone has fallen for the Deputy Tower Master.”
“Oh?”
If it weren’t for the fact that the news came from a professor Mikardo was close to, he might not have paid it much mind.
“Tell me more,” Mikardo said, intrigued.
The professor began recounting the events in detail, explaining everything that had transpired.
“That’s how it is.”
“Oh?”
As soon as the professor finished, Celaime Mikardo nodded repeatedly, a look of growing interest on his face. Then, in a voice tinged with curiosity, he asked, “But in the end, doesn’t this mean Penia denied it completely?”
“Well, that is true. However, don’t they say that a strong denial often implies a strong affirmation?”
“A strong denial is a strong affirmation…”
Celaime stroked his beard in thought.
‘Could that be true for Penia?’
Unconsciously, he began picturing Penia in his mind.
She was undoubtedly a brilliant pupil, someone even Celaime himself, a recognized genius, could not help but acknowledge. However, she had a fiery, headstrong personality and an underlying sense of superiority that made her difficult to deal with.
Thinking about it further, he realized that if anyone could act in such a way, it might indeed be Penia.
It was entirely possible that she would dismiss even natural emotions like affection as a “loss” if she admitted to them first.
“Indeed… If it’s Penia, that could very well be the case.”
“Right?”
“Yes.”
Celaime nodded in agreement, recalling Penia’s unwavering determination to win no matter the cost. Even if she denied it vehemently, her pride made it likely that she would never willingly admit to such feelings.
Of course, if Penia had overheard this conversation, she might have erupted in fury, unleashing magic across the entire tower.
But oblivious to that possibility, Celaime mulled something over before speaking again.
“In that case, should I do something to help?”
“Well, I suppose that wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
At the professor’s suggestion, Celaime let out a thoughtful hum and began to consider. For someone like him, who spent his entire life immersed in magic and had little interest in anything else, the idea of his headstrong, prideful student developing a romantic attachment was undeniably amusing.
“Penia having someone she admires… Hmm, come to think of it, haven’t they been entangled for a long time?”
Celaime dredged up an old memory he had almost forgotten due to his relentless pursuit of magical studies.
“If I remember correctly, wasn’t it that noble who eliminated the poem…? Yes, I distinctly recall Penia looking unusually dejected back then.”
As he revisited these long-buried memories, Celaime, a detached middle-aged observer, found the situation increasingly entertaining. With a smile that suggested he had made up his mind, he said,
“In that case, I might as well lend a hand in my own way. I’ll meet them first and see how things go.”
He smiled, as if he had decided on a course of action.
Meanwhile, Penia, unaware of the Tower Master’s quiet arrival, was in the middle of yet another outburst.
“What?! Again?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Lost? Again?! Another one?!”
“Well, I checked everything thoroughly, and everything was fine until departure…”
“I told you to check every single day!”
“I did, of course, every single day! But when we arrived at the tower today, it suddenly vanished…”
“How does that even make sense?!”
Three months into a streak of repeated item losses, Penia’s mental fortitude was on the verge of complete collapse.
“Ughhh!!”
Her frustration erupted, and as her anger flared to its peak, an image of an expressionless man briefly crossed her mind.
“Aaaaagh!!”
She screamed in exasperation.
The weather outside the window remained bright and sunny.
Not long after, Alon, who was bewildered by the sudden appearance of Seolrang and Deus, barely had time to process the situation before another voice interrupted.
“Huh? Oh!”
Filian Merquillan, who appeared behind Alon, momentarily wore a confused expression before his face lit up with recognition.
“Wow, no way—are you the First sword of Caliban and the First Baba Yaga of Colony?”
Despite the grim expressions on Deus and Seolrang’s faces, Filian beamed with excitement and opened his mouth as if to confirm.
“I’ve always wanted to meet you both—this is fantastic!”
A cheerful smile spread across his face. However, when he noticed that their expressions hadn’t softened in the slightest, Filian looked puzzled.
“What’s wrong?”
It was then that Deus, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke.
“Didn’t you say that Marquis Palatio, I mean, our benefactor, was weak?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Marquis Palatio is not weak.”
“Is that so?”
Filian glanced slyly at Alon before turning back and replying,
“From what I see, he seems weak.”
“Do you want to die?”
At that moment, Deus exuded a chillingly murderous aura.
‘Isn’t this a bit much?’
Surprisingly, it wasn’t Filian who was taken aback by the reaction, but Alon. Sure, hearing someone call you weak wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it didn’t seem severe enough to warrant such a deadly response.
“Isn’t this going a little too far—”
Just as Alon was about to step in and calm the situation, Filian interrupted.
“Well, perhaps I’m wrong. But I’d like to spar with the First sword of Caliban to confirm. Would that be possible? If Deus wins, I’ll admit that Marquis Palatio is strong without question.”
“Fine.”
Before Alon could finish his sentence, both men moved simultaneously, heading out of the banquet hall without hesitation.
It all happened in the blink of an eye.
Although the duel was ostensibly to protect Alon’s honor, he had no say in the matter. Now, as he walked towards the dueling grounds, a swishing tail followed close by.
“Aide, huh?”
“Yup! I wasn’t planning on coming, but when I heard my mentor would be here, I decided to show up!”
Seolrang grinned cheerfully, as if to say, ‘Aren’t I amazing?’
Hearing the reason for Seolrang and Deus’s presence, Alon couldn’t help but nod in agreement. It made sense for both of them to attend the meeting.
After all, Deus was the First sword of Caliban, and Seolrang was the First Baba Yaga of the desert city Colony.
Still, one part nagged at him.
‘Is it really okay to stir up this kind of commotion?’
He glanced ahead at Deus and Filian, who were preparing for their duel.
Although the banquet hall was relatively empty, meaning there wasn’t much of an audience, the fact that aides were openly engaging in a duel could spark some controversy regardless of the circumstances. Initially, he had considered stepping in to prevent it.
However, the timing was poor. Engrossed in conversation with Seolrang, he had already reached the dueling grounds, where the two combatants had drawn their swords, ready to begin. The chance to intervene had unfortunately passed.
So, Alon reasoned to himself:
‘Well, it’s just a duel. It probably won’t cause too much of an uproar.’
With that, he decided to sit back and watch the duel unfold while quietly mulling over his thoughts.
“Who will win?”
No, Alon quickly revised his question.
“How long can he hold out?”
While he was aware that both were Swordmasters, the outcome seemed obvious. Even among Swordmasters, there were tiers of skill. Deus, who had defeated even Reinhardt, wasn’t going to lose to Filian, a newly ascended Swordmaster.
“He’s probably not thinking about winning… or is he?”
Filian’s eyes, brimming with competitiveness and an unyielding fighting spirit, were fixed on Deus. Seeing this, Alon found himself nodding unconsciously.
Filian was displaying exactly the kind of determination Alon had witnessed back in Psychedelia—a refusal to surrender, no matter how overwhelming the disparity in skill. He would fight to the bitter end, clinging to the slimmest chance of victory until his last breath.
‘It was one thing to see this in games, but in reality, his personality is… unique.’
As Alon observed Filian’s blazing resolve, the rules of the duel were declared.
“The rules are simple: the duel continues until one side admits defeat. When this dagger hits the ground, the match will begin.”
With a calm smile, Filian tossed a dagger from his belt high into the air. The blade gleamed against the soft hues of the setting sun as it spun and fell.
Then—
Thud.
As the dagger’s hilt struck the ground—
Crack!
The duel was over.
“What?”
Filian, stunned, took a moment to realize his situation. He found himself sprawled awkwardly on the ground, utterly defeated without even understanding what had happened.
As his vision cleared, he looked ahead and saw—
Deus Maccalian.
The Swordmaster stood there, sword in hand, gazing down at him. Filian’s confusion gave way to pain as he became aware of the ache in his cheek. Then, it dawned on him:
He had lost.
Not only that—he hadn’t even managed to swing his sword once. He couldn’t do anything at all.
“Ha…”
Filian let out a hollow laugh, the weight of his defeat sinking in.
Had it been anyone else, they might have reacted in one of two ways:
Most would have collapsed in despair, overwhelmed by how effortlessly their hard-earned swordsmanship had been rendered meaningless.
Others would have denied reality, deifying Deus Maccalian as an unattainable existence and rationalizing their loss as inevitable. They would cling to self-justifications to shield themselves from the crushing weight of failure.
Because without such defenses, they would break.
But—
“Ha… haha…”
Filian didn’t crumble, nor did he deny reality. Instead, he chose a third path.
“Wow, honestly… I’m at a loss for words.”
Determination.
Even after being defeated in a single strike, realizing he wasn’t even close to being a match for Deus, Filian reignited his fighting spirit and raised his sword again.
As Filian’s blood boiled with determination—
‘What is this?’
Alon, observing from the sidelines, turned to Deus with a look of disbelief.
He had known. He knew Deus was strong—strong enough to defeat Reinhardt. But even so, the idea of Deus dispatching Filian, who was stronger than most Swordmasters, in a single instant was beyond his imagination.
“Is this… talent?”
For a moment, Alon was speechless, marveling at Deus’s absurd strength, a power that seemed to have surpassed the limits of humanity in just a few years. Then, his expression softened with pride.
While part of him, as someone who could barely muster a single magic spell, envied Deus’s overwhelming talent, another part of him felt like a proud father watching his child achieve greatness.
However, his attention soon shifted.
Now, it was Filian who earned his admiration.
“Ugh!”
Despite being defeated five times in a row, each loss coming from a single strike, Filian kept getting back up, refusing to yield.
By the fifth bout:
“Still more!”
Alon could see the fiery determination shining in Filian’s eyes.
By the tenth bout:
“Not yet!”
By the fifteenth bout:
“Wow, you’re really strong—”
By the twentieth bout:
“Uh, wait a second?”
For the first time, Filian raised his hand in a gesture of surrender.
But Deus, without a word, sent him flying once again.
“No, hold on—”
Crack!
“Wait—”
Thwack!
“Let me—”
Crack!
By the time they had fought thirty more rounds, with Filian unable to utter a full sentence between blows, Alon finally stepped in.
“Deus, I think it’s time to stop now.”
“Understood.”
Or rather, Alon had to interrupt when Filian’s determination finally gave out, and the duel devolved into a one-sided beating.
By then, Alon saw something shocking:
The ever-determined Filian—who, even in the face of overwhelming disparity, would fight until his last breath as if programmed to never give up—
“I’m so sorry, I was completely wrong! I’ll never do this again, I swear!”
—had utterly broken.
That night, at the Allied Kingdoms’ assembly of the six kings:
“So, where is your brilliant Swordmaster? The one you were boasting about so much?”
“…Ahem.”
Alon, standing behind Critenia Siyan, caught sight of King Shtalian V of Ashtalon wearing a deeply displeased expression, his brow furrowed.
As their eyes met, Alon quickly averted his gaze, unable to hold the king’s reproachful stare.

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