“Oh! You look like a new man,” Belial cheerfully smiled as he observed Myrddin standing before him.

Still bewildered, Myrddin couldn’t help but feel confused. After following Charles through the expansive garden, he arrived at a small pond where a man was seated in front of a table filled with white vessels and snacks. The garden, surrounded by well-kept shrubs and wildflowers, maintained a deceptive calm, reinforced by the gentle murmur of the water.

He recognized the man instantly. He wore clothes of various colors, some new and others worn, and looked exactly like the figure he had seen before fainting in the storm. Yet, something felt off. Why does it feel like he’s someone else?

At first glance, there didn’t seem to be any change, but when Belial greeted him with a wave, holding a pastry in hand, Myrddin felt like he was facing someone entirely different.

Though his attitude and attire were practically the same, Belial’s presence—that indescribable aura that emanated from him—had changed.

“Would you like some milk? Charles, serve him some. Come on, take it, it’s cold, perfect for the heat.” Belial insisted, gesturing to Charles, who silently filled a cup and handed it over.

Compelled by the insistence, Myrddin took the cup and sipped. The cold liquid went down his throat, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been deceived. He had high expectations for Belial; after all, as he recalled, from the first moment he saw him, something inside him had stirred.

That image of him, painting his world with colors just by his mere presence, was still vivid in his mind. But now, it was as if that light had dimmed or gone out. Perhaps he has a twin, and they’re playing a prank on me? he thought wryly.

Though his curiosity hadn’t waned but rather intensified, the current Belial clashed with the image Myrddin had constructed, plunging him into a strange discomfort. He felt that something was out of place, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was wrong.

“Well then!” Belial exclaimed, interrupting Myrddin’s thoughts and capturing his full attention.

“Let’s introduce ourselves. I’ll go first.” Belial rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm before standing up abruptly. “I am... the great mage of ridiculous light, Belial Von Llewellyn!” he proclaimed, hands on his hips and chin raised to the sky, trying to appear as imposing and majestic as possible.

He held the pose for a long ten seconds before sitting back down with a satisfied smile. “Now you, who are you?” he asked with overwhelming anticipation, as if he were expecting to discover that Myrddin was the son of a fallen noble or perhaps even the descendant of a god. The intense expectation in Belial’s eyes was blinding to Myrddin.

Myrddin remained silent. He wasn’t thinking about how to introduce himself or about Belial; his mind was trapped in the sparks of emotion—besides curiosity—that had briefly flared up moments ago. Irritation? Exasperation? Amusement? He couldn’t pinpoint what he was feeling, but when he gazed at Belial, he knew that this strange man was once again the cause.

“Myrddin, without parents, a wanderer,” he finally replied, his voice devoid of emotion. Although he was no longer empty, it was difficult for his demeanor to change radically in such a short time.

“Myrddin?” Belial, ignoring the cold tone, focused on the name. “What a strange name, and that’s saying something, considering I’m quite good at remembering names. But where did this one come from?” He rubbed his chin with his short beard, narrowing his eyes as if trying to recall something on the tip of his tongue.

“Master, Myrddin is the archaic way of pronouncing Merlin. It hasn’t been used in over a hundred years, and few know it because almost no one bears that name anymore,” explained Charles from the side, with his usual calm.

“Oh, yes, yes! If I remember correctly, Myrddin was a name used by the ancient demon race. Humans adopted it when they began having mixed offspring. But why did it change to Merlin?” Belial clapped his hands with joy before placing his hand on his chin, pretending to ponder.

He awaited Charles’s answer, which wasn’t long in coming.

“It changed two hundred years ago, Master. When the reputation of demons declined, ties were severed, and demonic names among the human race were subtly modified.”

“Uh-huh? But wasn’t that resolved already? So how is it now? Myrddin or Merlin?” Belial asked, intrigued, while sipping from his cup.

“Yes, but the name variations persisted. After a hundred years of division, the old demonic name began to be used for those whose demonic bloodline is predominant, and the variation for those whose human bloodline is predominant.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Oh, so the correct name for you would be Merlin, given that by your appearance, your demonic lineage must be extremely weak.” Belial crossed his legs, taking sips of tea between words, as he turned his attention back to Myrddin.

“Call me whatever you want,” said Myrddin, with no interest in his name or ancestry, though Belial, with his extravagant behavior and apparent contradictions, kept his attention sharp.

“Very well! Merlin it is then.” Belial placed his cup on the table and, stretching, pulled out a pocket watch from one of his many pockets.

“Mm, little time left,” he murmured with a difficult-to-read expression.

“Merlin,” he called as he put away the watch and reclined in his chair, folding his hands over his lap. “Thank you for your company. In return, I’ll let you ask two questions, and then I’ll make you a proposal. How does that sound?” he asked with a broad smile, his eyes gleaming with a mix of sharpness and joviality.

“Magic. What is it?” Myrddin didn’t even have to think about it. There were many questions in his mind, but none as crucial as this one.

For Myrddin, magic was what had given him those fleeting emotions; and although he believed Belial was special, without magic, to him, he was just another man. Magic had added a touch of color to his gray world under that storm.

He wasn’t aware of it, but the emotion driving his question was fear: fear of losing the few colors that now adorned his life.

Belial watched with interest as Myrddin clenched his hands, showing a slight nervousness that even he didn’t notice.

“Magic, huh…” Belial tilted his head. “There are many answers and interpretations of what magic is, and I don’t have the absolute truth. But I like a phrase from the Archmage Ludwig,” he said, clearing his throat to imitate an old, raspy voice: “‘What is magic? Magic is a door to the unknown and the impossible.’”

“That phrase says a lot, but not enough. I’m afraid your question was poorly phrased; if you had asked differently, perhaps you would have gotten the answer you wanted,” Belial added, watching Myrddin reflect.

Myrddin frowned, expecting something more, though the answer, in its way, was useful.

“So, is everything possible with magic?” Myrddin asked, his tone maintaining its usual coldness, but with a faint trace of desperation.

“Maybe, maybe not,” replied Belial, and for a moment, Myrddin felt his heart sink.

“Nowadays, there are many impossibilities for magic. But there’s a reason why Archmage Ludwig said what he did. To this day, magic is the only path that has broken the barrier of the impossible,” Belial continued, his tone becoming mysterious, similar to when they met in the storm.

Then, he whispered more darkly, “In ancient times, when gods reigned, untouchable and immortal, beings impossible to harm… they were forced to kneel before the first mage in history. The impossible became possible for the first time.”

“And that was only the beginning. Creating life, overcoming death, changing species, seeing the future… thousands of impossibilities were made possible through that door known as magic.”

Belial’s words resonated for a long moment, even after he stopped speaking, leaving Myrddin deep in thought. He was almost certain that magic could give him what he wanted.

The sweet aroma of tea mingled with a light breeze carrying the fragrance of flowers, creating a strange contrast with the tension in the air. Suddenly, a clap broke the bubble of tension that enveloped him, bringing him abruptly back to reality.

Belial reclined in his chair with a sly expression.

“My proposal is nothing out of the ordinary; it’s more of a game,” he said casually, while Myrddin was still half-dazed.

“Work for me. In return, I’ll answer one of your questions each week,” he continued slowly, fiddling with his empty teacup in his hands.

“Work?” Myrddin asked reflexively, puzzled. He could imagine many things, but this proposal was unexpectedly eccentric.

"Yes, work," Belial confirmed, nodding. "In exchange for serving as my servant, I'll answer any question you have."

Myrddin, his mouth slightly open, didn't know how to respond. The change of subject had been so sudden, coupled with still processing what had been said earlier, that he couldn't articulate a response. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to speak but finding no words.

"Is that not enough?" Belial asked, feigning exaggerated incredulity. "Then I'll add that you can make a small request each month, such as..." He smiled as he slightly raised his right hand.

"Learning magic," Belial whispered, as the colors around him began to converge in his palm: the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the white and red of the flowers. All those hues merged to form a small multicolored sphere in the center of his hand.

"I know what you desire; it's sadly obvious to someone like me. I can provide it, but everything has a price. What do you say?" Belial's voice sounded like a tempting whisper, irresistibly captivating.

Accept or not accept. Two options lay before Myrddin, but was it really that important? It wasn't as if he truly had a choice.

He didn't believe he did. If he accepted, there were no guarantees he'd keep his emotions. Belial's word wasn't enough; he was someone difficult to decipher, at least for Myrddin.

But if he didn't accept, nothing ensured he wouldn't lose those newly acquired emotions, not knowing how long he'd retain them. Moreover, he'd be left in an extremely passive position. Who knows when he'd have contact with this magical world again? Maybe never.

Besides, 'I have some worth,' Myrddin thought, noticing how Belial let him deliberate calmly, as if he didn't care. He dissolved the sphere of colors in his hand and asked Charles to pour more tea.

The man before him was strange but not incomprehensible. He could feel Belial's compassion for him, and that was evident, but that wasn't all. He had received much compassion on the streets, small acts of kindness, but no one would take him off the streets solely out of compassion. What motivated Belial wasn't empathy; he must want something. That meant he had some value.

"I accept," Myrddin pronounced coldly.

The echo of his decision felt like a vibration that slowly faded, and with it, the fleeting curiosity that had kept him alert. Calm returned, but this time it brushed dangerously close to the emptiness that always lurked, an emptiness that now presented itself with a strange familiarity.