An Outing. (1)
“As expected of the professor we’ve heard so much about.”
In Makan’s upscale restaurant. Midway through the meal, as they sat across from each other, Rozeff spoke.
“There’s good reason His Majesty places his trust in you.”
I sliced into the veal steak with my knife. Juices flowed softly. It was the sort of dish Ifrin would enjoy.
“But now the New Faith is stepping forward?”
Ihelm asked.
“I thought the New Faith would stay quietly holed up in their cathedral for life.”
He sipped his wine and smirked. Rozeff’s eyes remained slit-thin, curving fox-like.
“Eradicating heresy is the cathedral’s duty.”
“Even so, don’t the New Faith reject God anyway?”
This continent had three major religions.
The New Faith, which followed the precepts, doctrines, and teachings of ‘Idshilla,’ the human closest to God during the Holy Era when gods truly existed—before its fall.
The Old Faith of Altiegue, which believed in the gods before the Holy Era.
And the cult, the Altar, seeking to resurrect that god.
Altiegue lay at the intersection of these three, which was why their extermination formed the continent’s grand historical current.
“Yes, that’s correct. Sephenser, Chapter 3, Verse 19: ‘The Lord said He was but a man like us, not a god…’ Thus, we serve only the Lord’s teachings, not any god.”
Rozeff sliced into asparagus that resembled thick scallions with his knife.
He avoided killing, so he was vegetarian; alcohol scattered the noble spirit, so he abstained; and he followed only Idshilla, so he practiced celibacy.
“Though the gap between the Lord and God doesn’t seem so vast, of course.”
“Does the New Faith believe in God’s existence?”
The voice asking that wasn’t Ihelm’s. Nor mine.
It belonged to Premien of the Security Bureau.
Imperial officials had gathered in Makan for post-Barahala cleanup, and Security Vice Director Premien was among them.
Rozeff smiled brightly.
“Ah, well—”
“The first archmage was a believer in God.”
At that, everyone in the restaurant turned to me. Not just Rozeff, Ihelm, and Premien at our table, but nearby high officials as well.
I set down my knife and spoke.
“Since he believed in God, his followers cannot deny Him.”
“Yes. Precisely. Ah, Professor, we truly see eye to eye.”
Rozeff took a bite of asparagus. He swallowed neatly before continuing.
“Correct. Since the Lord himself was a believer, we follow suit… though in truth, that interpretation remains debated.”
I regarded Rozeff silently.
“Whether the Lord truly believed in Holy Era beings, or if it was mere flourish added by his close aide Rohan, who recorded his teachings… In fact, the New Faith now finds the latter more persuasive. A ‘rhetorical device’ crafted to sway the ignorant who refuse to accept the Lord’s power. And above all.”
Rozeff set down his knife as well. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
“There is no evidence the Holy Era ever existed. Nothing remains on this continent. Claims that runic language was God’s tongue are later fictions. Yet the Lord’s traces endure everywhere.”
Premien alternated calm glances between Rozeff and me. Meanwhile, Ihelm drank his wine.
“Thus, the New Faith is a religion of the ‘living saint.’ Altiegue are heretics because they disrupt the continent over an uncertain god.”
“I see.”
I nodded. Rozeff beamed.
“As expected—”
“Yet why doubt teachings that exist?”
“……”
Rozeff’s face stiffened for a moment.
“Even if the scriptures are a historical record of the first archmage’s exact teachings, it changes nothing. You doubt some as a close aide’s additions, yet accept the rest? The instant you question part of the scriptures, their perfect integrity shatters.”
I tilted my head. An unwitting sneer tugged at my lips.
“If you doubt, doubt it all. If you believe, believe it wholly.”
Rozeff quickly regained his smile.
“…A mage’s insight indeed. Viewing facts alone, excluding faith. Thus you call the Lord the ‘first archmage.’”
Idshilla—that was their title for their Lord: the ‘first archmage.’
The game’s official designation matched.
“Indeed. Idshilla is the root of continental magic. I respect him not as a religious figure, but as a subject. I comprehend the magic he left—and do not doubt it.”
I checked my wristwatch.
7:55.
“Thanks to that doubt, I’ve glimpsed answers to the New Faith’s scriptural riddles.”
“…Several riddles?”
A faint crack formed between Rozeff’s brows.
The New Faith’s—or cathedral’s—primary task was analyzing scriptures and doctrines. Many passages remained enigmatic.
“For instance, Sephenser Chapter 8, Verse 11: the referent of ‘the sheep that lost its way and donned the wolf’s hide.’ Or the interpretation of Idshilla’s final proverb, left before departing this world.”
The scriptures held many such mysteries, most of which I knew.
Some from game knowledge, others thanks to Understanding.
“…Is that so.”
Rozeff forced a smile, but my next words hardened it again.
“To me, Idshilla’s final proverb feels like a map.”
A map. Evidence pinpointing a holy relic—a main quest element.
The cathedral had likely researched that far. The fact would be known only to a select few, in strict secrecy.
“…Hm. Intriguing. What else?”
Rozeff betrayed no reaction, and then—
Tick.
My wristwatch chimed eight o’clock.
“Time’s up. Dismiss a nonbeliever’s conjecture if you wish.”
“No, it was a sufficiently intriguing hypothesis.”
I rose. Rozeff nodded with a bright smile, but I saw the expression beneath.
Anxiety, unease, surprise, doubt.
Rozeff was an honest priest, in his way.
“Vice Director. Vice Director. How’d it go?”
Night had fallen.
As Premien emerged from Makan’s restaurant, Security Director and officials swarmed her.
“Nothing much.”
“Phew, that’s a relief. Whew. Thought it’d turn into another mess.”
The director wiped sweat from his bald pate.
“How does she sit so brazenly next to the professor?”
When high officials gathered in Makan and entered the restaurant together, Premien had stuck to Deculein first.
The entire bureau was aghast, but Deculein surprisingly let her be.
“Whew… Anyway, thanks to your crazy stunt, the bureau’s standing rose a bit.”
“When do we start work?”
“We just handle prisoner transfers. Not that busy.”
They’d gathered for post-Barahala cleanup—total annihilation aftermath. Specifically, prisoner transport and inspections.
“Anyway, good job. No idea how you built rapport with that temperament of yours—”
“Attention, all officials!”
A booming voice cut the director off.
Imperial Knight Delik, three stars on his chest.
“Blood draws commence shortly.”
“Blood draws?”
“Yes. One drop suffices. New invention. Simplifies reissuing IDs if lost.”
Most officials nodded, but not Premien. She knew what this meant.
Altiegue screening.
She’d prepared just in case—blood pouch in her pocket—
“Imperial Guard handles draws directly. Needle prick and collection.”
“……”
Premien fidgeted with the pouch, lips smacking.
“Let’s begin.”
Guards approached officials one by one—a dire crisis, exaggeratedly speaking.
At its center, Premien pondered calmly.
“Hm.”
…True, summoning every department head to vice director for cleanup was rare.
Rare, but no countermeasure.
Who’d expect a full organizational sweep right after the first op—Barahala.
“Vice Director Premien. Your finger, please.”
A guard approached, needle in hand.
Premien nodded, extending her finger.
“Yes. Drawing blood.”
The needle neared her skin.
Her heart thrashed within her ribs.
The drop she’d soon shed.
Per Deculein’s leaked intel, Altiegue tests took five minutes.
Enough to flee?
No—these weren’t amateurs. Delik alone, plus intel agents aplenty.
“This is…”
…A dead end.
As she resigned—
“Vice Director Premien.”
Someone called her. The needle halted.
At that voice, the guard flung the needle away and snapped to salute.
“Loyalty!”
Deculein, uniformed like a soldier, eyed her and the guard alternately.
“Busy?”
“No, sir! All good!”
Seizing the guard’s shout, Premien acted.
Pretending to grab the needle, she punctured the pouch, smearing blood on it and her finger.
“…Take it.”
She offered the bloodied finger and needle casually.
“Y-yes, sir!”
The guard pocketed the false drop without scrutiny.
“Loyalty! Done here! Carry on, Professor!”
“Very well.”
The guard withdrew. Premien looked up at Deculein. He gazed down.
Gulp.
She swallowed secretly.
“What’s the matter?”
Deculein replied curtly.
“Prepare one horse. I go alone.”
A mundane request.
“Where to, so late?”
“Vineyard.”
“…Any stable horse will do.”
“Hm.”
Deculein tapped his cane, nodding with a faint, incredulous chuckle.
“Perhaps.”
“……”
In that instant, Premien sensed unease.
No—long-felt unease sharpened into vivid clarity.
Doubt and certainty, somewhere between.
“But the stable’s prime spot holds a black stallion. Our director rode it here—cherished beast, famed steed.”
“Is that so.”
“Yes. Has underlings bathe it in his boredom.”
“Tell him I borrow it for the day.”
“Take it outright. Spare us the octopus’s wails.”
“I’ll be off.”
Thud, thud.
Deculein strode away broadly, then glanced back. Premien stifled a relieved sigh.
“Vice Director.”
His profile calling her title was sharp. Eyes, nose, mouth, jaw—all pierced like awls.
“…Yes.”
“Whatever happens henceforth, whatever you anticipate, always account for your plans going awry.”
Advice to her still form.
His cold voice lingered in her ear.
“For it seems I rather value you.”
“……”
Incomprehensible words.
He departed, but Premien watched his back. Complex thoughts swirled as she tracked him to the stable.
And when he mounted the director’s horse and left Makan—
“Drop dead once. You mad octopus director.”
Wherever Deculein headed, she inwardly cheered.
“…Wait. Vineyard.”
The word resurfaced belatedly.
…Rohakan’s vineyard.
Clang clang clang—
Spring sunlight poured onto the Imperial University campus like it was clang clang clanging down.
Sophien, disguised, strolled the bustling pre-semester paths with Ahan in disguise.
“Oh ho… So university was like this… Hm?”
Then, far off on a park bench, a familiar face caught her eye.
—…I’m thinking that if you don’t sleep, maybe you won’t get so brutally tired anyway.
—Huh? What’s that mean, Ipi?
Deculein’s disciple and assistant, Ifrin.
Eyes hollow like a panda’s, she stared blankly at the park pond.
—Dunno. Me neither.
—Ipi, swamped with thesis revisions? You look wrecked. Just sleep.
—Can’t. Deculein’s not here, so neither am I.
—What? Starving you of sleep’s abuse, right? Ipi! Report him!
—Report. Deculein.
—…Yeah, can’t report Deculein.
—Fine. Twenty-five out of twenty-four hours. Five. Oh-five-thirty.
—…Ipi. This ain’t normal.
“That one’s lost her mind.”
Sophien averted her gaze, eyeing the Rotheo Hall among university buildings.
“Anyway. Now I attend here too.”
“Yes, ma—indeed, Miss Solien. You’re in the Business School.”
“Business. Right. Emperors manage empires.”
Sophien sat on a nearby café balcony.
Ahan sat opposite, face uncomfortably worldly.
Matching her eye level thus… unthinkable for a court lady.
Ding—
A message on the palace network, the ‘magic slate.’ Ahan’s face hardened reading it.
“…Miss. Bad news.”
The magic slate resembled the tower mages’ tool—a palace comms net.
As emperor’s confidante, Ahan received nearly all palace intel.
“Bad news? What?”
“Well…”
Gulp. Ahan stammered after swallowing.
“Last night, Professor Deculein entered the vineyard.”
“…Vineyard. Rohakan’s?”
“Yes. Eunuch intel—reliable.”
Deculein. Why return there suddenly? Ahan couldn’t fathom.
Rohakan: empire’s worst criminal.
Visiting his death site nearby would politically disadvantage him.
“No clue why the professor did it… Miss. Are you all right? Word’ll spread he visited.”
The man who killed Rohakan revisited the site.
Grounds for blame alone.
Nay, more. Sophien herself interrogating wouldn’t suffice.
Rohakan warranted it.
“…The professor is more politically astute than any in the palace. He’d know courtiers would tear into him for revisiting.”
Sophien propped her chin, surveying the campus.
Students, mages, knights, doctors… the empire’s youth, its future, bustled.
“Yes, truly. But why return there…”
Sophien smiled unwittingly.
“Who knows.”
In such moments, she felt it anew.
“Because he’s human, perhaps.”
“Pardon?”
That cold one was human, after all.
“Don’t you see? Deculein grieves. For killing Rohakan with his own hand.”
Even he, seeming bloodless and tearless… was human.
“N-no way.”
Ahan shook her head, stunned.
“Surely not. Professor Deculein—”
“No. Certain. He went to mourn Rohakan. Or commemorate. Or reminisce.”
“Heavens…”
Ahan fell silent.
—Deculein mourns Rohakan’s death. A mourning Deculein is Sophien’s traitor.
Ahan’s thoughts assembled thus, but Sophien continued mildly.
“No need for worry. Grief is natural, is it not?”
“…Pardon?”
“The professor was Rohakan’s disciple; Rohakan cherished him. At least when we met.”
Rohakan, who for Deculein—his disciple—braved death to warn her in the palace, truth alone.
That warning ultimately led to his death by Deculein.
Rohakan.
“I knew, yet forced mentor-disciple fratricide. Couldn’t trust ‘Rohakan’s cherished Deculein,’ but could trust ‘Deculein who killed Rohakan.’”
“Ah…”
“Thus, the professor killed Rohakan and chose me.”
Mentor-disciple fratricide.
Sophien incited it; Deculein executed unflinchingly.
“He seemed unmoved after slaying his master… Yet not unmoved, it seems.”
Sophien murmured low, gazing skyward.
The sun shone clear; no clouds.
“This time, I wronged the professor. So I permit his reminiscing—”
“Excuse me!”
A bright voice shattered the gravity. Sophien and Ahan turned blankly.
“One drink per person here?”
“……”
The one proclaiming ‘one drink per person’ was the café owner—Yeriel, Deculein’s sister, on a rare alumni outing.
“But that table over there? Zero drinks. College kids still hogging seats without buying, huh?”
Sophien watched her scold with arms crossed, feeling a rare flicker of ‘amusement’ after ages…