The Event
Under Yukline's leadership, Hadekain.
Upon returning to the continent, I headed straight for the Yukline mansion.
"Oh, the head—"
"Stand aside."
I flicked my hand indifferently at Yeriel, shoving her away with Telekinesis.
"Ack! Hey, no! Hey! I have something to say! Ugh, doing it again!"
I ignored her outburst and kept walking. Ifrin hurried after me with quick steps and asked,
"But, Professor. Does that mean Sylvia stays on the island forever? Alone?"
Her tone was laced with genuine worry. I shook my head.
"That was merely the second-best option. One final step remains to reach the optimal path."
The island of the Voice. The magic circle embroidered across its entirety still required one last—"third"—process.
"One final step?"
"Indeed."
At first, it had been merely a possibility. I lacked certainty in its realization, and the odds were slim. But the Unique-Grade Equipment Catalog changed everything.
Thanks to it, I had acquired three items. Dedicating one of them to this cause would suffice.
Ifrin asked,
"So, what's this optimal path?"
"...Not leaving her alone."
I answered as I descended the stairs.
Soon, we reached the underground chamber guarded by knights, where the group of adventurers lay dormant.
"""Loyalty!"""
They straightened their backs and saluted crisply.
"The adventurers are still asleep."
"Yes! They are in the midst of exploration."
"Then wake them. There are modifications to be made."
"Yes, sir!"
They moved with disciplined precision, asking no questions. I glanced at my pocket watch.
Ifrin tugged at my sleeve and asked,
"Modifications? What kind?"
"A connection between their consciousnesses and the magical space."
"...Huh?"
"The magic circle is already inscribed on the island."
Right now, no one could enter the island of the Voice. In truth, any being with flesh and blood venturing there would likely be ensnared by the lingering remnants of the Voice.
However, sending only their consciousnesses posed no such issue.
"Manifesting and anchoring consciousnesses has already been proven within my own magical space. How much more so for the island of the Voice... no, Sylvia's island, brimming with creative essence? It will connect seamlessly."
Of course, it bordered on mere fancy—a possibility born of Kim Woojin's all-too-human wish, forcing me to add this extra magic circle.
Nevertheless.
"Where's the mana coming from?"
At her question, I produced a certain mana stone. Ifrin's eyes widened in shock. Her mouth hung open dumbly.
"Whoa..."
Unique Grade
A mana stone condensed solely from pure sunlight and mana, without any impurities. It is a miraculous creation.
An item from the Unique-Grade Equipment Catalog.
A golden mana stone the size of a thumb.
"Wow..."
The fact that a mere mana stone appeared in the equipment catalog said it all—this was the world's one and only, a stone that was essentially "equipment" in its own right.
"I want it..."
"Snap out of it."
I flicked her forehead as she reached out dazedly.
"Ow!"
Ifrin staggered back to her senses, rubbing her forehead with both hands.
"It hurts... But seriously, what is that? It's mesmerizing."
"The Solar Mana Stone. A stone condensed purely from sunlight and mana, free of all impurities."
Realistically impossible, a pure aggregation that defied reality.
A literal miracle. It would surely aid in manifesting the small miracle I desired now.
"Huh? Just sunlight and mana? Is that even possible?"
"Whether it is or not is none of your concern."
"Ah... Fair enough... You've got money to burn, Professor..."
Ifrin gazed at the Solar Mana Stone again, her eyes glazing over once more.
"Wow... It's mine..."
"Quiet."
I swatted away her reaching hand.
"Prepare yourself. Once the adventurers emerge, we'll modify the magic circle."
"...Ah, yes!"
Creeeak—
Right on cue, the basement door swung open. The adventurers looked utterly exhausted, but their backs were laden with hefty bundles.
"Professor, why? We were in the middle of treasure hunting~"
The red-haired Ganesha grumbled petulantly. Lia and Leo beside her wore equally sulky expressions.
I had no idea what they'd been up to, but I stated firmly,
"I'll deploy the second trial. Return in three days. Rest at the mansion if you wish..."
Three days later.
"...Mm."
Sylvia's island. At the central lighthouse, the island's mistress gazed out at the scenery, painting a landscape.
"Done."
Lush trees filling the forest. Grass swaying in the breeze. Blossoms swelling abundantly.
A beautiful oil painting completed with them.
Satisfactory even to Sylvia's eyes—a work Deculein would surely praise.
"Good."
She smiled brightly, stroking the teddy panda on her lap.
"I did pretty well, didn't I?"
The teddy panda stretched wordlessly, and Sylvia's smile softened, tinged with faint bitterness. She set down her canvas and brush.
She stared quietly out the window.
Drifting clouds in an empty sky, leaves falling mournfully.
A season halted somewhere ambiguously between summer and autumn.
"..."
It felt empty.
Hollow.
Lonely.
That much was true.
And suddenly, the fear creeping in was true too.
How many years would she spend here alone...?
Kieeeek—!
Suddenly, Nimblehoof, out for a stroll, let out a cry. Sylvia startled, snapping her gaze skyward.
"Nimblehoof, what's—"
"Huh?"
A voice rang out abruptly.
One laced with puzzlement.
"..."
...Sylvia fell silent for a moment.
A bit too long.
"...Oh?"
Then, a voice of admiration.
From someone who shouldn't be here.
"..."
Sylvia slowly lowered her raised head. Swallowing amid tension, she peered down at the ground.
"...Ah."
A single word brimming with astonishment fell like a teardrop.
There were people.
One, two, three, four...
Sylvia stared at them motionlessly, and now they looked up at her.
"Ah, that must be Sylvia."
They called her name.
Even waved, saying hello~.
Sylvia felt lingering doubt mingled with confusion, but soon caught a familiar name amid their chatter.
Deculein.
Had he sent them to her?
"So, what do we do here? Hey~ Anything to do?"
"Any errands?"
"Nice view. Mind if I scout for mines?"
Sylvia didn't know yet, but honestly, her eyes and ears seemed deaf and blind right now—nothing registered. The purpose of this "magical connection" Deculein had granted them was simple.
...To keep Sylvia from being lonely.
As long as they upheld that principle, he didn't care what they gained or took from the island.
Deculein's—and Kim Woojin's—final best effort.
The Empire remained peaceful. Postwar reconstruction proceeded smoothly, and with the Voice fading into oblivion, public sentiment toward Sophien had reached its zenith.
Conversely, tensions with Altiegue across the desert were tauter than ever—a powder keg one finger-touch from ignition.
"Congratulations."
Amid this delicate balance, addicts from the Floating Island—who cared nothing for continental affairs—visited my office, handing over a box and certificate.
The Ether promotion certificate and robe.
"My thanks."
One step below Archmage. One of the greatest honors a mage could claim.
I felt quite pleased.
"You may go."
"Yes. We wish you continued diligence."
Ether Promotion
Mana +300
Elemental Talent Selection Ticket
Mana +300, and an Elemental Talent selection ticket.
Not a bad reward.
"Congrats~ You're Ether now."
No sooner had the addicts left than Ifrin muttered jealously from her perch on the assistant's desk, scribbling papers in a shut-in's disheveled state.
"When will that paper ever be finished? And when do you plan to master four-element magic? Piling up work like this—pathetic."
"It's hard! So hard!"
She screeched insolently.
Well, it was partly my fault.
She'd spent three sleepless days and nights with me linking the adventurers' consciousnesses to Sylvia's island.
"Ifrin, professor evaluation deduction. Mind your attitude and decorum."
That aside, evaluations were evaluations.
"Your conduct is worse than a bone gnawed by wild dogs."
"Ugh, seriously!"
Thud!
As she slammed her forehead into the desk,
Knock knock—
A clear knock echoed.
I nodded at Ifrin, who rose grumpily and flung open the door.
"Who— Aaaah!"
She promptly collapsed in a faint.
It was that kind of guest.
"Y-Your, Y-Your Imperial Majesty!"
She trembled, prostrating herself, as I stood. I regarded the woman beyond the threshold with utmost courtesy.
"Professor Deculein."
Emperor Sophien, clad in a tiger coat, approached with ladylike clicks of her heels and sat opposite me.
I bowed my head.
"...To what do I owe this honor? Had you summoned me—"
"Take it."
Sophien thrust a single document at me without preamble.
"A list of Altiegue villages for your disposal."
"Altiegue villages, Your Majesty?"
"Indeed. While you were away, we razed quite a number."
She smiled.
A serpentine slyness, yet nobler than any other.
"If you intend to deploy the Imperial Guard—"
"No need. This scale is manageable alone. Think nothing of it."
"..."
I folded the document carefully and tucked it into my inner pocket. Sophien quirked a brow and nodded.
"We shall also install a gas chamber at Rohalak. The largest detention camp lacks one. I wondered why you never added it yourself."
She probed, but I answered promptly.
"No particular reason. Install it."
"..."
A brief silence.
Then, a soft chuckle filled the office. Sophien continued,
"From next month, for eight weeks, you will remain solely in the Imperial Palace. For the Event."
"Understood."
Shop Currency +3
Chance for Additional Rewards
The Imperial Palace held an Event once every few decades.
More precisely, the Emperor's Event. Ostensibly to gauge the loyalty of provincial nobles and ministers, it was held entirely at the emperor's whim—method, timing, all.
The decades-long cycle stemmed from tradition: once per emperor's reign.
I said,
"Yet, is now truly the time?"
"What do you mean?"
"Events are traditionally held when imperial authority wavers—a means to intimidate or spur nobles and ministers."
"Professor, do you think my power will ever waver?"
Sophien asked. I pondered, then shook my head.
"Precisely. It seems unlikely, so I set it for next month. Before I wage war."
War.
Likely referring to Altiegue and the desert.
"I see."
I met Sophien's gaze. She met mine.
Ifrin had fled long ago—so hastily one of her shoes lay abandoned.
Suddenly, Sophien's eyes drifted to the Go board.
"Hm. Shall we play a game after so long?"
"Certainly. But Your Majesty, visiting in person like this could cause issues."
I placed the board on the desk. As Sophien distributed the stones, she replied,
"What does it matter? To my procession."
"The political implications differ. Even if unintended by Your Majesty, interpretations will arise."
Sophien took black; I, white.
"Hmph. My processions are at my whim. And those interpretations? Ultimately, I guide them."
"I will not quietly submit to your guidance."
Clack—
Black placed the first stone. She fixed me with a piercing stare.
"...You will not submit."
"Indeed."
Crackle—I took a white stone between my fingers.
"I respect and serve Your Majesty, but..."
Clack—
I placed it neither at the small eye point nor the star point.
"I am no plaything."
Unorthodox—neither joseki, fusion, nor variation.
In that instant, Sophien's brow twitched.
The Empire's southeast, a dense forest. In a place called Padahal, akin to a jungle, lay an Altiegue village living quietly in seclusion.
Unlike the Altar or desert kin, they were utterly peaceful—but not naive. Magical traps blanketed the woods, watchful eyes everywhere, a militia versed in martial arts and magic guarding the village.
Rustle—
A footprint drawing those hidden gazes.
Elegance unfolding like mist.
Rustle—
The forest was deathly silent, yet the tension coiled within was more precarious, more lethal than thin ice.
Rustle—
Altiegue's emissary of death, Deculein von Grahan Yukline.
For he tread the woods.
Rustle—
Padahal's militia swallowed hard at the sight, clenching sweat-slick hands.
Rustle—
The fifth step crushed a twig.
Thereafter, Deculein halted at the forest's heart, surveying the area.
Coincidentally, right before countless magical traps.
"Can you hear me?"
He spoke. The forest answered not, mocking instead with silence.
"Of course you can. With such... shoddy magic plastered everywhere."
How paltry and deficient.
Muttering as if scorning their clan, he stared into the distant woods.
"Hearken. I grant you a choice."
A choice, proclaimed as grand mercy.
"Simple. Have your throats slit here en masse."
At that, the militia ground their teeth. They braced for battle, breaths ragged.
"Or eke out your remaining days at Rohalak."
Resist to the death, or linger briefly at Rohalak. Either path ended in death—
"But time is short."
Thus did Padahal's Altiegue interpret his choice.
"I await ten minutes."
Tall trees blocked the sun, tangled weeds snared legs—in Padahal's woods.
"That is all the time you have left."
Amid the vast greenery, Deculein stood alone, awaiting their decision....