Verhert. (1)
The empire's north is divided into the northwest, central north, and northeast regions, each governed by one of three frontier counts.
Their primary duty is to defend against invaders spilling out from the demon-infested Mieolji. While the warrior's holy land of Phairden is the most renowned, the northern Draman family boasts no less fame.
"Loyalty! We pray the Verhert conference proceeds smoothly!"
On the platform of Haalan, the Dramans' stronghold, the count's guards saluted Gilteon. He nodded with a smile.
"Thank you. See that these are properly delivered to Count Draman."
"Yes, sir!"
From Haalan in the north, they boarded a train heading even farther north. Sylvia gazed at the snowflake settling on the side of her nose.
"It's snowing in April."
Gilteon chuckled, as if finding her adorable.
"This is the north, after all. Let's board quickly."
"Okay."
"Miss, if you're late, we'll leave without you~"
"Shut up."
The group boarded together.
The VVIP compartment, reserved entirely by the Illaydes, occupied half a car—spacious enough for beds, sofas, carpets, desks, and chairs, making it quite cozy.
"Dad. How long will it take?"
"Six hours from Haalan, then three more on the express from the Platform."
Gilteon said from the sofa.
The Platform housing the Terh Express was simply called that—no villages or people around, just the lonely platform.
Upon arrival, they'd transfer there and head straight to Verhert.
"So, what was the intel?"
Sylvia asked, setting pen and notebook on the desk.
"An ambush."
Sylvia's eyes widened. Still seated, she pressed.
"We should warn people."
"Warning them won't stop the ambushers. Exposure just forces a new plan—and rushed ones always bring needless casualties. Mage business should stay among mages."
Sylvia looked unconvinced. Gilteon smiled and elaborated.
"That's Verhert for you, dear. Fifteen years ago, it was far bloodier. Attending was war itself."
"Why?"
"Verhert... it's the mark of prestige. The traditional twelve families, even the rising eight—if selected and they attend, their names etch into history."
Fifteen, twenty, seventeen years.
The long cycles elevated Verhert's authority sky-high; mere attendance became irrefutable proof of magical nobility, a gleaming halo.
"But Verhert has special rules."
Families summoned but absent are never called again. If absences cause a quorum failure, new families are summoned to proceed. If a traditional twelve is absent, one rising family ascends to traditional status.
"Dear. How would you dethrone the traditional twelve?"
"......"
Sylvia got it instantly.
"They'd be punished."
"Hahaha."
Gilteon laughed heartily. He sometimes regretted overprotecting her.
But these brutal lessons would come with experience someday.
Time to start now.
"Dear. Which of the twelve were traditional from the start?"
"......Ah."
"Exactly. If punishment falls, it hits all mage families—so better none at all. Thus, deaths en route to Verhert count as magical natural causes."
A chance to legally target each other. "The victim was a fool" twisted into valid logic.
It was worse in the past.
Many families had dissolved healthy houses to rebirth under new names just for summons.
Rewind, currently led by Ihelm, was one such case.
"Compared to then, it's peaceful now. Verhert's authority remains absolute, but new Grand Elder Kelodan dislikes strife, and ways to build fame abound without thirsting for summons."
"......"
"Of course, saboteurs abound still."
Sylvia nodded. Gilteon smiled silently. Nearby Syrio smirked out the window.
Chichichichik—
Mana stones burned, propelling the train with blazing energy.
To that rhythm, Sylvia studied at the desk.
Reviewing Deculein's lectures.
Recalling every word, comprehending mentally, channeling mana physically—then she pulled another notebook.
Her art sketchbook.
She doodled with pencil.
Unbeknownst to her, it became eyes.
Blue eyes shedding a single tear.
* * *
I'm working on items in the mansion annex.
「Georg Suit Overcoat」
「Georg Suit Vest」
「Georg Suit Dress Shirt」
Georg is the continent's premier bespoke tailor. Imbuing its pieces with Midas' Hand.
Heavy armor for Verhert.
Mages' defensive gear is limited. Artificial artifacts have finite lifespans; weaving magic into fabric over armor is exceedingly difficult.
Thus, even mage-noble Yukline has tomes aplenty but few wearable artifacts.
Armor? Its mana might disrupt casting.
Hence, suiting with Midas' Hand.
Info
Bespoke overcoat from continental top tailor Georg.
Strength exponentially enhanced by Midas' Hand.
Category
Clothing ⊃ Suit
Special Effects
Mid-high physical resistance.
Low magic resistance.
[Midas' Hand: Level 3]
Mid-high physical resistance rivals "steel plate mail."
Won't tear even from a sword.
"This should suffice......"
Two days, 24,000 mana poured into enhancements. Defenses secured.
Knock knock—
"Who is it."
—Yeriel.
She barged in.
"Heading out like that? Without this?"
Thrusting a robe coat curtly. 「Ancient Yukline Robe Coat」—a treasure beyond artifacts.
"Wasn't it saved for times like this?"
Is she worried about me?
She snapped before I could think it.
"Don't flatter yourself. If you die en route, succession gets messy."
"Worry not. I shan't perish."
"I said it's not worry! Die pointlessly, lose your Verhert seat, complicate succession......"
Yeriel trailed off, lips pursed.
"More importantly, nothing to say?"
"Naught."
"......Really?"
"My thanks for the robe."
"Huh? No."
She flinched, then shook her head.
"Not that. Verhert... ah, forget it. Handle your precious conference yourself."
She turned curtly, opening the annex door. Roy waited outside with a guest.
"Master. Allen has arrived."
Allen fidgeted beside Roy, bowing. Yeriel glared.
"And who're you?"
"Ah, Assistant Professor Allen to Chairman Professor Deculein!"
"......Oh, you. Right."
Yeriel sneered dissatisfied, eyeing us alternately.
"Fine. Good luck. Traveling with him must tire the soul—manage your mental fortitude."
She stormed out. Allen bowed to her back, then entered.
"P-Professor. What should I do......?"
"Departure's tomorrow afternoon. Rest easy."
"Y-Yes! I'll rest easy."
But Allen looked unrested. Dark circles already profound. No sleep since last night, naturally.
"Allen."
"Yeess."
"Take this."
I psychokinetically handed him last night's purchase: 「Defensive Robe」.
Excellent artifact for sword and spell defense. Two-week lifespan, 30,000 elne price.
"I-I can't accept—"
Tears welled in Allen's eyes.
"No sniveling. I may anger if you weep before me."
"A-Ah, yes!"
My perfectionism tolerates no tears. Snot is abhorrent.
Allen swallowed hastily, donning the robe gingerly. Overwhelmed anew, eyes reddened.
"Rest in your room."
"Yes! I'll await!"
Much left to do.
Not just Yeriel's 「Ancient Yukline Robe Coat」—at least five neck steel amulets awaited Midas' Hand.
"Until mana recovers......"
I drew a book.
「Ertrang Martial Arts Manual, Intermediate」
Written by legendary retired fighter Ertrang. 500,000 elne for this volume alone.
Supposed ultimate art absorbing Bagua Palm, Jeet Kune Do, Wall Palm—martial essences.
I began moving as instructed.
* * *
Allen and I departed Saturday 2 p.m. Roy and maids saw us off; Yeriel had returned home.
Then seven hours via high-speed from capital's Gideun Station to Haalan in Draman.
Dinner there, bought eye-catching books with Magnate's Wealth, then six more hours north.
Sunday dawn: Terh Platform.
"Whoa......"
Allen gawked. My first such place too.
Snow blanketed outside; inside bustled.
The platform was a mini-village.
Five eateries, crowds within, even a hotel, clinic, magic shop.
"Greetings."
A knight approached. I noted the emblem on his chest.
"Phrenheim knight?"
"Yes. Veron. Escorting the full train."
"Just you?"
"Yes. One per train. Mages usually bring their own......"
I checked Villain's Fate just in case.
No reaction from Veron. Colorless, odorless to Magnate's Wealth too.
"Busy today."
"300 daily, but few to Verhert."
True—prime hunting grounds, herb fields.
Good for levels, farming.
"Allen, no meal needed?"
He nodded.
"No! Plenty of packed lunches. Warm one for you, Professor?"
"No need."
After 15 minutes, the train's nose hazed into view down the track. A staffer bellowed.
"First train today! Five runs with tomorrow's Verhert conference! No rush!"
"I'll go ahead."
Veron bowed, heading trackside. Allen and I took VIP lane. Staff checked tickets.
"Yes, Chairman Professor Deculein. Any VIP seat. Haha, even handsomer in person."
I boarded, doffing my derby.
Seven-car express divided VIP/general; VIP just roomier, plusher seats.
"Professor Deculein?"
As Allen and I sat, an unknown addressed us. Nobly dressed, clutching a camera.
"Haha. Roen, magic analyst and reporter. Same train as you—immense honor......"
I scrutinized his face. Unnatural wrinkle twitches, quivering smile corners.
Tsssss—
Roen glanced out, sat.
"Off we go."
Train departed.
Chijik— chijik—
Express matched Mugunghwa speed.
"Wow......"
Allen marveled windowward. The vista silenced me too.
Slow pace fit the sublime cliffs.
"Cliffs right away......"
Arm's reach: sheer drops cascading like waterfalls. Endless cliffs into fog.
"Bottom's dizzying......"
"Three hours of it."
"Whoa......"
Allen's speech elongated, tension easing, eyes half-lidded.
I told him.
"Sleep if weary."
Express hugs mountainsides. Three more hours to Verhert's First Hall.
"Eh? Ah, yes...... just a bit......"
Allen closed eyes. I set briefcase on floor.
Eleven VIPs total.
Roen one; eight nobodies, origins unknown.
Unnoticed, I opened briefcase. Amulets slithered out, flooring to eight corners of VIP car.
Thud.
Something touched my shoulder.
Allen. Face buried, breathing soft like a fledgling—koooo—.
Revulsion spiked, but no drool yet.
I let it be.
Drew a book from coat.
Doubtful still, but precautions set.
Read till trouble brews......
* * *
Tick-tock— tick-tock—
Time passes.
Roen checked his pocket watch.
Thirty minutes already.
Express reached first station; three disembarked.
Roen eyed Deculein. Still reading.
Roen calmly unfolded news.
Tick-tock—
Time flows.
Sensed roughly.
One hour.
Second station; two off.
Deculein read on.
Roen cooled heartbeats with water.
No worry.
Plan proceeds.
No backlash for me.
I'm blameless.
Mission: alight at fourth station.
Third station; two more gone.
Now just Deculein, assistant, two others.
Deculein still reads. Assistant leans; his noble poise flawless.
Picture-perfect.
Tick—
Tick—
Watch vibrations grate.
Maddening silence.
Slow hell drags.
Finally, two hours.
Fourth station.
"Fhew—"
Roen sighed relief, rising.
All but Deculein and aide exit here.
"Haha. Professor Deculein, honor sharing space briefly. I'll be off then......?"
Body wouldn't move.
Feet slipped. Dozens steps, same spot.
Grunting long, Roen turned.
"......"
Deculein reads wordlessly. Yet body pinned.
"Wh-Why? Must alight—"
Desperate search: pocket watch.
Frozen midair, chain yanking waist.
Only Deculein could psychokinetically do this.
"Pro-Professor Deculein? Why?"
"Ponder once more before departing."
"Pardon? What?"
No way he suspects.
If so, he wouldn't board!
Wouldn't sit VIP!
Release me, fuck!
"I grant you chance."
"No, that's not—"
"5."
Sudden countdown.
"4."
Tsssss—!
Train accelerated. Roen's face purpled.
"3."
"I-I know nothing!"
"2."
"N-No, just! At fourth, vacate seat—30,000 elne! F-Fuck! Let go, must exit! Explode—!"
"......"
Psychokinesis released. Roen flew forward, tumbling.
Crawled for door.
"Too late."
First—dong—
Dong—
Ominous vibrations.
Then.
———!
Massive undercarriage shock.
Explosion.
"Gaaah—!"
Roen screamed.
BOOM—!
Eardrum-shattering roar.
Vision spun.
Undercarriage bomb, as planned.
Train vaults up, tumbles cliffward, death unidentifiable......
Dead! Deculein's fault!
......But only first part right.
Upward vault only.
"Guhk!"
Roen floated skyward, slammed down. Face and body ached.
"Nngh......"
Opened eyes, startled.
Train intact.
No blast?
No—undercarriage crumpled like scrap.
Roen clutched head, peered out.
Mind blanked.
"......What the hell......?"
Floating.
Entire cars—VIP and blast-affected—hovered midair.
Stationary, frozen in time.
Exquisite, beautiful moment.
Magic harmonized with nature.
"This......"
Roen instinctively drew camera. Intact, it captured.
Click-click-click—
Floating train, paused blast, and......
"What do you photograph."
Deculein.
His chill voice pierced like shredding heart.
Still reading. Aide still leaned, asleep.
Serene.
Roen couldn't grasp the selfish poise.
All caught blast together.
"Just speak."
Flip— page turned.
Then Roen sensed.
Footsteps afar, bounding mountainside. Agile approach.
Dark shadows neared.
"Whose bidding."
Deculein's blue eyes flashed first. Ominous gaze left pages for shadows.
"Which wretched curs plotted this."
Simultaneously—dozens of assassins shattered windows, leaping in.
"Speak that alone."
For this moment, Deculein's corner-fixed amulets.
Eight swords erupted like man-directed Claymores.